by S. M. Butler
“He makes up his own language,” Danny inserted. “Always did. Part of his Code Talker thing.”
“Yeah.” Wilson laughed. They’d seen Grandfather and his buddies speak the pigeon language, just like they’d done in WWII, which was a combination of Navajo, Choctaw, and some other languages sprinkled in. They still had funny descriptions of people like ‘mustache sniffers’ and ‘goat faced women.’ ‘Cabbage eaters’ was a term they always associated with anyone with a German, Eastern European, or Russian accent. Since Grandfather and his cronies didn’t swear, the worst they would say of someone was that they were ‘full of sheep intestines’. Danny took Grandfather’s word that was a bad-smelling thing and not a compliment.
The hospital was so brightly lit it hurt Danny’s eyes, which were now more accustomed to the low lighting of dusk to dawn, which was now the hours he was awake. Wilson’s high-top boots would have rattled any of the lodges or buildings on the reservation, but here, on the sterile-smelling concrete floor of the hospital, his heavy steps just echoed off the walls.
They were ushered inside a propped doorway to the darkened cubicle that was Grandfather’s room. Danny’s mother was sitting by his side, holding a frail hand laden with tubes. She jumped to her feet upon seeing her son and gave him a hug.
Her smell still resembled the forests outside Ukiah, where they both lived, and he found it comforting.
“Mom.” He nodded, gave her a peck on the cheek, and let her go resume her place by his grandfather.
“Ah,” came the raspy voice of Grandfather as his other fingers splayed out in front of him, searching to touch Danny. “You are here, little cub.”
Danny hadn’t been called that since he was twelve. His flinch set Wilson giggling. He punched his cousin in his arm and pushed him aside, taking up the space on the other side of the bed from his mother.
“Grandfather, I understand you are taking a trip soon.”
Danny’s mother shot him a dangerous look. His grandfather smiled, revealing he’d apparently pulled out more teeth, and something he was known for doing when they began to hurt. His rounded face reminded Danny of a scary pumpkin.
“Long journey, Danny. I’ve packed all my things.” His eyebrows rose into his wrinkled, lined forehead covered with brown age spots the size of Danny’s fingernails. Grandfather’s arthritic finger tapped at his own temple. “Everything’s here,” he whispered and then gushed a ghoulish smile again. He removed his finger from his temple and flicked his fingers toward Danny like he was flicking water from his hand. “And now some of these things are yours.”
His mother turned to look up at Danny’s face, concern resident there.
“Fuck,” he heard Wilson say softly to his back.
Danny felt awkward standing, so he dragged up a chair, sat, and leaned over the bed like his mother did. Taking the gnarled, arthritic fingers of the old man, he spoke, “Well, Mother said you asked for me, and so I am here.” He searched his grandfather’s face, wanting to say something else, but couldn’t find the words.
“You have to remember all the stories I told you, Danny. Your life’s journey is starting now with my passing.”
“Don’t say that, Grandfather. You’ve still got teeth you haven’t managed to pull out yet.”
His grandfather’s grin would have sent little girls screaming from the room.
“Yes,” said the old man. “They all hurt now, but then so do my fingers. I can’t feel my toes anymore, haven’t for about a month.” The old man shrugged. “They are taking me away in pieces, Danny. Can you imagine what that must look like up there in our homeland?” Grandfather’s hand dislodged from his daughter-in-law’s as he swept the air above him. “I’ve got to go get all those parts before they get lost forever.” With effort, he continued, “No one else will be able to recognize them.”
Danny didn’t have to look at Wilson to see how uncomfortable his cousin felt. The steady murmur of swearing warmed his backside as Danny realized how things had changed. His grandfather was telling new stories, and Wilson was swearing like Danny had never heard before. Maybe Grandfather was right. Maybe Danny’s life was the one that stayed stagnant, the same for a reason. Could his adventure just be beginning?
Danny suspected Grandfather had the skill of knowing whatever he was thinking, just like his mother did. “Your calling is just beginning, my grandson. Like I told you ever since you were old enough to understand, there is a special mission you are destined for. You have not yet found your spirit, so it haunts you. Here,” he said as he pointed to his chest. “It isn’t here,” he pointed to his temple. “Or here,” he pointed to his groin. “This is where it all starts,” he declared as he pointed once again to his heart.
The singers had arrived at the doorway. Danny wanted to leave immediately, unable to face the inevitable fact that his grandfather was, indeed, going to go quickly. He knew the old man had waited to see him one last time, and now that had happened there was nothing left to live for. It saddened him, and he didn’t want to let anyone see him cry. But his heart, the place his grandfather had forced him to concentrate on, was hurting. The other big elephant in the room was the fact that Grandfather had been a WWII hero, a Navajo Code Talker, who had helped the United States win the war for the white man’s nation before Chester Begay even had the right to vote for the men who would put him in harm’s way. And Danny Begay had not done anything with his life.
Nothing at all.
He still saw his grandfather’s eyes following him every step of the way back to the parking lot and to Wilson’s beater. They were headed up towards Flagstaff, closer to the res, to Wilson’s home, and nearer to where the relatives would be gathering. Wilson had cleared his throat several times, keeping up with Danny’s quick retreat. It was their childhood signal he wanted to talk, but didn’t want to request it verbally.
Danny abruptly turned and faced him.
“Would you quit it?”
“What the fuck do you mean?” Wilson asked, scrunching up his nose and forehead.
“Why do you have to say fuck all the time? I heard your language in there,” Danny said as he pointed back to the hospital. “Don’t you have any respect for the near-dead?”
“The man is filled with demons and stories. He’s out of his mind, and he’s scaring you, Danny. Don’t fuckin’ tell me he’s not. You’re gonna feel haunted now. I know you.”
Danny dug his fingers into his palms and squeezed.
“Don’t listen to this shit, Danny. You got away. Stay separated. Get the fuck out of here and stay away. This place isn’t any good for you. Your mama was right.”
“You stayed here. Didn’t seem to hurt you any.” Danny was pissed his emotions were showing.
“Fuckin’ A. Naw, I finished growing up here, seasoned on all this batshit stuff I needed like a fuckin’ hole in my head. I stayed away from your granddad. My mom and the rest of our family never believed any of his shit anyway. Besides, none of them were sober enough to care. I got the hell out when I could, and the Navy undid all the things that were wrong with me. But you, you got away. Consider yourself a fuckin’ survivor.”
Danny resumed his beeline for the truck. “Where do you get all this swearing stuff, Wilson? You never used to do that.”
“You have a problem with my fuckin’ swearing, Cuz? I’m toning it down for you, man. Honest. You haven’t heard me when I really get going. You can thank the Navy for that.”
“Just because you cuss like a sailor doesn’t make you a man.”
Wilson stopped. “You know, I didn’t have to fuckin’ go down to Phoenix to pick your sorry ass up, Danny. I did it out of respect for your mother and grandfather. I knew we had nothing in common anymore.”
“So what’s eating at you? So what? We’ve changed.”
“No, man, I’ve changed.”
“So?”
“So, have you killed a man? You’ve hunted deer, rabbits, and ducks and shit. Have you hunted and killed a man?”
Danny stopped, turning to look back at his cousin. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard.
“Yeah, you fuckin’ pussy. You don’t want to ask me that question on the tip of your tongue. So I’ll answer you. Yes, sir. I’ve killed a man, and do you want to know how?”
Danny shook his head. No. He really didn’t want to know. He wanted to get as far away from Wilson as he possibly could.
Wilson walked dangerously close to him, grabbing Danny by the shirt. It was all Danny could do to keep his cool. His cousin scared him, not because of who he was, but who he had become.
“I did it with my bare hands. With the knife my father gave me for my tenth birthday, the one I used to skin deer with. It was out so fast I didn’t even think. This guy tried to stop the boat we were going to rescue some SEALs in. My buddies. The guys I was charged to pick up and protect. I started right here,” Wilson poked a forefinger at Danny’s navel, “and it went all the way up until I hit here.” Wilson tapped his breastbone. “I watched the fuckin’ man die. I took it all in, man. I robbed him of his life. And I saved mine and those of my crew and the four SEALs we extricated that day.”
It was then that Danny understood what he’d seen in his cousin’s face. It was the face of a hero, just like his grandfather’s. And the price for this heroism was very high. The scars would never go away. Maybe it was too high. But Wilson had paid the price, just like the old Code Talker.
Chapter Three
‡
The Blue Fox bar, just outside the res from Flagstaff, where Wilson lived, was perfect. Like all the Ukiah dives Danny had spent time in, it was populated with pot growers and some over-the-hill hippies. Music choices ranged from Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash to Emilou Harris, the old ones. Seeing as they were in Arizona, it was also dotted with bikers and people just passing through. The legendary Route 66.
He and Wilson parted without him saying much at all about the revelation Wilson had made. Wilson threw the keys at Danny and took off. Danny grabbed a motel room and went searching to drown the spirits that wouldn’t stop their chatter.
A few local guys he knew from his childhood sat at dark tables in the corner, playing cards. As usual, they wore black, high crown felt hats; the same he used to watch White Owl make as he sat on his grandfather’s knee. Grandfather risked the ire of Danny’s mother by bringing him here starting as a boy of six; when he was old enough to not get into trouble. That was a long time ago.
He stalked over to the bartender, his cowboy boots knocking familiarly on the old plank floor that hadn’t been washed in a month. Returning to his roots required a couple doses of courage to smother the voices in his head. The singing way of his people was lilting up to the skies, no doubt announcing the arrival of Grandfather. He also heard the collective songs of his ancestors in celebratory response. It used to terrify him as a young boy, and it still did today. Especially today.
The place smelled of old piss and even older spilled beer. He’d forgotten how familiar the smells were, from a time when the world was simple, when all he worried about was making sure his balls didn’t get pinched because his skinny butt was perched on his grandfather’s thigh. It had been nearly thirteen years since he’d set foot in the Blue Fox, and yet it was like stepping back in time. Nothing had changed. Maybe that’s what terrified him most.
Scenes from his childhood tickled and danced all around him. White Owl would tell the stories, and Grandfather would request the music be turned down and would fill in the blanks, often correcting him. Grandfather was the keeper of the legends. He didn’t like embellishments or modern details.
“The old way is still the best. Been the best for hundreds of man-years. We honor those who came before to tell it to the young ones the way it was told to them. And then they can choose for themselves.”
White Owl told him in secret one day Grandfather had it in for him because White Owl got the girl Grandfather wanted to marry. But then his grandfather met Jenny, his grandmother, and all debts were forgotten. Not forgiven, just forgotten.
Music flooded the tiny, dark bar. The same twangy country tunes that hadn’t been played on the AM channels for thirty years and never on the XM, except for quaint oldies specials. These tunes debuted on eight-track tapes or LPs. Probably hadn’t been changed out of the jukebox since before he was born.
His grandfather had a whole collection of oldies in his garage. Danny and Wilson had tossed those precious records like flying saucers one afternoon, destroying the bulk of them. The two boys couldn’t sit down for nearly three days from the whipping they both got from Danny’s aunt, Wilson’s mother. They’d have gotten another one too if Grandfather had not been at a tribal meeting in Washington D.C. Something official was in the air that summer, and he spent a lot of it gone from the res.
Tonight, Danny was grateful for the fact that the music was loud. It competed with the shrill voices in his head which roared up in a near panic again when he tilted his forehead to the corner where the card players were. They answered him back with stoic indifference. They knew who he was. He wasn’t really coming back. They knew why, knew Grandfather and everyone else on the res, and distrusted him because of it. They probably thought he was being Native American when it suited him, when he could show it off. A fair-weather Indian, they called it.
The crying wind and whispering voices died down as he approached the bar.
“Beer.”
He knew there was not much choice. He was served two Route 66 Specials, a brewery owned by an old friend of his father’s. The signal probably hadn’t changed in over twenty years: if you ordered one drink and the house gave you two, you only had to pay for one.
An exotic scent drifted his way. Turning in that direction, he imagined some Asian or Parisian hooker on his right. But her skin was like the way he drank his chai latte, a light caramel brown. Her high cheekbones contrasted with her shiny obsidian black hair, which was held with a large clip made of polished turquoise and silver—a classic Navajo beauty. She could have been the ghost of his dead sister.
It was usually hard for him to look at Navajo women and find them attractive, because all he could see was Natomi’s lifeless face staring back up at him, her warm brown skin a chalkish purple. He told himself over and over that he preferred women with hair the colors of the fall back in California or the color of spun gold like in his dreams.
She glanced at his beer and ordered the same without looking at him, but he knew she’d taken stock of him and had probably selected the stool next to him on purpose. Something at the base of his skull buzzed and his ears started to get red. It was a sign he was too familiar with and meant one of two things. She turned him on big time or there was impending danger. Maybe both. Many times he couldn’t tell the difference. Most of the time there was no difference.
The large mirror over the bar was cracked, but he saw her cool smile, one full lip with its edge upturned, revealing an old thin scar. Her dark eyes pulled at him and he knew her instantly to be a sucker of souls.
“You’re new,” she said to the mirror.
He could feel her breathing, imagined what her flesh would feel like if he smoothed his fingers down her thigh. “Actually, I’m not here at all.”
She turned on the stool, grabbing her beer, and took a sip while she examined him. She was still smiling when she was done.
“You look pretty fuckin’ here, Dine kind. But then, maybe I’m a ghost, too, and maybe I see dead people.”
That deserved his attention, so he allowed his body to turn, facing her, knees touching hers. Through the stiff denim of his jeans, he could feel her body vibrate like the inner workings of an expensive Swiss timepiece.
“I’m Danny Begay. My mother is Miwok. My father’s side is from the Corn Pollen Clan. Chester Begay is my grandfather. I believe he will die tonight.” He watched it sink in, and wondered if his traditional side made a difference to her. She bit her lip just below the slight scar that slashed her upper lip, probably from an old injury. It made he
r look dangerous and sexy as hell. A slight worry line creased her right eye with just a touch of a twitch.
She turned back to the counter, staring down as if examining the head on her beer, allowing her unpolished nail on her left forefinger to dip into the sudsy froth and draw a figure eight. “Then it sucks to be you.”
He had to agree with her. It sucked he’d never made much of himself, and now his Grandfather was going to die knowing that too. He wasn’t sure of his potential for spiritual growth anytime soon either. His cousin had just scared the liver out of him. That sucked, too.
That left only one option for this evening. To get drunk. Maybe get her so drunk she’d go back with him to the motel. He glanced around the room and didn’t see any white boys, so figured he’d have a chance with her. With any luck, neither one would remember a thing in the morning. He’d get the call Grandfather was gone. He could pay his respects, stay for the ceremony, and then get his butt out of Arizona and back to Northern California. Forget this sandy hellhole for as long as the drink lasted.
“I am Luci Tohe of the Where Two Waters Meet Clan,” she whispered.
He noted she was not a clan cousin. “So why are you here?” he started. “Cheaper to drink at home, and a whole lot less dangerous, the drive, I mean.” He was surprised by his own words.
She answered the mirror again. “I know what you meant, Dine kind. I teach at the school.”
“Ah. First choice or last choice?” He knew it was a risk to ask, but he couldn’t help himself.
She almost spit her beer out. “Gawd, it must be true. That old fart gave you some of those visions.”
He turned and tilted his head, wondering what she meant. She addressed him this time by angling slightly so her knees wouldn’t touch his again. Her face in partial profile was masked. She was trying to hide something. “I’m not a do-gooder. Not one of those. I get to hide in plain sight. But I do carry a gun.”
“Running from something?”
“Nope.” She licked her lips, her tongue lingering there a little long, her eyes again focused down on the counter. “I am the sole breadwinner and protector of my little tribe. My mother and my little sister.”
