Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  “Beatrice.” Moon smiled at his aunt. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with that rich man’s family.”

  “Well, there are lots and lots of things you don’t know—enough to fill a five-story library full of books.” Daisy shot her nephew a smug look. “Joe Spencer and his wife used to visit the reservation every summer. When that pale-skinned man got too much sun, he used to get sores on his head and neck. More’n once, I let him have some of my Ute medicine for skin cancers.” The fact that the “Ute” medication was Navajo Hisiiyáaníí oil and that Daisy had sold the pungent yellow salve to the wealthy man for a five-hundred-percent markup was a trifling detail that she did not bother to trouble her memory for. “I used to see them two or three times every year. And even after his wife died, every once in a while ol’ Joe would bring his pretty little daughters to a powwow or bear dance or rodeo. And once or twice I saw them at a sun dance.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “I don’t recall ever meeting any of the Spencers on the res.”

  “That’s because you spent so much time hanging out with riffraff.” Daisy puckered her lips, sucked another drop of blood from the needle puncture before saying, “A person don’t meet high-class people like the Spencers in stinky poolrooms and dirt-floor bars.” Having sucked her fingertip bloodless, Daisy commenced with her sewing. “Those girls was just like stair steps—must’ve been about two or three years between ’em. This Astrid that got killed—was she the littlest one?”

  “I expect so. She was the youngest.” Moon twisted a tablespoon in a jar of honey, dunked the sweetener into his coffee.

  Daisy held the unfinished baby vest up to the sunlight shining through the east window. Something don’t look quite right. I think it needs more white beads in with the blue ones. But not so many yellow ones. “Sometimes I can’t remember what I had for supper last night, but I remember them little girls all right. And I recall something that happened to them—just as clear as day—even though it must’ve been almost thirty years ago.” In an attempt to conjure up the long-lost scene, the aged shaman stared intently at the beadwork thunderbird. “I believe it happened at a rodeo.” A slow shake of the old gray head. “Or maybe a powwow.” She scowled at the blank space in front of her face. “No, it was a big matukach to-do.”

  He tasted the honeyed coffee. “So what happened at this combination rodeo-powwow-big-matukach to-do?”

  Big smart aleck. But Auntie smiled. “One of the bigger girls won a prize of some kind. The one with the yellow hair.”

  “That’d be Beatrice.”

  “And Astrid, the littlest sister, got awfully sick.” Daisy closed her eyes to concentrate. Soon, the scenes from that memorable summer day were coming back to her. “Ol’ Joe Spencer was holding little Astrid up in his arms; him and her both was white as a bleached bedsheet, and the bigger sisters was crying, and wringing their hands, and reaching out to pat Little Sister and tell their daddy that she’d be all right.” As the memory faded, the old woman opened her eyes. “Sisters don’t always get along as good as they should. And if they’re mad about something, they can be lots meaner to each other than brothers would. That’s what they say.”

  Charlie Moon assumed a solemn, philosophical expression that would have impressed Plato. Possibly even Socrates. “Don’t pay too much attention to what they say.” He pointed the apple core at his aunt. “Half the time, they are just blowing smoke.”

  Daisy Perika stared at her nephew as one might regard a backward child. Every once in a while, Charlie says the strangest things, like his brain was about half baked. The tribal elder, who was not a devotee of dead Greek sages, pursued her own philosophical persuasions, which included pseudogenetic hypotheses such as “blood will tell” and “insanity is passed on by the males.” I think he gets that craziness from his daddy’s side of the family.

  Hours after her nephew had left for the drive north to the Columbine, and Sarah was home from school and asleep in bed, and Mr. Zig-Zag had extended his after-supper nap into a long night of mysterious feline dreams, Daisy was under the quilts. But not asleep. The aged woman stared at the ceiling, sighed at a parade of sorrowful memories. Young loves. Missed opportunities. Old friends gone. Her parents, of course—and baby brother. Uncle Blue Hummingbird. Charlie Moon’s mother, a sweet woman and a good Catholic who had done her best to raise Charlie up right. Most of all, though Daisy would not have admitted it to a living soul, she missed Father Raes Delfino—in spite of the fact that the Jesuit priest was a tough, no-nonsense fellow who had never hesitated to warn Daisy that she should have nothing to do with the dwarf spirit who lived in Cañón del Espíritu. Unlike most whites, Father Raes (probably because of his strange experiences as a missionary in the South American jungles) accepted the Ute shaman’s “power spirit” as a reality. A dangerous reality.

  Daisy was surprised to realize that she also missed seeing the dwarf, who, though he would occasionally provide her with useful information in exchange for a modest gift of food or tobacco, could be an annoying fellow to deal with. But it had been well over a year since their last encounter. I guess it’s because I don’t get up into Spirit Canyon much anymore. Not that the shaman had always met the pitukupf at his badger-hole home. Once, the impudent little imp had shown up in church! Daisy had been horrified at the creature’s brazen intrusion into St. Ignatius, and had the uneasy feeling that Father Raes had spotted the uninvited visitor there on the pew beside her. On a few occasions, the dwarf had visited Daisy at her home. She half wished he would show up now. Maybe he could tell me something about those Spencer sisters. I’m still not sure where it was that I saw them. Or what it was that made little Astrid get so sick.

  The clock ticktocked away the minutes. Almost an hour’s worth.

  The pitukupf did not make an appearance.

  Having worried about everything else, Daisy began to fret about the little man. Maybe he’s like me—too old and feeble to get out and go anywhere without help. Yes, that must be it. He’s probably layin’ in that dirty hole in the ground, thinking back about old folks that are gone—like his momma and daddy. Which suggested a startling possibility that she had never considered. I wonder if he ever had himself a little half-pint wife. If he did, the poor thing was probably every bit as homely as he is. This might be why no one had ever reported seeing a baby pitukupf. Maybe, a long time ago, the Little People were fairly good-looking. But if they were, something bad must have happened to the pitukupf clan. An ugly-curse, I bet—put on ’em by a Navajo or ’Pache witch they got crosswise of. Since then, she conjectured, the tribe of tiny folk had been dying off.

  Late at night, when the mind tends to drift off into silly thoughts, is not the best time to develop startling new theories intended to reshape the very foundations of human knowledge. Nobel Prize winners know this.

  The weary woman’s yawn was interrupted at half-gape when she spotted a dime-size spider eight-footing it across the windowpane. It had not been all that long ago when another such pest had taken a hike across her bedroom ceiling—and fallen onto Daisy’s face. The startled woman had slapped her forehead so hard that her fingers still ached at breakfast time. Well aware of the taboo against killing Spider People (the murdered member’s kin, bent on revenge, will come and find you!), she had searched for the tiny corpse so she could draw an imaginary circle around it and mumble, “I didn’t kill you—it was one of them uppity Navajos. Tell your relatives to go and bite the Navajo.” But she had not found the remains. Now, as Daisy eyed the creature on the window, it occurred to her that the spider’s ghost probably knew who’d stopped his clock. If so, the avenging relatives might be camped close-by, and this one could be a scout sent to locate the Ute spider killer.

  The guilty party jutted her chin, scowled at the intruder. You even think about putting the bite on me, you nasty little bugger, I’ll smack you flat as a flapjack—just like I did your ugly cousin!

  The leggy critter took off like a shot, boppity-bopping it back the way he had come
from.

  Daisy witnessed the retreat with the taste of gratification sweet on her tongue: Hah—look at that lily-livered little backpeddler trot! Satisfied with this modest victory, the feisty old warrior took up the yawn where she had left off. Cleared her throat of whatever it needed clearing. Shifted her stiff legs to find a more comfortable position. Sighed. Closed her eyes—one at a time, right then left, because this is the way shamans do it.

  Blackness was what she saw, like a mile underground in the bowels of a coal mine. But gradually, as if the Cosmic Artist were dabbing silver paint, the dark canvas became studded with innumerable little pearls of light that bloomed, faded, tried ever so hard to look like stars. Just as she drifted off, Father Raes’s kind face appeared among those uncertain constellations, smiled down upon Daisy Perika.

  Nice touch.

  Eight

  The Courtship

  Cassandra Spencer was astonished at how easily (and quickly!) Beatrice snagged her man. The psychic wondered whether her pretty sister might have bought a spell from one of those Mexican brujas, because she seemed to be doing nothing at all. As if by magic, Andrew began to drop by Bea’s home. Call her on the phone. Within a week, the blooming romance was the talk of the town. There were quiet dinners in fine restaurants. Hand-in-hand walks in the park.

  The shortest engagement in the recent history of Granite Creek was announced at a gathering of close family and friends. The date was set for the same day in April, forty-one years ago, when Beatrice’s parents had exchanged solemn vows—and not quite a month after Astrid’s death. It was quite a scandal, of course, which set tongues-a-clucking, eyes-a-rolling. For those who were not invited to the wedding, the fascinating details (with a splash of color photographs) were published in the Granite Creek weekly.

  The Colorado Springs Airport

  Cassandra Spencer lifted her dark glasses, leaning until her nose almost touched the plate-glass window. The aircraft the newlyweds had boarded just minutes earlier roared down the runway, lifted off the asphalt like a silver missile catapulted from little David’s sling. The elder sister watched the sleek aircraft downsize to blackbird size, shrink to a mere speck in the sky, vanish into the southern mists. The thought that her ecstatic sister and drop-dead-handsome Andrew Turner were on their way to Costa Rica for a blissful honeymoon was irksome. If I had pulled the whole toothpick, the bride clinging to Andy’s arm right this minute would be me instead of Sister Bea. And she would be standing here, watching our plane leave. But moping over bad luck was for losers. I must drive back to Granite Creek, concentrate on my career. Think things out. There was plenty to think about. Like how to come up with something really creepy that would grab the TV audience by their collective throats, give them a good dose of the shiver-shudders. That would take something more than your ordinary, run-of-the-mill spirit. Ghosts from ancient times were old hat. And so she would put on a brand-new thinking cap.

  Thus resolved to come up with some really nifty notion—something that would make even Nicky Moxon sit up and listen—the psychic installed the blue shades over her luminous eyes, turned, and listened to the click-click of her high heels on the floor as she headed for the atrium. She was unaware of the eruption of human cargo currently being disgorged by the flight from Albuquerque. But soon enough, it would catch up with her.

  A Hazard of the Profession

  Cassandra Spencer was approaching the exit side of the security portal when she heard the shout behind her.

  “Hey, you—hold on there!”

  She stopped abruptly, turned.

  A spry, snowy-haired old lady in a black dress spotted with tiny white polka dots was fairly tripping along, attempting to wave, which was a difficult maneuver with a heavy purse in one hand, a black canvas bag in the other. “I thought so—you’re Cassandra. The spooky lady on TV!”

  Oh, no. A fan. Which was, Bea had once informed her, an abbreviation for fanatic. The television personality was about to deny her identity when the enthusiast laughed and said: “And don’t say you ain’t, because I watch you practically every week!”

  Trapped, Cassandra decided to make the best of it. I’ll autograph something for her, make an excuse about an urgent appointment, then hurry away. She forced a smile, and was about to say that she was always pleased to meet a viewer, when the fanatical fan cornered her victim, gushed, “I flew in from the Duke City just to see you and tell you about poor April. I’d planned to ride a bus all the way over to Granite Creek and rent a motel room that’d probably cost me at least eighty-five dollars a night and me trying to live on Social Security and what little money my daughters—the two who are still alive—send me every once in a while—” She paused to gasp a breath. “But the very minute I get off the airplane, who do I see—just like she was meant to be here waiting for me?”

  “Myself?”

  “Well of course. Which means I don’t have to pay for all that extra transportation, or a big motel bill, and what it’d cost to eat three times a day in the coffee shop—” Another breath. “Well, you know how much it costs; I expect you travel a lot.”

  The psychic’s full, sensuous lips had gone thin. “I’m in quite a hurry at the moment, so—”

  “Well of course you are, dearie—big TV star like you must have oodles of things to do. So I’ll get right to the point.” She lowered her voice. “My name is Florence Valentine.”

  She’s probably sent me e-mails. Or letters. “Do I know you?”

  “Oh, no, honey, we’ve never met before right now—and this is my first time in Colorado. I’ve only been in New Mexico for about a year. It was after poor April’s death that I come out here to live with my first cousin, who has a cute little adobe house in Taos. Well, it’s actually in El Prado, but that’s just north of—”

  “I’m really in quite a hurry.” Cassandra made a point of glancing at her wristwatch.

  “Don’t fret, this’ll just take a minute. But I’ve got to sit down—I’ve got arthritis in my hips and knees and my old feet are just killing me.” Collapsing onto a cushioned seat, she patted the vacant one beside her. “Now you sit down too, and I’ll tell you what this is all about.”

  Her other options being limited, Cassandra sat.

  Florence Valentine explained that she knew that Cassandra had lost a sister because she had read “everything I could get my hands on about how poor Astrid had been attacked by bears—” gasp for breath, “and right there in her own bedroom. Well, I say!”

  The psychic listened with increasing tension. Somehow, I must disentangle myself from this goofball.

  But as is so often the case, there was considerably more to this dotty old lady than one might expect. As the words fairly poured from her mouth, what she had to say became more interesting.

  Florence Valentine’s finger tapped Cassandra on the arm. “Lately, poor April has been coming to me in my dreams and telling me I should contact you and tell you all about how she died.”

  Cassandra was pulled in opposite directions. The weary sister of the bride wanted to go home. The TV psychic, who loved to hear about such stuff as was her stock in trade, was inclined to stay—if only for another minute.

  “The sheriff back in Clay County, North Carolina, said it was an accident. Said April must’ve slipped in the mud when she was slopping her prize hogs, and fell into the pen with ’em and she must’ve hit her head on the hollowed-out log feed trough and got knocked out and then the pigs et her!”

  Cassandra heard herself saying, “The pigs…actually ate your daughter?” That is really icky. Triple icky. She would have gone further, but quadruple was not in her vocabulary.

  “Oh, they et poor April all right. Pigs’ll swaller anything.” The black eyes were flashing with anger. “But it wasn’t no accident.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Shoot no. April’s bastard of a husband knocked her on the head and pitched her into the pigpen.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  Florence stared at t
he psychic. She seems a lot more clever on the TV. “Why, because April told me, of course.”

  “Oh. When she appeared in your dreams.”

  “That’s right. And I told the sheriff what she told me, but Poke Unthank—that’s the sheriff’s name—Poke’s as dumb as a poplar stump.” She paused, calling to mind a long list of Mr. Unthank’s shortcomings. “When I think about him, I almost wish I was still back in North Carolina, so’s I could vote against the big tub of lard!”

  “Mrs. Valentine, that is quite an interesting story.” Another glance at the wristwatch. “But I really must run, so—”

  “I understand, honey.” She patted Cassandra’s pale hand. “And I guess it would take way too long to tell you the whole, sorry tale.” The woman in the polka-dot dress got a firm grip on her black canvas shopping bag and plopped it into the psychic’s lap. “So you take this home with you—it’s alla my research. There’s some newspaper stories about poor April’s death. Read it when you get a chance and you’ll see why—out of all the spooky ladies in the whole U.S. of A.—my daughter picked you to help her.” The tired traveler got to her feet. “After you’ve read it, I’m sure you’ll be able to make contact with poor April, who’s just bustin’ a gut to tell you lots of stuff.” Florence V. found a small notebook in her purse, wrote down a telephone number and her cousin’s address in El Prado. “And if you want to talk to me again, here’s how you can get in touch.” She shot an anxious glance at the departure schedule on the monitors. “Now, I guess I’d best see if I can get myself on a plane back to Albuquerque.”

  As she lugged the heavy canvas bag to her black 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham sedan, Cassandra Spencer considered tossing it into a trash can. She decided against this course of action, for two reasons. First, such an act in an airport might have appeared suspicious, and she did not wish to be taken aside, questioned by one of those hard-eyed Homeland Security types who might conclude that she was a disgruntled Arab in disguise. Second, the psychic had that feeling—which conveyed the strong impression that it would be unwise to discard the daffy old woman’s “research.” And so she carried it to her car, carted it all the way home, and dropped it in the hallway between Daddy’s ancient grandfather clock and Momma’s hideous elephant-foot umbrella stand. And there the shopping bag might have remained until cobwebs covered it. Except for the fact that Cassandra was an occasional insomniac.