Nightway

by Janet Dailey

The remark eased her suspicion and she smiled. “Okay. Give me ten minutes to change into something a little more presentable.”

  “What about the flowers? Do you want to put them in a vase?” He glanced at the bouquet in his hand.

  “Sure.” Lanna shut the door, removed the chain, and opened it to take the bouquet. She paused. “Do you want to wait inside?”

  “There you are, inviting strange men into your apartment.” He shook his head in mock exasperation. “Will you never learn, Lanna Marshall?” She laughed and he joined her with a low chuckle. “I’ll stay out here in the hall ‘til you’re ready.” He refused her suggestion and Lanna liked him all the more for his quaint sense of propriety.

  “I won’t be long,” she promised and closed the door.

  The restaurant was small and not very crowded, even though it was close to noon. John guided her to a corner booth and sat with his back to the entrance. As he had promised, the food was good. Lanna found herself wondering how much the taste was enhanced by the presence of her companion. He was just as easy to talk to as he had been before. And his dry sense of humor often had her laughing.

  The waitress cleared away their dirty plates and refilled their coffee cups. Lanna relaxed against the cushioned backrest. “Tell me about yourself, John,” she said. “I think you have my whole life history already.”

  “What do you what to know?” He smiled, but he appeared to withdraw behind the smile.

  “I don’t know.” She lifted her hands in an expressive gesture. “Anything. Everything. Are you married? Any children?”

  “Legitimate or illegitimate?” he countered.

  “Quit joking and give me a straight answer,” Lanna insisted.

  “All right. I’m married. I have two sons and one grandson.” It was a completely factual answer, unsatisfactory without elaboration. “He’s quite a boy.” He removed a photograph from his wallet and showed it to her. “It’s hard to believe he’s nearly twelve.”

  Lanna commented on the boy’s resemblance to John, the same blue eyes, as she returned the picture. “You can certainly tell he’s your grandson. No little girls?”

  “I had a daughter once.” He returned the photograph of his grandson to his wallet, absently thoughtful. When he looked up, there was a reminiscent gleam in his eyes and a trace of melancholy. “She died when she was a baby. She would have been twenty-three this summer—about your age. She had brown hair, too—dark like yours—the color of a cedar. I guess maybe you remind me a little bit of her.” His mouth quirked in a self-mocking smile. “Please don’t tell me that I remind you of your father.”

  “You don’t … at least not physically. He’s shorter, leaner, doesn’t have as much hair.” She enumerated the obvious differences.

  “And he’s probably not nearly as old as I am,” John added and tipped his head to one side. “Tell me about your parents. Where do they live?”

  “My mother died when I was eleven. My father remarried a few years ago and lives in Colorado Springs.”

  “Now you have the proverbial stepmother,” he guessed.

  “No.” Lanna shook her head. “Ann is a wonderful woman. She always makes me feel welcome whenever I go to visit. She has made Dad very happy.”

  “But you don’t see very much of them. Why?”

  “They have a life of their own. Ann has three children, so that means a lot of school activities, sports, and all the things that go along with raising a family. That puts a lot of demands on Dad’s time, and he was never very much of a correspondent. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about him,” Lanna inserted. “My father loves me now as much as he always did. It’s just that he has other responsibilities now.”

  “I understand.” John said it with such conviction that Lanna believed he really did. “A man has an obligation to more than just one member of his family.”

  “Tell me about your wife,” she urged and tried to visualize the woman who had been fortunate enough to marry this understanding man.

  “Katheryn and I share the same house. Beyond that, there isn’t much to tell.” He shrugged and Lanna wondered if that was the reason for the unhappiness that always lurked at the edge of his expressions. “She has her interests, her ladies’ clubs, things she likes to do—and I have mine.”

  “I see,” Lanna murmured, almost sorry she had asked.

  “No, I doubt that you do.” John’s smile was faint and slightly melancholy. “It isn’t much of a marriage by most people’s standards, but Katheryn and I are both getting out of it what we want. She has been a loyal wife to me, and a good mother. She has my respect. And I don’t fault her for the way things turned out.”

  Lanna was painfully aware that John had not said his wife had his love. She sipped at her coffee. “Your wife sounds like a remarkable woman. I wish I could meet her someday.” It was an offhand comment that immediately slanted John’s mouth in a lopsided grin.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said. “Katheryn would take one look at you and get the wrong idea. In the past, I admit that I’ve probably given her reason to be suspicious of other women. I’ve never claimed to be a saint. Some say I’m a sinner. Who knows? They might be right.” He appeared to be only distantly concerned about the opinions of others, his tone amused in a self-condemning way.

  Lanna let the conversation drift to another topic, sensing that he didn’t want to discuss his personal life in any detail. They finished their coffee, lingered a little while longer, and then John followed her back to her apartment. She asked him in, but he refused.

  “Thanks for lunch and the flowers,” Lanna said. “I enjoyed them both.”

  “It was my pleasure, and I mean that,” he stated. “I’d like to come see you again, Lanna.”

  “I’d like to see you again, John.” And she meant it. In this sea of strangers, Lanna felt she had found a true friend.

  “I don’t have many people I can talk to, but I can with you. I’ll give you a call,” he promised.

  As he was leaving, the door to the apartment across the hall opened. Lanna smiled at her neighbor, a middle-aged woman who worked nights. Lanna rarely saw her or her husband, except on the weekends.

  “Hello, Mrs. Morgan.”

  “I’m so glad you’re back, Lanna,” the woman sighed in an agitated way. “You wouldn’t have any cinnamon, would you? I thought I had plenty, only it was nutmeg. Now I have this apple pie all ready for the oven and I have to run to the store for cinnamon. I just came from there this morning. Art’s brother and wife are coming over for dinner tonight and I promised Don I’d bake him an apple pie. He says mine are the best he’s ever tasted. Weekends,” she sighed again, pausing in her nonstop monologue. “To think we wait all week for weekends to come! I think the rat race begins on Saturday morning, don’t you?”

  “I never thought about it.” Lanna shook her head, laughing to herself. The woman was a dear, but she could be very wearing on the nerves over a prolonged period. Lanna turned to the open door of her apartment. “I believe I have some cinnamon. Why don’t you come in while I check?”

  “You will be an absolute lifesaver if you do.” The stout brunette glanced down the hallway at the disappearing broad shoulders of John Buchanan, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “I still have so much to do before Don and Maryann come. Lord, I haven’t even cleaned the front room yet. Who was that man?” She followed Lanna into the compact kitchen. “A relative?”

  “No, a friend.” Lanna checked her spice rack and removed the can of cinnamon. “Here you are. You can bring it back tomorrow.”

  “What a relief. I just couldn’t really spare the time to go back to the store. I wanted Art to go, but I couldn’t pry him away from the television set. Baseball!” She grimaced at the cause. “He was a friend? He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”

  “Not that kind of friend, Mrs. Morgan,” she explained patiently. “He’s just a regular friend.”

  “What does he do? Where did you meet him? A
girl can’t be too careful these days.”

  “He’s a night watchman at a construction site not far from here. His truck broke down the other night and I gave him a lift. John is a very nice man, and it’s all perfectly innocent.”

  “You gave him a ride and you didn’t even know him?! You could have been mugged or … or worse!” The woman was openly shocked.

  “That’s almost the first thing John said,” she laughed. “But nothing happened. I was perfectly safe with John.”

  “Safe? Why? Because he’s so much older than you are? He’s a man, isn’t he?” Mrs. Morgan argued. “You are a nurse. You should know that a man’s potency has nothing to do with his age.”

  “We are friends, Mrs. Morgan—that’s all,” Lanna insisted.

  “A girl who looks like you and a man old enough to be your grandfather—humph!” The woman sniffed her skepticism. “If he’s interested in you, it isn’t as a friend.”

  “You are wrong.” But she knew that once the woman got an idea in her head, it would take a stick of dynamite to dislodge it. Rather than argue, she steered the conversation back to its original subject. “Apple pie was always one of my favorites. How much cinnamon do you use?”

  Sylvia Morgan was instantly diverted into relating her recipe to Lanna while she was escorted to the hallway. When she was finally alone, Lanna shook her head sadly. It was a pity her neighbor didn’t understand. She remembered John’s parting comment that he could talk to her. She knew how he felt. There was a special affinity they shared that had no basis in sexual attraction. It was rare, and Lanna wasn’t going to allow Mrs. Morgan’s opinion to damage it.

  Chapter VIII

  The bond of friendship grew stronger with each visit John made to see Lanna. Twice during the week, he would come to see her and they would have dinner together before he had to report to work at the construction site. Sometimes he would take Lanna out to eat at some out-of-the-way, inexpensive restaurant, but more often she cooked a meal for the two of them since he wouldn’t permit her to pay for her restaurant dinners.

  There was a large population of retired people, like John, in Phoenix who were forced to supplement their limited pensions with jobs, like being a night watchman. She didn’t want to become a drain on his financial resources and have their friendship jeopardized because of money. Sometimes John would come over on a Saturday and they would spend the afternoon together. On those occasions, they would go sightseeing or to a movie, or just sit in her apartment, watch television, and talk. The subject of his family was not discussed. Lanna suspected it was because his marriage was less than happy.

  During those summer months, Lanna dated—infrequently. Working in a doctor’s office didn’t give her many opportunities to meet single men. John’s friendship meant she wasn’t driven by loneliness to seek male companionship and go from one disastrous affair to another.

  The last Saturday in August, John suggested that they tour the Heard Museum. Specializing in anthropology and primitive art, its focus was on the American Indian tribes, especially those of the Southwest.

  As they left an exhibit to enter the Kachina Gallery, Lanna murmured, “I’ve never understood why museums are so quiet. Everyone talks in whispers.” She was guilty of speaking in the same hushed tones as the other visitors.

  “Maybe,” John suggested in all seriousness, “they are reluctant to stir awake spirits they don’t understand.” His response drew Lanna’s sharp and questioning glance. He was staring at the exhibits within the gallery, a distant look to his expression. As if sensing her gaze, he said, “This is one of the finest collections of Hopi and Zuni kachinas in the world today.”

  Lanna turned to view the display. There were dolls, chiseled out of wood and adorned with feathers, snail shells, cactus spikes, bits of bones, and turquoise. They were in all shapes and sizes, alike only in their grotesqueness—bulging eyes, rounded heads with long beaks, tufted heads with toothed snouts, fiercely mysterious and nighmarish.

  “Are they idols representing the Indian gods?” Lanna whispered.

  “They are dolls, not idols,” he corrected and smiled, because this version of a doll didn’t match the kind Lanna had played with as a child. “I guess you could say the kachinas are reproductions of gods. More accurately, they symbolize the forces of nature as supernatural beings. The one with the winged arms and feathered mask is the eagle doll. Over there is the owl kachina. The one with the headdress of cloud signs and spotted corn is the Butterfly Maiden.” He pointed each of them out in turn.

  Each figure was extraordinarily detailed. “They are fascinating,” Lanna admitted, “but in a frightening kind of way. What are they used for? They surely aren’t toys.”

  “In a sense, they are. The kachinas are given to children. The idea isn’t so much for the dolls to be used as playthings, but to acquaint the child with the various kachinas,” he explained. “The word kachina is a little confusing since it refers to the dolls, which have no power. The dancers in the ceremonials wear costumes corresponding to the dolls and are also called kachinas, as are the spirit forces.”

  “You said these belong to the Zuni and Hopi cultures?”

  “These particular ones do, yes.” John nodded. “The Pueblos and the Navahos also have kachinas. In the case of the Navaho, the costumes and headdresses are not as elaborate, although they are just as fearsome. Their masks are made of painted buckskin, sometimes adorned with eagle feathers, or a circlet of spruce boughs around their neck. The choice of the various masks depends on the ceremony and which kachinas must participate.”

  “Such as?” It all sounded very alien to Lanna. She was simultaneously repelled and attracted by the subject.

  “A Navaho boy is between the ages of seven and thirteen when he is initiated into the tribe, a very impressionable age.” A muscle flexed in his jaw as it was momentarily clenched in grimness before John continued. “It takes place during the Yeibichai, or Night Way. The boys wear only a breechcloth and their heads are covered with a blanket. They are taken to a fire that’s been built, and ordered not to look at the ‘gods.’”

  Lanna pictured the scene in her mind: the darkness of night, the leaping flames of a fire, and a half-dozen young boys with blankets over their heads, apprehensive, not knowing what to expect, their copper bodies gleaming in the firelight.

  “Two assistants of the shaman, or medicine man, first wash their hair in yucca suds, then enter the ceremonial hogan to undress and put on their kirtles, which resemble kilts, and various ornaments. All exposed skin—arms, legs, chest—is rubbed with white clay. One wears a black mask to represent Grandfather-of-the-Monsters, and the second has on a white mask for Female Divinity. Once they are in costume and their identities are concealed from the children, they go to the fire.

  “In turn, each boy is led out to have his shoulders marked with sacred cornmeal by Female Divinity. The black-masked figure has a stick of reeds bound together as a whip. Uttering falsetto cries, he strikes the boy on the shoulders, then on other parts of his body. The crowd of adults can ask the kachina to administer light or hard strokes, and he grants the opposite of their request, always making that peculiar cry at unexpected intervals to surprise and scare the boy.”

  Lanna shuddered, feeling the terror that would build up in a young mind unable to see his attacker, only hear his eerie cries and feel the sting of his whip.

  “When this is done, the kachinas remove their masks and reveal their identity to the boy. Often they are his cousin or uncle—someone he knows personally. The boy is given pollen from the bag of the medicine man and directed to sprinkle it on the masks, then on the men who wore them. The man who portrayed Grandfather-of-the-Monsters places the black mask over the boy’s head and makes the high-pitched cry that had frightened the boy so often. Only after that is the boy allowed to look and is ordered to remember the Holy People.”

  John paused, seeming to come back from some faraway place when his gaze focused on Lanna. “Psychologically, it’s an in
teresting ritual. By revealing their identity, the kachinas show the boy that they aren’t really ‘gods’ at all, just human beings. The masked figure isn’t something he has to fear. Letting the boy wear the mask attempts to show, in a symbolic way, that the forces of God or the supernatural reside in man—both good and evil.”

  His explanation made Lanna understand the ceremony that had seemed so inhuman at first. Lanna was impressed with his knowledge of the subject.

  “Have you attended one of these initiation ceremonies?” she asked.

  “No.” He shook his head, a blandness stealing over his expression. “It’s forbidden for whites to attend that particular part of Yeibichai.”

  “How did you find out so much about it, then?” Lanna asked curiously.

  “Don’t forget, I was raised around the reservations. My neighbors were Navahos, Pueblos, even a few White Mountain Apaches.”

  “I don’t understand how you can tell one Indian from another.” The instant the words were out, Lanna saw John stiffen at the prejudice they carried. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she hurriedly added in embarrassment. “You have to understand that my knowledge of Indians is limited to Hollywood Westerns and the like.”

  “Members of one tribe can easily be distinguished from those of another, through characteristic features and builds, such as the difference between a German and an Italian. On one hand, you have the arrogant, lean Navaho, and on the other, you have the chunky, broad-faced Pueblo,” John stated. “Of course, intermarriages muddy up the differences sometimes—even between descendants of German and Italian marriages.”

  “Arrogant. Somehow I would never had attributed that adjective to the Navaho,” she mused as they began to wander to another exhibit. “I’ve always heard they were shepherds. When I think of a Navaho, my first thoughts are of sheep and blankets. I guess I always imagined they were a gentle people. But arrogant?”

  “They were—and are—shepherds,” John agreed. “But their warriors raided far and wide. The Navaho was the master of the land west to the Colorado. When the Spaniards claimed this territory, the Navahos used to boast that they let the Spanish live here to be ‘their’ shepherds—which, in a sense, was true, because it was from the flocks of the Spanish that the Navaho stole their sheep. Not even the Apache, probably the most feared of the Southwestern tribes by the whites, ever challenged the Navaho’s supremacy.” He paused to glance at her. “Have you ever heard of The Long Walk?”