Wind Song

by Bonds, Parris Afton

  Wistfully, she placed the order form in the appropriate box on the office counter and left the school building. As she crossed the grounds toward her apartment, a voice hailed her. She turned to see Marshall Lawrence striding across the grassless yard toward her. “Dr. Livingston, I presume,” he said, his gray eyes crinkling with laughter.

  She smiled. “I do feel like I’ve been lost from civilization, Marshall.” How nice, how handsome, he looked in a kelly green sports shirt with epaulettes on the shoulders. She recognized the brand. She used to buy them for Brad. Now he would have to do his own shopping. “I’m on my way back to the apartment. All I want is to get out of my shoes and dress and prop my feet up.”

  Marshall shook a cigarette out of its pack, saying, “You know, in that dress you could easily pass for a Paris model.” He feigned a wicked leer. “Or out of it.”

  She looked down at the toast-colored crepe with its frothy neckline. Was she indeed still an attractive woman? The encounter with Cody the week before, his dispassionate reserve, had left her wondering just how attractive she really was. Without the mask of cosmetics, was a woman really there?

  That encounter had shaken her. That night, after her bath, she had looked in the mirror. Cool blue eyes, her best feature really. Well-shaped lips with an indentation in the center that Brad had once told her was an indication of a sensual nature. How wrong it seemed he had been. Good cheekbones. And the rest of her? She had stepped back. Hesitantly her hands had come up to cup her breasts. Still high and firm. The waist—small; the legs long and slender, without any orange-peel dimples to mar them. Her hands had slipped down to her stomach. Still flat, despite carrying the twins, but streaked with stretch marks, faint now after all those years.

  The pungent odor of the cigarette brought her back to the man before her. Now, what had set off that line of reverie? . . . Oh, yes, Cody Strawhand.

  “I think I could use a cigarette,” she told Marshall. “I’m making lots of adjustments here, but it appears that sacrificing smoking is not going to be one of them.”

  He offered the package from his shirt pocket. “I hope you won’t reconsider when it comes time to renew your contract, Abbie.”

  She withdrew a cigarette and tipped her head to his proffered.lighter. She exhaled slowly, savoring the pleasure. Her first cigarette in five months.

  He fell into step with her. “I’m counting on seeing you for a long time to come.”

  “You can bank on that. I gave myself a goal of two years here. It took that long to lose myself. It’ll take that long to find me.”

  His gaze swept the desolate landscape. “Well, you sure aren’t going to find anything else here. I’ve come by to pick up the weekly order forms. How about running in with me to Flagstaff Saturday while I fill them? We-can squeeze in dinner before we make the trip back.”

  “I thought the BIA filled the requests at Tuba City.”

  “We usually do. But every quarter the Western Navajo Agency purchases supplies not available in Tuba City—mostly office equipment, medical supplies for our public health clinic, things like that.”

  The suggestion sounded heavenly. She paused on the small slab of cement that was supposed to serve as her apartment’s front porch. “Marshall, you’d have to backtrack fifty miles to pick me up.”

  “Cody often comes into Tuba City on Saturday. I’m sure I could persuade him to stop by your apartment.”

  She almost said no. But she would be damned if she was going to let the strained feelings between her and Cody spoil her chance for an outing. Then again, he might refuse Marshall’s request. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Good, I’ll give you a call tomorrow at the school office to let you know what time Cody’ll pick you up.”

  “What?” she mocked. “Use the school’s telephone for personal calls?”

  He grinned. “It’s an emergency.”

  * * * * *

  Cody’s frame cast a large shadow through the screen door.

  “Let me get my purse,” she told him. Why did she have to feel so self-conscious?

  She grabbed her shoulder bag off the double bed and looked over her shoulder in the mirror. The white designer jeans didn’t hug her rear too tightly. With the matching denim jacket, cerise satin blouse and strappy sandals, she looked casual enough to spend the day shopping in Flagstaff's decidedly western shops and still chic enough for most of its restaurants. And to think the metropolis of Phoenix was only two hours further. It was enough to make her giddy.

  Cody was already in the pickup. She climbed inside the cab, keeping to the far side. Electrical currents sizzled the cab’s air., raising the fine hair on her forearms and at her nape. He spared her only the briefest of glances. She had become accustomed to that from the Navajo. In the school, at the trading post, moving among them, it was almost as if she didn’t exist. Their eyes never made contact with hers. But she was sure that later at night, over the hogan fires, every detail of her appearance would be recounted, just as she was sure that Cody’s sharp eyes missed nothing in their swift inventory, down to the pins that held her hair in its low knot. It was the first time in months that she had bothered to do anything with her hair but pull it back in a clasp at her nape.

  “Escaping to the big city?” he asked and revved up the engine.

  “No,” she said tartly. “Only visiting.” She slid a glance at him. He wore the usual boots and jeans, which rode low over his hips. A faded denim jacket had been added. The worn black Stetson slouched low over his eyes. “Are you? Escaping to the big city?”

  He laughed, a low but pleasant sound that she liked. “Hardly. I feel like I’m bearding the lions in their den when I find myself anywhere with concrete pavement and steel buildings and blaring music and car horns. And people jammed elbow to elbow.”

  She sensed that he was alluding to his own fear, a right that he had reminded her even an adult had. It would seem that the two of them could carry on a normal discussion without getting into an argument after all. Maybe the fifty-two-mile trip to Tuba City wouldn’t be as disagreeable as she had thought. “After living here, I can see how you would feel that way. The tranquility. The untouched beauty ...”

  “Oh, don’t fool yourself, Mrs. Dennis. The tranquility and the untouched beauty are nice for a change. But soon the quiet begins to grate on the nerves, and the untouched beauty gets awful stark and empty-looking for people like you.”

  The attempt at a congenial conversation was sliding dangerously. “And just who are ‘people like me’?” she asked, trying to keep the friction from her voice.

  Momentarily he took his eyes off the dirt road that dipped and jumped ahead ad infinitum and shot her a cool glance that she could only interpret as contempt. “Patronizing women who come here to play the ‘grand lady.’ You come with your donations and your impersonal charity. You come with your electricity and technology, unwilling to live the simple life you claim you seek. You come with your Sunday religion for a people whose every daily action is directed toward the Great Spirit.”

  She bit back a furious retort, because she knew that a large part of what he had said was true. And she also sensed that he wanted to make her angry, that normally, with anyone else, he would have let the subject pass. Why was he so hostile toward her?

  “I believe you have made your point, Mr. Strawhand,” she said, keeping, her face toward the open window, “but I’m not leaving Kaibeto.” She was grateful for the wind in her face, cooling her. She would not lose her composure. Marshall had told her that she didn’t belong at Kaibeto, Miss Halliburton didn’t want her there and Cody had made it quite clear what he thought of her. And sometimes she herself wished she were anywhere else. But there was nowhere else. She was going to have to prove herself here.

  Moments later Cody swung the pickup off the main dirt road onto one that was little more than wagon wheel ruts through the sage and broom- grass and low cactus. “Where are we going?” she asked, hiding the concern she felt.

 
Wasn’t he part Indian? Hadn’t she felt that primitive side of him? He had a sheer force that wasn’t easily reckoned with. In this desolation he could easily dispose of her. Oh, come on, you’re being melodramatic.

  “Just beyond Camel Rock—there”—he poined to the jagged hunk of rock plopped in the midst of the empty desert—“is a hogan. A friend is going with us.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, both relieved and ashamed at the direction her thoughts had erroneously taken.

  Once the pickup passed Camel Mountain, the tail end of White Mesa with its “window” formation came into view. Cody braked the pickup to a halt, but she couldn’t immediately see anything for the flurry of dust. When it settled, she spotted the hogan. With its low and dim silhouette, it was almost camouflaged by its natural habitat. As in all Indian homes, its doorway, curtained by a flour sack, faced east. A few yards away was a miniature hogan, the bath house, and a brush arbor that was in reality the summer hogan.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, when Cody made no move to get out.

  “It’s courteous to wait a few minutes,” he explained. No hint of his earlier antagonism shaded his voice now. As if to reestablish the earlier friendly atmosphere, he added, “Tradition warns that evil spirits may be following guests, and these tchindees must not be led in on friends.”

  When he opened the pickup’s door, two women stepped through the hogan’s curtained doorway. The older woman, who toted several folded rugs, was dressed in the typical flounced skirt, velveteen blouse and men’s work boots. The younger, contrastingly, wore jeans and a pink tee shirt printed with the words Navajo Power.

  When the two got closer, Abbie could see that the older woman had skin the texture of a wadded paper sack. She wore her hair in the traditional squash-blossom knot. Her blouse had silver quarters and dimes that served as buttons—for trading at the post for purchases. With a start of surprise Abbie recognized the younger woman.

  “Hello, Dalah,” she called out warmly, glad to see a familiar face.

  Dalah grinned and waved. Cody took the rugs from the old woman and tossed them in the back of the pickup. She murmured something to him and turned to leave, but Dalah walked with Cody around to Abbie’s side of the pickup.

  Cody opened the door and said, “You already know Dalah, Mrs. Dennis. She’s going with us.” Abbie had no choice but to slide over to the center of the seat. A spring stuck up beneath the worn seatcovers, tilting her against Cody. Never had she felt more like a fifth wheel. And she also felt very old sitting next to the young, effervescent Dalah.

  Dalah talked easily of subject after subject, starting with the rugs that were highly valued for their beauty and durability. “I’m taking them to Tuba City, where they bring a better price because of the tourist trade.” Of the next sing she said, “It’s going to be held at the Tribal Chapter House.” An exhibit that she had read about in Southwestern Art also interested her. “Paul Speckled Rock will be showing his sculptures at Flagstaff’s Anasazi Gallery of Art. You know, Mrs. Dennis, Cody’s jewelry is on display there.”

  “How nice,” Abbie said with a glance at Cody’s noncommittal expression. A hard face, certainly an uncompromising one. But sometimes she unexpectedly caught a light of compassion in his eyes—with the boy Robert, later with Dalah’s mother when he took the rugs. She couldn’t help adding, “So even the Indian is disposed to crass, capitalistic commercialism.”

  He grinned amiably and laid his arm along the back of the seat. “Oh, the Indians had been involved in commerce, Mrs. Dennis, even before they were persuaded to trade Manhattan for a couple of beaded necklaces.”

  “Touche,” Abbie said, ceding that particular victory to him.

  The rest of the ride into Tuba City was mixed with the radio’s BIA Navajo program, indecipherable to her, and spurts of conversation between Dalah and Cody. From certain things that were said, Abbie interpreted that he wasn’t married.

  Damn’t, why should that please me?!

  She was acutely aware of his arm above her shoulders, his thigh touching hers. Like an infatuated schoolgirl, she thought with self-disgust. She recalled her first date with Brad and the breathless wait to see if he would kiss her. Would Cody? Damn! She really must be going through a midlife crisis!

  Cody swung the pickup into the Western Navajo Agency’s paved parking lot. As if he had been waiting for them, Marshall came out and crossed to the pickup with eager strides. He leaned on Dalah’s open window. “Hi, Dalah.” His welcoming smile lingered on Abbie. “Glad you could make it, Abbie. Thanks for bringing her, Cody.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity for the world.”

  Marshall seemed oblivious to the mockery in Cody’s tone and went on to explain that Cody and Dalah had agreed to join them later for dinner. Abbie’s vision of a pleasant evening rapidly faded. With the prospect of a challenging, combative meeting with Cody in her mind, the day lost some of its luster.

  On the trip into Flagstaff she told Marshall about some of the pleasure and pain she found in teaching the Indian children. He listened, laughed and agreed with her observations, particularly about the need for firepit guards in the hogans.

  “Marshall, the little ones who leave for the weekend often return with bad burns. Some are already scarred for life. Wendy Tso came back Sunday night with her palm badly blistered. Someone needs to convince the Indians that their hogans must have some kind of guards in front of the firepits.”

  “Try telling that to the Indian Tribal Council,” he said gloomily. “There are some customs and superstitions that are difficult to break. The firepit is their stove, heater, ceremonial center. To alter its design”—he shook his head in a weary gesture —“it’d be like our trying to buck city hall.”

  The soaring San Francisco Peaks, sacred to the Navajo, and the increasing number of ponderosa pines and quaking aspens announced the proximity of Flagstaff. Fields of sunflowers banked either side of the superhighway. Despite its frontier charm the area boasted many modern industries.

  While Marshall visited an office supply house in the new Flagstaff Mall, she desultorily shopped at some of its boutiques but found nothing she really wanted or could afford.

  Somehow the fads and frills seemed frivolous to her now. After Marshall finished, they stopped off at the community hospital, where she requested a supply of medicated salve. Later they shopped at an enormous modern supermarket. They each pushed a cart and checked items off the teachers’ order forms.

  “I never knew I could miss shopping so!” she said, restraining the impulse to put a little of everything into her cart.

  Too soon, dinnertime approached. Marshall chose Granny’s Closet, a restaurant that resembled an old mining office. The interior was elaborate, with a decor out of the twenties. Soft music emanated from the lounge area, which was dim. Abbie could make out college couples dancing cheek to cheek. How often had she and Brad done that? Three or four times in twenty years? It seemed that instead of dancing there had always been business deals to negotiate over after-dinner drinks. Yet most of the time Brad had been involved in what had seemed, to her, an unproductive life—golf, poker, tennis, cocktail parties.

  On the far side of the dance floor, she saw Dalah and Cody already seated on one of the lounge’s deep sofas, talking across two large glasses of what appeared to be frozen margaritas. Cody’s arm was draped along the back of the sofa behind Dalah’s head. He said something to Dalah, leaning close to make himself heard, and she laughed merrily.

  Marshall steered Abbie through the maze of small tables. Despite all the noise, the muted lights, the press of people, she knew exactly at what point Cody became aware that she was in the room, though she was sure he hadn’t yet seen her. The knowledge was like a lightning bolt, stunning her.

  Was there indeed something to the chemical attraction theory?

  Self-consciously she acknowledged Dalah’s happy greeting and Cody’s nod. Unless she wanted to appear obviously rude—or, more likely, betray the unsettl
ing effect he had on her—she would have to make eye contact with Cody at some point. She slid into the tufted barrel chair across from the low sofa. “How went your day?” she asked, forcing her gaze to meet his heavy- lidded one.

  Beneath the bandana, his eyes seemed to study hers briefly; then his gaze dropped to her mouth. This she was used to by now, for the Navajos tended to watch the lips rather than the eyes when conversing. Still, she found his gaze on her mouth strangely disconcerting. “Profitable,” he said.

  “Yes,” Dalah said with enthusiasm. “Not only were the rugs snapped up by the Indian Arts Center, but a representative of the Dallas Trade Center was there. He wants to take Cody’s work on commission.”

  “Great!” Marshall said. “At this rate you’ll never have to go back to roughnecking around the oil fields again.”

  Cody cocked a grin. “I still think about it when the checks are slow to arrive.”

  Marshall began talking about the closing of the reservation’s coal mines, deferring to Cody for an opinion. Cody merely shrugged. “It’s a catch-22. The tribal council could have placed more lenient conditions on the companies that came onto the reservation to mine. Things like the mandatory employment of Navajos as superintendents, the guarantee that a percentage of the profit go back to the Navajo Nation, the reclamation of the land, are all hard for them to work with.

  “But then,” Cody added, “the United States government pays the Navajo anyway, so most of the men wonder why they should work at all. We’re being emasculated, and it’s as much our fault as the government’s.”

  Cody turned the talk to a lighter subject, and the conversation flowed easily until Dalah excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and Marshall left to check on their dinner reservations. Abbie was left alone with Cody. She pretended interest in the couples on the dance floor. Why hadn’t she thought of going to the ladies’ room with Dalah?

  She nearly jumped when Cody rose. “Let’s dance, Abbie,” he said quietly.