Double Blind

by Hannah Alexander

  “Your father didn’t talk about her?” Betsy asked.

  “No, Daddy always seemed irritated when I asked questions about her, about what happened. I couldn’t remember much of anything.” Sheila leaned forward, folding her arms together. “It’s as if some thick fog settled over everything after her death.”

  “The fog never lifted?” Betsy wondered if she should reveal anything at all. Maybe some things were best kept concealed.

  Sheila shook her head. “What do you remember about her, Betsy?”

  “She was my friend for five years. I remember many things.”

  “Tell me the good things. I need to know the good things.”

  Betsy relaxed. She would gladly share the good things.

  Preston knocked on the door marked Principal, then let himself in to find Canaan bent over an open file drawer in the far corner of the office.

  “Come on in, have a seat,” Canaan called without looking around. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just need my curiosity satisfied,” Preston said.

  Canaan turned at the sound of his voice, then glanced at the file in Preston’s hands. “Find something interesting?”

  “Do you know anything about the staff salaries?”

  Canaan grimaced. “Pitiful, I’ll tell you that. All of them deserve much more.”

  “Including you.”

  “This year was an anomaly for me. I came here as a favor to my grandfather, and he doesn’t expect me to stay for another year. That’s a good thing, since I’m paying for a house, and my salary here barely covers those payments, much less living expenses.” Canaan sank into the chair at the desk and gestured for Preston to have a seat. “So what did you need to know?”

  “There seem to be some staff members who don’t get paid at all. Volunteers?”

  “You’re talking about Kai Begay and Doc Cottonwood and some others,” Canaan said. “Since this is a mission school, the staff members consider themselves missionaries, and some of them arrange for their own support through churches in the region.”

  “I’m afraid I’m totally out of my element here. This is a different state, as well as a Navajo reservation. Do we need to do a breakdown of the income these individuals receive from other sources?”

  “No. All our contributors need is a report on how their funds were utilized. Bob Jaffrey used to do a pie chart to show them the breakdown of resources.”

  “Great. I’m sure the computer has a spreadsheet for that,” Preston said.

  Canaan leaned back in his chair and studied Preston while Preston made a show of studying the top file on the desk.

  “I told you when I gave you the tour that there was a lot of work to be done in a short time,” Canaan said.

  “I’m convinced.”

  “So you can do the pie chart?”

  “Of course,” Preston said. “May I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m curious about Johnny Jacobs.”

  “What do you want to know about him?”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but I’ve read about religious schools or mission settings where all but a selected few sacrifice everything for the cause, but those few live in luxury supported by others.”

  Canaan’s sudden stillness and the grip on his pen revealed that he did not like the implied criticism of his grandfather. Still, he smiled. It was not one of his best smiles. “I’ve read about them, too, but it isn’t something I’ve ever seen personally.”

  “Never?”

  “Believe me, my grandfather is not one of those people.” There was some heat in Canaan’s tone.

  “I don’t want to offend,” Preston said, wondering if that was the truth, or if, deep down, he had hoped to get a rise out of Canaan. “I should probably have warned you that I’ve been cursed with a strong dose of doubt about certain missions in general.”

  “And perhaps the Christian faith in particular?” Canaan suggested.

  “I was raised in a strong Christian environment that was also painfully dysfunctional. To me, it appeared as if my parents used their faith as a lifeline because their lives were so hopeless.”

  “You saw their faith as a crutch,” Canaan said.

  “That’s an old cliché, but it works.”

  “And you reject being dependent on that crutch.”

  “I fail to see what good it did in their lives.”

  “But what about their hearts? That was the important thing.”

  “I saw their hearts broken by the unkind acts of some of God’s own people, and I vowed I would never become one of them.”

  “Now I see what Sheila meant about the good friend who kept her life very interesting,” Canaan said. “She obviously cares a lot about you. But I can also see why she still calls you only a good friend.”

  Preston blinked at the sting of the man’s words.

  “Why did you really come to Arizona, since you obviously have no interest in helping out at a Christian school?” Canaan asked.

  “But I do want to help, or I wouldn’t be wasting my time on the poorly kept records. But you’re right, my main reason for coming out here is to make sure my good friend remains alive long enough to come back home to Hideaway, where she belongs.” Preston heard the heat in his own words and didn’t regret them.

  “How do you know she belongs there? She grew up here. She has some good memories and some good friends from this part of her life.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but she also obviously has some very horrible memories that make me wonder if there isn’t more danger here for her than anyone wants to admit. I want to be here to protect her, if necessary, no matter what.”

  “Do you think you can control her decisions about her future?”

  “I don’t think that’s what I said.”

  “She’s an adult,” Canaan said. “She can take care of herself, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure she stays safe.”

  Okay, the man had claws and a bite. Definitely one of those in-your-face Christian soldiers. Preston could respect that. He couldn’t leave it alone, but he could respect it. “I hear you’re divorced.”

  “That’s right, though it really isn’t anyone’s business.”

  “You know, they say divorce is never the fault of just one person.”

  “That’s right. And you?”

  “Never married.”

  “You don’t believe in Jesus, you don’t believe in marriage.”

  Preston could hear the unspoken words in his head. What makes you think you’re the man for Sheila?

  “Oh, I believe in marriage,” he told Canaan softly, “just not broken ones.”

  To Preston’s extreme frustration, there was a knock at the door, and Tanya walked in. “Hi, Canaan. Sheila’s not in the apartment. I thought I’d hang with you until she shows up. That okay?”

  Canaan and Preston locked gazes for a long few seconds, then Canaan nodded at Tanya.

  This very interesting discussion would resume another day. Preston was pretty sure he could count on that.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  S heila leaned her elbows on the table. “I always had the impression from Daddy that he was sort of mad at my mother for dying,” Sheila told Betsy.

  “Did he stay mad?”

  “He just refused to talk about her. It seems everybody’s refusing.”

  Betsy sat back in her seat, studying the delicate lines of Sheila’s face. At first glance, Sheila looked like Buster, with the same dark brown hair and golden hazel eyes. The more Betsy looked at the girl, though, the more she saw her mother in her. That could be a frightening thought…

  “Your mother loved the children the way you do,” Betsy said. “She liked their company, and she liked to come into my kitchen and fix them special treats. But you were most important to her.”

  “Did everybody here like her?”

  Betsy hesitated, then said carefully, “Most of the people saw a friend in her.”

  “Didn’t anyone rese
nt her because she was white?”

  Betsy hesitated longer this time. She shook her head. “I don’t remember anyone complaining about that.”

  “Not even Kai Begay?”

  Betsy smiled. “Your mother was a beautiful woman. Kai was a younger man then.” She shrugged, grinning at Sheila. “Men are men.”

  Sheila rested her chin in her cupped hands. “Can you tell me about the day she died? What happened?”

  The suddenness of the question stiffened Betsy’s spine. “I thought you wanted to hear the good things. I have many more good memories of her than bad ones.”

  Sheila’s eyes narrowed slightly, then she nodded. “Okay, did she love dark chocolate the way I do?”

  “She loved tea and coffee. She stopped in the cafeteria several times a day to share a cup with me. She couldn’t eat chocolate very often because of her diabetes. She loved flowers, and she loved to collect old perfume bottles. She wasn’t much on wearing perfume, because she said it set off allergic reactions in some people, and she didn’t want to make anyone else sick just so she could smell good. But she loved scents, and she loved to taste new foods, try new things.”

  “Canaan mentioned that I used to go walking in the desert,” Sheila said. “Did my mother ever walk with me?”

  Betsy hesitated. She knew what was coming next. The girl would not get past the need to know about her mother’s death.

  Sheila reached out and touched her arm. “Please, Betsy, can’t you tell me anything? There’s something about that time that still bothers me.”

  “Your mother died. It was a shock. It’s always going to bother you.”

  “It’s more than that, and I think you know it. I need to know what happened. You were here. You were one of my mother’s best friends. She probably told you more than anyone. I was just a little girl. All I remember is a blur. If it weren’t for pictures Daddy kept, I wouldn’t even know what she looked like.”

  Those words, more than anything, broke Betsy’s heart. “Then you don’t…” Betsy hesitated.

  Sheila looked up. “Don’t what?”

  Betsy was sorry she had begun. Sheila would persist until…

  “What am I supposed to remember?” Sheila asked.

  “Okay. You don’t remember the fighting?”

  “What kind of fighting? Who fought?”

  “Your parents had some trouble getting along, just before she died. That made it harder on Buster afterward.”

  Sheila frowned and touched her temple, as if to bring forward a lurking shadow of memory. “I don’t recall any of that. Many of my memories are in snatches, in awful dreams…”

  Betsy caught her breath. “Dreams?”

  “Bad ones.”

  Betsy’s attention sharpened, and she felt the thrust of familiar fear. This was worse than she’d thought.

  “Betsy?”

  “Nothing. It’s got to be nothing. Just an old woman’s imagination.”

  “Uh-uh. It’s something. Say it. I need to know about my mother, to remember her, to understand why she left me.”

  “She didn’t leave you, she was taken.”

  Sheila frowned, her attention caught by Betsy’s choice of words. “Taken? By whom?”

  “By death. The way all of us will someday be taken.”

  “Why do my dreams cause you concern?”

  Betsy sighed. Might as well get this over with. “Sometimes nightmares are a sign of witchery. Victims of witchcraft have them.”

  Sheila stared at her. “Lots of people have bad dreams. That doesn’t mean somebody’s casting spells.”

  Betsy put her hand on the table again, prepared to stand. But she didn’t. Perhaps there was more Sheila needed to know. “You’re right. And Navajo witchcraft works only on Navajo, so you should be immune.”

  “In my nightmares, I see the Twin Mesas, a hogan in a valley and a wolf.”

  Betsy stiffened. “A wolf? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Betsy scooted her chair back and stood.

  Sheila reached out. “What about the wolf?”

  “They need me in the kitchen. I’ll have to think about this.” She avoided Sheila’s questioning eyes. “We have tacos tonight, and Steve never cooks the meat enough.”

  “Please, Betsy. It’s important.” Sheila got up and came around the table. “You do know what I’m talking about.”

  Betsy felt a wave of panic. She glanced around the cafeteria. There could be listening ears. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t summon it.” Why was Sheila remembering these things now?

  “Of course I’m not summoning it.”

  “Push it away from you, force it from your thoughts. If it is witchcraft, it can be dangerous for you. Deadly.”

  “Did my mother have these dreams?”

  “Stay away from it, Sheila.”

  Sheila held up a hand. “Okay, so forget the wolf for a minute. Can’t you tell me what my parents fought about?”

  Betsy saw the need to know in the depths of Sheila’s eyes. “They fought about what time to go to work in the morning, what time to go to bed, how to raise you. Near the end, they fought about everything. Your mother decided she didn’t want to be here. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Buster’s dedication to helping our people. She was more like me.”

  “How like you?” Sheila asked.

  “She was sometimes confused by Christianity. She wasn’t as sure as Buster about whom she served.”

  “My mother wasn’t a believer?” The idea seemed to shock Sheila more than Betsy expected.

  Betsy shrugged. “Who can know?”

  It took Sheila a few seconds to digest this. She swallowed audibly. “I don’t believe that.”

  “You should ask your father about these things.”

  “Like that’s going to happen,” Sheila muttered. “One more question.”

  Betsy braced herself. What next?

  “Where was I the day Mom died?”

  So Sheila didn’t remember this, either. Betsy reached out and touched the girl’s cheek. “You’re the only one who knows that, honey.”

  “But I don’t remember. I’ve been told that I was carried in from the desert, but I don’t recall anything about that day. Or several days afterward, for that matter.”

  “All I can say is that no one knew what happened. Your mother came running into the kitchen, upset because you had not come home from school. We all started looking for you. You used to like to walk out by yourself on the desert, and that was where we all looked, the staff and some of the older kids.”

  “I was told Johnny Jacobs found me.”

  “He did, two hours after your mother started looking for you. You were lying in an arroyo, sick, half-delirious. You didn’t know where you had been, but you were crying for your mother. Then we couldn’t find her to tell her you were okay. Your father found her an hour later, dead, in an old hogan in Piñon Valley. It was thought that she died from insulin shock.”

  “I know what Doc thinks, but nothing was ever proved.”

  “We thought maybe she had found you in that hogan, and the exertion of her walk, with nothing to eat, had killed her before she’d gotten help. And you had seen her die.”

  Sheila closed her eyes. Her face lost some of its color.

  Betsy reached out and squeezed her arm. “Sometimes there is a reason for the loss of memory. Sometimes what happens in our past must stay there.”

  “But all these years…” Sheila looked at Betsy. “What would my mother have been doing in an old hogan in Piñon Valley?”

  “I think that was what upset Buster so much. He never knew. I told him that people do strange things when they’re upset, and she had been…upset lately.”

  “About what?”

  “Their fighting, of course.” Betsy gestured toward the cross that hung around Sheila’s neck. “Do you still remember what the necklace was for?”

  Sheila didn’t answer right away. The silence made Betsy uncomfortable. There was a cert
ain watchfulness in the young woman’s expression. Caution.

  “Sheila?”

  “You told me it was to remind me that I was never alone.”

  “Yes. You are to remember that someone loves you.”

  “And that’s the real reason you gave this to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it isn’t to protect me from whatever killed my mother?”

  “I don’t think it can. I seem to have lost faith in any kind of magic.”

  “Then maybe you should give God another try.”

  Betsy stared at the cross for a moment, and then she nodded. Maybe she was making other things more important than the God she was here to serve.

  “I’ll do that,” she told Sheila.

  Late Monday night, as Tanya put sheets and blankets on the Hide-A-Bed sofa in the living room, Sheila unhooked the chain that held the turquoise cross around her neck. She held the delicate jewel to the light, admiring its beauty.

  She had been a frightened child when Betsy had given this to her, but she was no longer that child.

  She walked into the living room and sat on the plush chair beside the coffee table that held the sculpted sheep head. “Tanya.”

  The girl turned to her.

  “I have something I want to give you.” She held out the necklace.

  Tanya’s lips parted, eyes widening. “But this is your protection.”

  “I explained to you that it isn’t some supernatural protection, it simply reminds me that I am loved by the most powerful Spirit that exists.”

  “But I’m not a Christian, and so—”

  “That won’t stop this Spirit from loving you, Tanya. Even if you don’t believe in Him, He believes in you.” She laid the chain in Tanya’s open palm. “Remember that anytime you’re afraid.”

  Tanya studied the cross, turned it over in her hand, clasped it tightly and held it to her chest. She closed her eyes. “I love it. But I know someone who might need it more than I do.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Jamey Hunt.”

  “Is he also afraid of the wolf?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s having a lot of trouble right now.”

  “The necklace is yours to do with what you want.”

  Tanya held the necklace out to Sheila. “Would you fasten it around my neck? I’d like to wear it, at least for tonight.”