Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  Isn’t that always the way—as soon as one vexing lodger is evicted from the premises, another just-as-annoying tenant slips in to occupy the vacancy.

  Fifteen

  North to the Columbine

  Having been warned by Daisy Perika that she did not operate on “Indian time,” Gorman Sweetwater made sure that he showed up in his snazzy pickup promptly at 9:00 A.M. Right on the dot. Which was 9:24.

  During the drive from Daisy’s secluded home at the mouth of Cañón del Espíritu to her nephew’s equally remote ranch in the high valley between the snowcapped Misery and Buckhorn Ranges, Sarah Frank—with Mr. Zig-Zag napping in her lap—was seated between Daisy and the tribal elder’s cousin. The happy girl chattered incessantly about subjects of cosmic importance: Would Charlie Moon remember his solemn promise to provide her with a horse to ride? Was Aunt Daisy sure that Charlie liked rhubarb pie? Maybe she should have baked apple pies instead. Or one peach and one apple. She hoped he wouldn’t be working all the time, so maybe they could go horseback riding together. Was Charlie’s big lake really full of pretty-colored fish? (Here, Gorman—who had caught several fine trout in said body of water—assured her that a man could walk across Lake Jesse on the back of five-pound rainbows and cutthroats. Without getting his feet wet.) Sarah giggled, which—to Daisy’s disgust—encouraged her lying cousin to tell more tales about his astonishing experiences as an angler, such as when he caught a nine-foot Nile crocodile in Navajo Lake. Using an eight-pound ham as bait. And a barbed hook that a one-eyed Mormon blacksmith had fashioned from a length of three-quarter-inch-diameter rebar. On and on it went, until Gorman bumpity-bumped his pickup over the Too Late Creek bridge, braked it to a halt under one of the gigantic cottonwoods that shaded the two-story log headquarters—where the full-time rancher, part-time tribal investigator, hung his black Stetson. The teenager was fairly quivering with excitement. To no one in particular, she whispered, “Oh—oh—I hope Charlie’s here to meet us.”

  The man had said he would be, so of course he was.

  As Charlie was helping his aunt out of the pickup—Daisy’s dismount was painfully slow—Sarah tumbled out on the driver’s side behind Gorman Sweetwater and ran around the front of the truck, wanting with all her heart to enfold the tall Ute in a rapturous embrace. But as she encountered the flesh-and-blood version of her girlish dreams, Sarah slowed—succumbed to a numbing shyness.

  As soon as his aged aunt was properly stabilized on Columbine soil, Moon greeted Gorman, then turned to the Ute-Papago girl, flashed a smile that almost stopped her heart. “So how’re you doing, kid?”

  Kid? She dropped her gaze to his boots, shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Well, ‘okay’ ain’t nearly good enough.” He assumed a stern, fatherly look. “Young lady, now that you’re on Columbine territory, we’ll see to it that you work your way all the way up to ‘fine and dandy.’”

  Young lady? This was the way grown-ups spoke to children. He just doesn’t understand. Sarah Frank clenched her teeth, kicked at a pebble.

  The rancher eyed the girl with the uncanny insight of a cowboy who could spot a sick heifer at fifty yards and make an instant verdict on the malady. The kid looks like she’s kinda off her feed. Probably something she ate for breakfast. But, noting the pouty expression, he considered another possibility: Could be she’s ticked off about something or other. Probably going through one of those teenage phases you hear so much about. But Moon knew his limitations. Compared to cud-chewing bovine creatures and spirited quarter horses, human beings—especially the females of the species—were an unfathomable mystery.

  But his diagnosis had been close enough. Sarah was ticked off. Maybe Aunt Daisy’s right. Maybe Charlie Moon is a big gourd head!

  A half hour later, when Mr. Moon introduced Miss Frank to a bright-eyed pinto pony outfitted with a Mexican leather saddle studded with coin-silver conchos, all was forgiven.

  That evening, Scott Parris showed up in response to an invitation to supper. The broad-shouldered, sandy-haired chief of Granite Creek PD was determined to make a hit with the Ute-Papago girl, whom he had not seen since her parents had died a decade earlier. Upon his arrival, Parris presented Sarah with an expensive gift he’d had shipped in from a specialty shop in Denver. Expressing his surprise at “how you’ve grown up,” the clueless fellow watched with happy expectation as the big-eyed teenager opened the rib-boned package, was puzzled when the look of eager anticipation was replaced by a glazed expression of humiliation.

  To Sarah’s credit, she recovered quickly, managed a sweet little smile, said, “Thank you, Mr. Parris. It’s very pretty.”

  The bemused white man shrugged it off. I guess some girls don’t like dolls all that much.

  During the evening meal, both Sarah and Daisy were silent, the girl picking at her food, the tribal elder exhibiting a similar lack of appetite. Sarah had almost forgotten her contribution to the feast, but as the men cleaned the last morsels from their plates, she was reminded by a look and a nod from the old woman. Excusing herself, Sarah hurried away to her downstairs bedroom, opened a cardboard box, and returned with a quite attractive pie.

  Moon and Parris greeted the homemade dessert with whoops of delight. Gorman Sweetwater’s mouth watered in sweet anticipation. “What kind is it?” Daisy’s cousin inquired. “Apple?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, it’s—”

  “Blueberry,” Gorman guessed. He turned to Daisy, who was seated beside him. “They say blueberries is good for you. They’re loaded with vitums and annyoxants and whatnot.”

  Daisy corrected him: “Vitamins and antioxidants.”

  “That’s what I said.” That knot-headed old woman is losing her hearing. He repeated himself, louder this time: “Vitums!”

  Daisy glared at her relative. “Don’t yell in my ear!”

  “It’s rhubarb,” Sarah mumbled. She was close to tears.

  “Great,” Moon said. “Rhubarb’s my favorite kind of pie.”

  “Mine too,” Parris rubbed his hands together. “And from what I read last month in Reader’s Digest, rhubarb has ten times more vitums—uh—vitamins than the best blueberry you ever come across.”

  The girl offered the gift of food to her favorite man in the whole world. “I made it myself.” For you, and nobody else.

  Charlie Moon accepted the gift, patted his admirer on the shoulder. “Thank you, Sarah.”

  She was thrilled from head to toe. Charlie called me by my name! Add that courtesy to the ride on the pretty pinto pony and you get—heavenly bliss.

  Moon turned to Granite Creek’s top cop. “Seeing as how you and me are best buddies, and Daisy and Gorman are my favorite relatives, I guess you can all have a piece.”

  Parris affected a look of deep disappointment. “Only one?”

  Though suspect of the matukach lawman’s praise of rhubarb and its abundant content of vitums, Gorman allowed as how he could do with a taste of pie.

  On the girl’s account, Daisy said she would have a piece.

  Sarah, too nervous to eat a bite, demurred.

  The head of the household used a bone-handled Arkansas Toothpick to quarter the pie, plopped a slab on Daisy’s plate, Gorman’s, Parris’s, reserved the last section for himself.

  In almost ceremonial fashion, the three men and the elderly lady each tasted the rhubarb concoction at the same moment. The silent judgment was unanimous. Horrible.

  Daisy pursed her lips. Sarah didn’t put in two cups of sugar like I told her—she must’ve got hold of the canister with the big “S” on it and poured in salt instead! The old woman knew she could count on her nephew and the white man. But—If Gorman says something to hurt that girl’s feelings, I’ll ball up a fist and knock him right off his chair. She meant this quite literally. The prone-to-physical-violence woman gave her cousin a warning look, to which he was oblivious.

  In his entire life, Gorman Sweetwater had never tasted rhubarb pie, homemade or otherwise, so, having no preconceived expectati
ons, he was not bitterly disappointed. Them rhubarbs sure is salty. But there was no getting around the truth: This tastes worse than a warm cow pie. Not that I ever actually tasted fresh manure. Or partic’ly want to.

  Moon’s satisfied smile was a class act. “That is the best rhubarb pie I ever got past my lips.” He immediately regretted the choice of words, and added, “First rate!”

  Parris chimed in, “It’s fantastic!” God, please don’t let me puke right here at the table.

  Cousin Gorman, who blamed the rhubarb, and had far more wisdom than Daisy gave him credit for, added this high praise: “That little girl is some fine cook!” He beamed at Sarah. “It’ll be a lucky man that gets you for a wife.”

  Being of the opinion that a grueling task should be completed speedily, Moon took another big bite, winked at the delighted girl. “Now that’s a fact.”

  Parris, who fancied himself a gourmet of sorts, managed a satisfied burp. “You bet.” He grinned at the teenager. “If I was about thirty-five years younger, why, I’d be camping on your doorstep.”

  Sarah was so caught up in rapture that she could not speak.

  Daisy, who had not gotten past the first bite, reached over to pat the girl’s thin little arm. “This pie is really something special.” The old woman was enormously proud of the men in her presence. Even Cousin Gorman was a hero in her eyes.

  The valiant fellows finished their dessert at about the same moment.

  Sarah’s face glowed with pride. “You really liked it?”

  Nods all around.

  A thumbs-up from Moon: “Absolutely top-notch.”

  Gorman: “Best rhubarb pie I’ve ever had.”

  Parris put on a hangdog look. “Too bad it’s all gone.”

  Sarah got up, ran from the dining room.

  Moon frowned. “Where’s she off to?”

  Daisy sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  And they did.

  Sarah Frank appeared, big smile splitting her face, carrying the second rhubarb pie.

  As his Ute friend would put it later, Parris’s chin dropped into his collar.

  Mr. Sweetwater got distinctly green about the gills.

  Something had to be done.

  Grabbing the pie, Charlie Moon scowled at his guests. “Don’t be begging for seconds—you’ve all had your fill. I’m saving this one all for myself.”

  Tears misted Sarah’s eyes.

  The others present were similarly grateful. Scott Parris, Gorman Sweetwater, Daisy Perika—they God-blessed him, every one. And his crotchety aunt decided that maybe she’d been a little too hard on him all these years. Maybe Charlie Moon was not such a big gourd head after all.

  Eager to build upon her stunning culinary success, Sarah was already planning a future surprise. Cherry pies.

  Sixteen

  After Food, Entertainment

  Charlie Moon entered the parlor expecting to find his guests sitting in front of a crackling split-pine fire, Gorman Sweetwater nodding off to sleep, Scott Parris entertaining Aunt Daisy and Sarah Frank with highly enhanced tales of his adventures as a Chicago cop. He did not expect them to be on the far side of the room, backs to a dying fire, talking in hushed tones, their entire attention fixed on his dusty television set.

  Scott Parris, Daisy, and her cousin Gorman were seated in a small semicircle around the appliance.

  Sarah Frank was slipping a thin, shiny disk into the DVD slot to record the latest installment for her collection.

  Moon hitched his thumbs under his belt. What’s this all about?

  The girl’s agile fingers danced over the remote control.

  A Hungarian basketball game filled the screen. Score 48–46.

  Moon grinned at his aunt. “You a big sports fan?”

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder. “Cassandra’s coming on in a couple of minutes.”

  Daisy snorted. “Charlie don’t watch TV. He listens to the radio. And he reads books.”

  The alleged scholar defended himself: “I watch television every now and then.”

  Parris grinned. “When?”

  “Well, sometimes when I go to the barbershop.” And the TV’s right there in front of me and it’s either watch them soaps and talk shows or close my eyes. Mostly, he closed his eyes.

  Parris cocked his head, made a critical examination of the Ute’s bountiful crop of hair. “Looks to me like you don’t get to the barbershop all that often.”

  Moon was about to make an observation that a local chief of police he was acquainted with did not have all that much hair left to cut, when Sarah Frank intervened. “Cassandra Sees is a weekly TV show from Granite Creek.”

  The Ute nodded. “I’ve heard about that.”

  “You ought to remember Cassandra Spencer and her sister Beatrice.” Parris gave Moon the eye, attempted to mentally transmit this addendum: That night their sister was mauled to death in her bedroom, you threatened to pick both of ’em up and stuff ’em in the back of my unit.

  The deputy had not forgotten. You still owe me for a good ten hours of deputy work. At twelve-fifty per. Which would fill my gas tank.

  Unaware of this attempt at nonverbal communication between the best friends, Sarah murmured, “Cassandra is also Astrid Spencer’s sister. Astrid was that poor lady who got killed by the bear.”

  Moon thought it best to steer the teenager toward a more suitable subject for discussion. “So tell me—what does Cassandra see?”

  “Spooky stuff,” Sarah said.

  He pretended to be surprised. “Spooky?”

  She clarified: “It could be something that’s happening right now, a hundred miles away. Like that truck driver who got shot while he was watching her on TV.”

  Moon was well aware of that sensational event.

  “Or she might have a vision about a bad car wreck,” Daisy mumbled.

  Gorman felt obliged to comment. “Or a house on fire.”

  The Granite Creek chief of police had returned his gaze to the television. “Her audience is getting bigger every week. From what I hear, she’s likely to be picked up by one of the big networks. NBC, maybe. Or CBS.” Word does get around.

  Sarah was switching through channels. “Cassandra also talks to ghosts.” She found the right spot. “Oh—it’s about to start.” She pressed the Record button, watched the big eye appear. As the orb faded, the girl consoled herself that she would see it several times again before this evening’s program was over. After every commercial break, minuscule details of Cassandra’s pupil, iris, and cornea would be displayed—not to mention eyelashes that looked as large as soda straws, and pores in her skin big enough to throw a brick into. And every time, the huge eye looked right at her. I wonder how she keeps from blinking?

  Moon smiled at the girl. So Cassandra Spencer talks to ghosts—that explains why Aunt Daisy’s hooked on this program. Kids always liked spooky stuff, of course, and Gorman would stare at anything on the tube, including a test pattern. I wonder if they still have those on late at night. But why was Scott Parris so interested in Cassandra’s weekly extravaganza? Maybe he likes spooky stuff too.

  It was true. Parris liked books with titles like True Tales of Civil War Ghosts and The Haunt of Kettle Mountain. But there was more to it than that. Quite a lot more.

  Aside from Charlie Moon and his guests, there were, of course, many other viewers. According to estimates that would become available an hour after tonight’s show went off the air, seven thousand more than the count for last week’s broadcast. Give or take a couple of hundred.

  They watched Cassie’s special guest (all her guests were special) guess eleven out of twelve items that a local Methodist pastor had sealed inside a coffee can. The ten-year-old boy could (so it seemed) clearly sense the presence of everything from a pickup truck ignition key to an 1851 half-dime, but he was unable to discern the presence of a black Brazilian beetle entrapped in amber. None of us is perfect.

  Immediately after the half-hour commercial break, Cassand
ra had a vision wherein she received information from her most reliable source, who went by the moniker White Raven. With a shudder, she reported another drive-by shooting. This one in Denver. The victim was a short-order cook on his way home from work. She provided the name of the café on South Broadway, and the wounded man’s license plate number—which would have been entirely correct had White Raven not substituted a J for a K. None of us is perfect.

  Andrew and Bea

  “Well,” Andrew Turner said.

  Beatrice arched an exquisitely shaped eyebrow. This was her way of saying quite a number of things, such as: “What are you talking about?” but in this instance: “What do you mean by ‘well’?”

  By now an expert on the shades of meanings of his wife’s facial expressions, Mr. Turner explained, “That new spirit must have forgotten to put in an appearance.”

  This time she did not bother to exercise the eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

  He clasped the fingers of both hands tightly around a coffee cup. “Your hot tip from Cassie.”

  “Oh, you mean about April Something?”

  He nodded.

  Bea pointed at the quartz clock over the TV, which never lied by more than ten seconds per month. There were six minutes left.

  Andrew, who had never liked the uppity clock, gave it a dirty look.

  Immune to human ill-will, the 112-year-old mechanism kept right on ticking.

  Bea’s pained expression suggested that she was trying to remember something. Then, it seemed to come to her. She smiled at the commercial for a bestselling Mexican beer. “April Valentine. I still think it sounds like a dancer’s name.” She turned the smile on Andrew. “Don’t you?”