by R. J. Blacks
“What about the complaints I made to Detective Bolt about Damon harassing me?”
“Well, she acknowledged the complaints, but said that was all part of your plan. You knew the police could do nothing because Damon hadn’t broken any laws. But you wanted it on record that you were afraid of him. You brilliantly set him up to be the bad guy, and then ultimately, your scapegoat. She said you’re smart, but she’s seen it all before.”
“Okay, she wants facts. What about the trajectory of the wound?”
“She said you tricked Damon into lying on his back and then surprised him with the spear before he had time to react.”
“And they believed her?”
“Detective Bolt countered that she failed to explain the presence of the two airboats. Why wouldn’t you and Damon both go in one? But she had an answer for that too.
She claimed once Damon had committed the act, you decided you didn’t need him anymore and ran away. Then he chased after you and you killed him in cold blood to silence him.”
“By tricking him into lying on his back?”
“Well there was the issue of you showing up in your underwear. She went on this tirade about how you had seduced Damon to lie on the beach and then grabbed the spear and stabbed him.”
“That’s totally insane.”
“Don’t worry, nobody was buying it. But then she starts hammering away at them, telling them about this law and that law and about this case and that case and how this one case was a precedent for a similar situation. She went on for forty-five minutes, wearing everybody down, and everyone wanted to go home—”
“So there’s going to be a trial?”
“Well I was getting to that. The assistant D.A. politely told her she had a weak case, that there weren’t enough facts to support her conclusions. But she wouldn’t stop. Called him a coward and then he loses his temper, asks to be taken off the case.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because he said he didn’t want to be there when the judge cites them for wasting his time.”
“He said that?”
“Indeed he did. Then she tells him she’ll do it without him, storms out the room and slams the door.”
It was obvious to me she had latched onto this case to bolster her career and she wasn’t going to let it slip through her fingers. If she could convict me for two murders, it would be all over the national news and elicit the attention of some very influential people, opening doors to higher office. It was an opportunity she couldn’t ignore.
I wander to the window and focus my attention on a lone sailboat on the horizon struggling against an incessant wind and high waves. I had seen it from the bathroom window and there was little progress from before. I watch it tack back and forth attempting to make some headway, but the wind is coming from the wrong direction and the waves keep pushing it back. I wonder how long the captain will do this until he gets frustrated and gives up. Or perhaps the waves will make the decision for him and topple the boat.
I think about my new job, how hard I had worked for it, and all the possibilities it would offer. And then I think about how all this could be taken away from me through no fault of my own, just like before. Was it worth it?
My mind wanders as I gaze at that hapless sailboat and wonder if my own life is just like that boat, moving back and forth in a never-ending cycle of successes and setbacks pitted against an incessant immovable force with disaster only a heartbeat away and it depresses me.
“So you’re here to tell me... she’s going to prosecute.”
“Not exactly. Detective Bolt calls me about an hour later and tells me they’ve cancelled the Grand Jury and closed the investigation. Ruled it self-defense.”
“You had me worried.”
“Didn’t mean to. Thought you wanted to know what happened.”
“How’d they convince the D.A?”
“When she cooled down, she realized it would be really bad for her career if the facts showed she had falsely charged the victim of an attempted rape. She’s tough, but not stupid.”
“So I’m free to go?”
“Yeah. You’re free to go.”
I nibble at my breakfast recounting the events of the last six months. It’s a bittersweet moment. Although I had achieved what I came here for, it came at a price. Will was kind and gentle; he didn’t deserve this. It made me wonder if there was truly any justice in the world. I would soon have my PhD, but without him, it would be meaningless. It just wasn’t fair. If we could get Will back, if there was any way we could turn back the clock, I would gladly relinquish my PhD. I choke up, unable to receive any more food.
“One more thing,” he says. “Bolt told me they’ve been trying to contact Damon’s next of kin, but they’re coming up cold. The name on his license and registration appears legit on the police computer, but it’s completely bogus. The address is an empty lot and there’s no record of him ever taking a driving test or even filling out an application.”
“What about his fingerprints... or DNA?”
“No match on those either.”
“How did he manage that?” I ask.
“Bolt proposed several scenarios. Damon could have altered police records by hacking into the system. Or, he may be an ex-cop who had access to the database. Either way, he’s dead now. So unless someone steps forward and identifies him, they’re committing his remains to an unmarked grave.”
“Thank goodness it’s over.”
“Yes, but there’s still the matter of Will’s funeral.”
“What did you decide?”
“The tribal elders agreed to an official cremation, even though Will wasn’t exactly active. They want you to be fire bearer.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you light the fire.”
“No, please, not me.”
“You were the person closest to him. He would want it that way.”
“What about Juanita?”
“He loved Juanita passionately, but you were the one he went to when he had a problem.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“The elders prefer someone outside the family. It’s an acknowledgement that Will was loved by everyone, not just those that were related to him.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s easy. The medicine man will say some prayers, and then instruct you to light the fire.”
“Please don’t force me.”
“If you refuse, it would be a great insult.”
I stare out the window and reflect on my relationship with Will. How he helped me, and expected nothing in return.
“Okay, fine. I’ll do it,” I say, but secretly, I’m terrified. Even though I loved him dearly, like a brother, and would do anything for him, I have this fear I’ll mess up and get it wrong. To get my mind off it, I turn my attention to more immediate concerns.
“You know I’m leaving soon.”
“Yeah, figured so,” he says.
“Just wondering what you’ll do with the restaurant.”
“Probably lease it. It’s meaningless to me now.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to end like this.”
“Don’t try to explain it, you never will,” he says, and then I see a tear form in his eye. He abruptly walks out the door, down the steps, and onto his airboat. He starts the engine and then races away without looking back.
I spend the afternoon alone, packing my clothes. I’ve decided to leave all the chemistry equipment behind. Fargo can always donate it to a charity if he doesn’t want it. With my new-found job, I’ll be working in a world-class laboratory with all the latest gadgets. I won’t ever need that old stuff again.
Fargo returns about five o’clock and I haven’t yet started dinner.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“I’ll just pick.”
“I’m making burgers. I can add extra.”
“If it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
&nbs
p; “Okay,” he says, and strolls to his bedroom.
I grill up the burgers, prepare some sweet-potato fries, and then place it all on the table. I tap on Fargo’s door.
“Dinner’s ready.”
The door opens and Fargo joins me at the table. He helps himself to a burger and fries.
“I’d like to leave at 7:30. Funeral’s at eight,” he says.
“I don’t know what to wear.”
“Wear the outfit Will gave you, the one that belonged to my mother. She’ll see you wearing it and be pleased.”
See me wearing it? Suddenly, I’m confused.
“I thought your mother passed away.”
“In our culture, the departed, family members and friends, come to assist the deceased on their journey to the afterlife,” he says. “We can’t see them, but they can see us.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll wear it.”
Fargo downs another burger and then retreats to his bedroom. I pick at my meal, in solitude, thinking about the funeral. I’ve never attended anything like this before and I’m nervous about what they might ask me to do. I’ll just have to make the best of it and hope I do well.
I place the empty dinner plates into the sink and shuffle to my bedroom. I change into the fringed deerskin skirt, the matching top, the moccasins, the shell necklace, and then set an eagle feather in my hair. I study my outfit in the mirror making sure nothing is out of place. The red, blue, and brown embroidery is beautiful and contrasts nicely against the tan deerskin. I run my fingertips gently over the design admiring the texture. It’s obvious the person that made this did so out of love, not just for a quick sale. The craftsmanship and detail are extraordinary, down to the minutest thread.
I hear Fargo’s door open and then the creak of the floorboards as he walks down the hall. I slip out the bedroom and join him in the living room. He’s wearing moccasins, frilled deerskin pants, a leather vest, open at the front, and is applying black paint to his face.
“Is that required?” I say.
“It’s done out of respect.”
He finishes up what he’s doing then approaches me.
“Hold still,” he says, and then applies two black lines under each of my eyes.
He wipes the black paint off his hands and then opens a jar of white paint. He makes some symbols on his face and then adds some white streaks to my face just under the black ones. He washes his hands and then places two feathers in his hair.
“We go now,” he says, and grabs his backpack.
“I grab my own backpack and a camera.
“No camera.”
“Just in case.”
“Not allowed. Better you leave it here.”
I follow Fargo to the jeep and we both get in. He races down the main road and turns off on a dirt road that is largely overgrown. It looks like it hasn’t been used for a long time. We pull into a grassy clearing next to two-dozen parked cars.
The sun has dropped below the horizon and it’s getting dark. We exit the jeep and Fargo leads me along a narrow trail. Up ahead I see an orange-yellow glow through gaps in the trees.
The trail ends into a clearing about the size of a tennis court. Tall trees surround it. Just above our heads, attached to some of the trees, are burning torches. On other trees are the bleached-white skulls of wild animals such as deer, wild hog, bear, alligator, cattle, and some skulls I don’t recognize. They give the clearing a scary mystical look, as if I’ve entered the realm of another era.
There appears to be about forty or fifty people standing around in groups of three or four chatting among themselves. Most are adorned in colorful Native American clothing, but a few are dressed casually, in jeans and flannel shirts.
I see Juanita with her parents and stop by to give my condolences. Tears are running down her cheeks and the more I look at her, the more I start to lose it. I politely excuse myself and retreat to a corner, away from the crowd, to regain my composure.
In the center of the clearing is a neatly arranged stack of logs about the height of my shoulders and about the length and width of a typical cot. On the top of the stack is a mat and on top of the mat is a white sheet covering Will’s body.
Sadness overwhelms me as I comprehend the reality of the situation. This is the last time I will ever see Will. Life provides many chances, many opportunities, but death is final; there’s no turning back. I fight back tears.
A Native American man dressed in a breechcloth and leggings walks to the front of the woodpile and faces the crowd. Attached to his back is a circle of black feathers about the size of an opened umbrella and he’s wearing a headpiece made with feathers of the same type. His face is painted black, and his eyes are outlined in white paint. His threatening appearance jars me. I grasp Fargo’s hand for reassurance.
“That’s our spiritual leader, a medicine man,” he says.
A few additional guests drift in and then everyone forms a circle around the wood pile. Suddenly, the medicine man cries out in a loud voice startling me.
“Ya he oh lo ha,” he says, and silence envelops the crowd.
He repeats it and everyone joins in.
“Ya he oh lo ha,” they say, and then a pause.
A drum breaks the silence.
“Bom... Bom... Bom...” and then a pause.
“Bom... Bom... Bom...” it goes again.
Then the medicine man cries out:
“E lo hi gi ne tse.”
“What does that mean?” I whisper to Fargo.
“The earth is our Mother,” he answers.
“Ga li he li ga.”
“We are thankful,” Fargo translates.
“O sa li he li ga.”
“We are grateful.”
Then the medicine man dances around the wood pile singing a chant. Other men with painted faces join in. They circle the wood stack three times. Then the medicine man picks up an ornately decorated jar and places it under his left arm. He removes a stick, about a foot long, with a leather ball attached to the end, and then dances around the wood stack using the stick to fling drops of liquid onto Will’s body.
“Medicine water,” Fargo says. “To purify the body.”
The medicine man walks around the circle of guests, and flings sacred water on the people, frequently dipping the leather ball in the jar. He puts down the jar, raises his arms to the sky, and speaks:
“Oh Great Spirit, creator of stars, creator of earth, creator of life. You sent us Will, in the womb of his mother, to be loved and nurtured, until which time he was delivered to the world. And that baby grew, and brought joy to all that knew him. And now, his time on earth has come to an end. With this fire, we release his spirit. May it rise to the clouds. May it dwell with you forever.”
The medicine man turns to me. He holds out his hands, palms facing upward.
The drum begins its rhythm.
“Bom... Bom... Bom... Bom...” it goes continuously.
All eyes are upon me. I freeze up. What does he want? Am I supposed to light the fire?
“Bom... Bom... Bom... Bom...” the drum continues.
Another man with a painted face appears out of the circle and hands me a burning torch. I take the torch with no idea what I’m supposed to do. I look at Fargo and he nudges me on. He realizes I’m confused, so he approaches me, puts his arm over my shoulder, and then leads me to the woodpile. He takes my hand and guides the torch to a spot where some twigs and straw are sticking out. The fire jumps into the stack and then spreads quickly. I return the torch to the man with the painted face, and then back up to the edge of the clearing, behind the crowd.
The drumbeat stops.
The medicine man raises his arms and cries out some chants. Intense smoke streams straight up and disappears into the night. The flames engulf the entire woodpile and I find myself overwhelmed with grief. After tonight there will be nothing in the physical world to remind us of Will’s existence. Not a gravestone, not an urn, not even a recent photo. It will be like he was never here. H
ow I wish I would have taken some pictures when I had the opportunity. But who would have known this would happen? Who would have known I would never have another chance?
I turn away, stare at the forest, try to distract myself from the horror of the moment. I force myself to think pleasant thoughts, about my new job, and the rewards it will bring. I imagine myself in front of a new house, a large house, white, with a huge lawn, manicured to perfection. I see groups of azalea bushes, with red flowers, in full bloom. I see my husband and children smiling and waving to me from the porch.
But the violence of the fire gives me no peace. It torments me, burdens me with guilt, makes me feel responsible. It makes me believe I should have done more to prevent this supreme sadness. But what?
An hour passes and the fire has reduced the woodpile to a handful of glowing logs and ashes. The burning torches attached to the trees have gone out and guests are drifting back to their cars. I search out Fargo and see him talking to the medicine man. They shake hands and then the medicine man strolls back to his car.
Fargo approaches the remains of the woodpile and recites some chants in his native tongue. I feel compelled to rush to his side, offer a few words of solace, but can’t think of anything to say. I’m totally drained, an emotional wasteland. I can do nothing but just stand here, overwhelmed by grief, waiting, and watching, from a distance.
Fargo joins me at the edge of the clearing. He looks tired, wasted, forlorn, like a lost child. And then, in the subdued lighting of the dying fire, as it crackles and pops, hanging on to those last pangs of life before it succumbs to an eternal blackness, we stroll back to the Jeep Cherokee, quietly, side by side, isolated by an endless stream of barely conscious thoughts: thoughts of the past, thoughts of the future, and thoughts of the things that never came to pass.
