by Susan Slater
“How could someone just disappear? Nothing about it makes sense.” Tommy leaned into the fence intertwining his fingers in the chain link and resting the bill of his baseball cap against the wire mesh. The comment was more for himself.
“Unless you believe in aliens,” Pam said.
“Do you?” He turned to face her, surprised that she would bring it up.
Pam laughed. “I’d like to. Wouldn’t it be great if there was another world out there somewhere? Offering a better job market?”
“Only if the world was friendly. What happened to that Park Ranger was brutal.”
“I guess it’s been proved that that wasn’t an accident? She didn’t just trip and fall over the edge?”
“She was pushed.” Tommy left out the details about Edwina’s crushed hand. Pam could read about that in the paper.
The shrillness of the playground whistle cut through the air. “Oops, that’s me. Got to herd everyone back inside. Sorry, I couldn’t be of more help. If I think of anything, where can I reach you?”
Tommy scribbled his new number, the one with voice mail, on the back of a business card and offered it through the fence.
“Thanks.”
Pam took the card and jogged toward the center of the playground. Tommy watched as the children lined up in two neat rows, the younger ones holding hands, a mass of multi-colored sweaters and print dresses interspersed with small sweatshirts and jeans. Dark braids and ponytails mixed with caps barely containing unruly thatches. After a head count and admonishments to walk quietly and not run, the lines snaked into the squat brick building and disappeared.
A dead end? Maybe. But he had learned that the romance between Brenda and Ronnie was alive—at least, on Brenda’s part. That ache he felt in his mid-section was real enough. She was “head over heels” in love … wasn’t that what Brenda’s friend said?
But if he stopped thinking of himself, didn’t that put more emphasis on what a shock it must have been to have found Ronnie … or maybe more emphasis on Brenda’s being out there for a reason. Just how far would a woman go if she were head over heels in love? Tommy sat in the parking lot. It was already two and time he got back to the hospital.
+ + +
Amos’s daughter was in the waiting room. She wore jeans and sweatshirt but sat beside a Navajo woman decked out in all her finery, velvet skirt and blouse, squash blossom necklace, and turquoise earrings. Ben introduced the older woman as Pansy Manygoats, and the daughter as Mary, then after explaining what Tommy wanted, excused himself to go back to his patients.
“We’re just waiting out here until my father finishes his afternoon snack. He complains if we’re there and then he won’t eat.”
“I hope I won’t be intruding. I didn’t realize that your mother would be with you. I’ll keep it short.”
“I don’t usually bring her, but she’s acting so strangely today. I didn’t think it would be a good thing to leave her alone.”
Tommy nodded. The older woman sat passively staring into space. There was something not quite right about her demeanor. Her quietness, the vacant stare … Ben had shared with Tommy that the mother was having medical problems—problems that Ben thought might better respond to psychiatric treatment. But for whatever reason, she hadn’t come to see him. Tommy was surprised that Ben had any patients—not that he wasn’t good—it was just that a “head doc” was an oddity. Would Tommy go to him? He honestly didn’t know.
“Do you think your father will mind answering some questions?”
“You never know.” Then Mary laughed, “You’re Indian, maybe he won’t mind too much. He’s really tough on the Anglo docs around here.” Checking her watch, she added, “I guess we can see if he’s finished now.”
Amos was sitting up in bed munching on a cookie; the empty peel of a banana and a folded newspaper lay on a tray beside the bed. The white gauze wrapping around his head stood out in stark contrast to his deeply lined, dark, weather-beaten, skin. He looked truly out of place, lost in the blank whiteness of the hospital sheets. The daughter spoke to him in Navajo indicating Tommy with a turn of her chin. He seemed to ponder what she said, and then waved toward the three straight-backed chairs lined up under the window.
“He says to take a seat.”
The daughter led the mother to one of the chairs and said something that seemed to soothe the woman while she helped her to sit. Then the daughter busied herself pulling the tray away from the bed. She put the newspaper on the chair between Tommy and her mother and turned back to her father. Again, she said something to him in Navajo. Encouraging him to speak, Tommy thought.
Abruptly, Amos burst out in a long tirade in Navajo waving his arms, and his eyes carefully directed away from Tommy. Tommy sat quietly giving deference to an elder.
“He wants to know if you’ve come about his goat?”
“Well, sort of. I’d like to know everything he remembers about that night.”
The daughter turned to translate, but Tommy could see the set of Amos’s jaw. He had a sinking feeling that he might not get very far. If he wasn’t there to offer restitution, Amos didn’t seem interested.
“He says there isn’t much to tell. He was following the Thunderbird and a branch fell on his head and that’s all he remembers.”
“The Thunderbird?” This was something new, Tommy thought.
“Personally, I think he saw the Stealth Fighter that crashed. Only he’s attributed a mythical presence to it. He’s probably telling the truth.”
Tommy debated whether or not to share that the wound had been caused by a rock wielded by a very un-mythical person, no doubt. But he didn’t need to make that decision because suddenly Pansy yelled out a loud “Hey” and Tommy and Mary both jumped.
“Mother, what’s wrong?” Mary was so startled that she spoke to her mother in English.
Pansy had unfolded the paper and held it flattened across her chest, her chin resting above the headline. There under the masthead was an 8” x 11” photo of the head—the alien symbol drawn on the rock with Edwina Rosenberg’s blood. Tommy hadn’t seen the morning paper—in this case, the Albuquerque Journal, no less, and the enlarged photo was a shock. And, of course, the headlines were an inch high. PROOF OF ALIEN VISITOR? It sold papers—if that was ever an excuse for sensationalism.
Mary knelt beside her mother now and tried to quiet her, but the older woman remained agitated and insisted on talking. Finally, the daughter sighed and turned back to Tommy.
“My mother hasn’t been well lately. I don’t know what this means but she says that she saw this thing.” The daughter pointed to the image on the front page.
“When?” Tommy sat forward. Saw it? How much of this was dementia and how much reality?
“That night. When the plane crashed, and my father got injured and the goat was killed.”
“Can she tell us exactly what she saw?”
Mary spoke quietly, smoothed her mother’s skirt, listened, and then sat there a moment before turning to Tommy. All the while Pansy clutched the paper and traced the dome-shaped head of the creature with her finger, back and forth, from one side to the other.
“I don’t know what to make of this. It doesn’t make sense at all.” She sighed. “My mother swears that she saw this, this alien at the crash site. He abducted a girl, an Indian girl, just ran off with her slung over his shoulder.”
“What?” Tommy was on his feet. “Ask her again. Ask her to repeat what she saw.”
“I don’t know if what she says is true. It could be her imagination.”
“I think she might be telling the truth.”
Mary leaned towards her mother and spoke in a low voice. It took some coaxing, but once again the elderly woman pointed to the newspaper picture, gestured behind her and spoke haltingly in Navajo.
“She insists that’s what she saw. Does this mean something? Do you know who she’s talking about?”
“I think so.” Tommy didn’t trust himself to say more. A sense
of foreboding made him feel sick. Had Brenda been injured? Was she already dead when someone carried her away from the crash site? No, he couldn’t believe that—wouldn’t allow himself to believe it. But why would she stay hidden? Or, why would her abductors hide her? What had she seen that night? Did she find the pilot dead or watch him be killed? Couldn’t that be it? She was a witness to Ronnie Cachini’s death? He didn’t believe the abductor was an alien but he did believe that Brenda was probably expendable.
Tommy took a deep breath and asked Mary to see if Amos had seen the same thing. He hadn’t, and Tommy believed him. His information seemed restricted to Thunderbirds, concussions, and goat-skinnings, not aliens. The mother had little else to say. She had gone out to pen the stock and had followed a great black bird but when she found it, the bird was in flames and this creature—maybe its spirit—was running across the arroyo carrying a woman away from the wreckage.
“Did she see where it went?”
Mary turned to Pansy and repeated the question, but Tommy could tell immediately that she hadn’t seen much else.
“The thing just took off. It was running and disappeared in the dark.”
“Did she see the thing attack the woman he was carrying?” Tommy almost held his breath until she answered.
“No.”
“How did she know for certain that it was a woman?”
Mary asked her mother and listened to a rather long answer before sharing with Tommy.
“She says she found a hair ribbon. She saw it fall out of the pocket of the one being carried.”
“Ask her what she did with the ribbon.” But Tommy thought he already knew the answer. And he was right. Pansy tied the ribbon to a piñon branch in a large bow on her way back home.
+ + +
There was no evidence that Brenda was alive, but there was no evidence that she wasn’t. He believed she had been abducted but what should he do with his theory backed only by the sightings of an elderly woman in poor health? He needed to talk with Ben. Should Pansy be questioned? How sound was her reasoning? Ben’s office door was shut, so Tommy left a note telling Ben he was in the cafeteria.
“Hey, no chile fries?” Ben sat down beside him. “Did that diet you’re always talking about start today?”
Tommy didn’t acknowledge Ben’s teasing but told him what Pansy had seen.
When he’d finished, Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry, Tommy. But I wonder how much credence we should put in Pansy’s observation.”
“I guess that’s what I want to find out from you.”
“I haven’t examined her, but this alien thing bothers me.” They were sitting at a table in the corner. Mid-afternoon seemed a popular break time. The room was half full. “Well, Edwina’s no longer alone. We have two people who saw an alien.”
“Are you trying to say you believe—?”
“No,” Tommy interrupted. “Whatever abducted Brenda wasn’t alien but why keep her? What could she have seen? It had to have something to do with the pilot’s death. I’m reluctant to share Pansy’s sightings with the Air Force. She’s obviously not all there—”
“Is that a clinical term?” Ben waited for Tommy to laugh.
“Hey, I’m kidding,” Ben rushed to add, “I agree with you. Pansy appears to be disturbed and any hassle—even questioning by those investigating the crash might be too stressful.”
“But am I doing the right thing? Could the information help find Brenda? Help the military find out what happened out there?”
Ben reached out and reassuringly patted Tommy’s shoulder. “I know this isn’t easy. I wish I could be more helpful about Pansy.”
“Can I have your attention?” A short round woman with heavy black hair threatening to burst the confines of the mandatory hairnet worn by kitchen help stood at the front of the cafeteria. She banged a large metal ladle against the bottom of a pan. The improvised tympanum did the trick. Slowly the room quieted and thirty-some hospital workers turned her way.
“My cousin from Shiprock wants to say something.” The woman from the kitchen stepped back and gave center stage to another woman, this one young with short-cropped, black hair that swung freely around her ears. She was neatly dressed in a navy suit, white blouse and low heels. “Oh yeah, I forgot, my cousin’s a lawyer.” The older woman added, then sat back down at the corner of a nearby table.
“Well, thanks …” The young woman acknowledged her relative and seemed a little nervous, snapped open a briefcase that rested on a table beside her and drew out a long, multi-paged document. “I guess my being a lawyer doesn’t have a lot to do with why I’m here. That is, it’s not the first reason—I come as a community supporter seeking justice to an old problem for people who live in this area. As a lawyer I’m donating my services to get something done.” She waved the papers in her right hand. “This is a petition—a petition to change U.S. Route 666 to a less diabolical number and put an end to the strange happenings in this area that continue to plague us.”
Chairs scraped against linoleum as the audience shifted to talk with one another.
“I think now is the time to take action. This matter has been brought before the American State Highway Transportation Officials before. Let’s see, the first time was in 1964.” The woman referred to her notes. “Yes, and three times after that but to no avail.” Suddenly the woman hopped up onto one of the cafeteria’s foldout chairs, teetered a moment, got her balance and continued. “In the Bible’s Book of Revelations, 666 is the sign of the beast, the Devil. Anyone or anything portraying his sign belongs to the dark side and can expect trouble.”
“You think Brenda’s disappearance has something to do with this number thing?” a questioner called out from the back of the room.
“I do. There’s no doubt. She left Gallup on that very highway before she cut over through Coyote Canyon. And now the death of the Park Ranger and that pilot … this area is tainted as long as we have the sign of Hell among us.”
Louder murmuring from the audience seemed to stop the speaker but she started again speaking above the noise. “This petition will be presented to transportation officials from three states—New Mexico, Utah and Colorado—at their regional meeting one month from today. Your signature counts. Add your vote to the two hundred and ten people who agree that this must be done.” The woman again waved the papers above her head this time. “Don’t be left out. Make sure your voice is heard. This is not an easy fight. There are those who say the cost will be too much to change the signage along the 198 mile highway, maps in books, and addresses—things like that; but I ask you, isn’t human life worth something? This highway has claimed the lives of too many of our people. Now is the time to act.”
She hopped back down off the chair amid enthusiastic applause. Half the room, it seemed to Tommy, stood to push toward the speaker. Including Ben.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t want to miss out on a chance like this.” He grinned.
“You’re going to sign?” Tommy couldn’t believe it. This was a man who disavowed any belief in aliens, yet at the mention of the devil pushes his way to the front of the room? “Are you kidding?”
Ben sat back down. “You called my bluff. But, honestly? It’s probably not a bad idea. If people believe something is harmful, it usually is. And I haven’t heard any better ideas as to why all this has happened. Why not let people believe they’re being helpful?”
Actually, before he left, Tommy added his name to the petition. Even with a sharp Navajo lawyer on their side, it was doubtful that the people would get anything done. In this case the price of exorcism would cost three states dearly. And there were too many people who considered the fear of a number foolish. Just one more stupidity to pin on the taxpayer and make him pay for.
+ + +
Tommy was restless. He had new information that supported his belief that Brenda had been abducted and he couldn’t use it. But there was more … something he couldn’t put a finger on. What was he m
issing? He stopped by his apartment to check the mail and his answering machine. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d had messages. But still … it didn’t hurt to hope. Maybe Brenda tried to reach him … should he try to stop thinking that she was alive? Was he just setting himself up for the unbearable grief he’d feel if a body was found?
He got a soda from the fridge. One six pack of cream soda, a rounded wedge of yellow cheese, jar of salsa—extra hot, and a carton of eggs that might be as old as he was. In the door there was a tube of horse-wormer. He banged the door closed with his heel.
The apartment was really one side of a duplex and posh by Crownpoint standards. There were three rooms but each lacked enough furniture to make it look anything other than a transitory setting. He didn’t have a bed yet and was making do with a large sofa. So the bedroom was empty other than for boxes. All those things in life that he felt he couldn’t do without—trophies from athletic events long forgotten, ribbons from 4-H projects—the animals long dead, cleaning equipment, coat hangers, pots and pans, year books. He shut the bedroom door.
The cream soda had sweated a ring on the coffee table. He wiped it off and then sat down on the sofa. This wasn’t home. It never would be. He’d moved himself and Harley into town knowing that. Even Harley acted like he’d rather be someplace else. Any thoughts of that big old paint horse brought a smile. His sister liked to call him his “next of kin.” Well, that wasn’t too far from wrong.
It had been two days before his sixteenth birthday when his Mom met him at school. He’d thought someone had died. She never would come to the high school if it wasn’t important.
“I want you to come home with me,” she’d said. At first that was all she’d say. He didn’t even ask why she wasn’t at work, wasn’t at Crownpoint Security bank.
