by Gwen Florio
“The water. The air.”
“I don’t understand.”
Naomi’s plate of linguine alle vongole sat nearly untouched before her. “The mine needed water for its slurry pipeline. It sucked it from the aquifer. The springs began to dry up. Betty had to drive her sheep farther and farther to find water for them and for her, too. Can you imagine, a woman her age, walking miles and miles every day, carrying water on her back all the way home at night?”
Lola couldn’t imagine. Even the Afghan villages had wells, the biblical variety, yes, with the hand winches that took all a woman’s strength to turn as she brought up individual buckets of water. But centrally located nonetheless, only steps from the villagers’ mud huts—which were not unlike the homes of the Ancestral Puebloans she’d seen two days earlier, Lola thought. “And the air?”
Naomi pushed her plate away. “The air is full of coal dust. When I was a girl, you could see the mountains from miles away. Now, on some days, you can barely see to the edge of the mesa. All the people who stayed on the mesa, and even some of the ones who left, too, have lung problems. Not to mention the ones who work at the mine.”
“At least they have jobs.”
Lola’s head snapped up. Edgar had sat silent through the conversation, polishing his plate clean as his wife and Thomas talked.
“This way, they die of lung disease,” Edgar said as his wife prodded the wizened clams on her plate. “Without jobs, they fall into unemployment and alcoholism and now drugs, too. The Mexican cartels recruit the kids, show them the kind of money they can’t earn anywhere but the mine. Which is worse? People have to eat, Naomi. Support their families.”
It was an argument Lola had heard in various forms since her arrival in the rural West. The reservations, by dint of their far-flung locations on barren lands, had it worse, with unemployment rates approaching or even exceeding seventy percent, but life wasn’t much easier for the region’s white residents, many of whom lived too far from cities to commute to jobs there. The oil boom in western North Dakota had brought a tsunami of job seekers—along with crime, drug abuse, and forced prostitution, not to mention the effects on the environment. And yet the state’s residents largely supported the oil companies because, for the first time in decades, people earned something that resembled a living wage.
Lola’s thoughts were able to run on entirely too long, a product of the sullen hush that blanketed the table. The girls shifted in their seats. They’d long since devoured their food. “Can we go throw pennies in the fountain?” Juliana asked.
“May we?” Naomi said. “Sure.” She dug through her purse.
Lola slid her hands around in her pockets. The pennies she retrieved were dull and furred with lint. She handed them under the table to Margaret, sorry to see her leave. The girls’ departure left the adults alone in their stew of unspoken conflicts. She fished for a diversionary topic.
Charlie came to her rescue. “Edgar’s asked me to come along with him to work tomorrow, get an idea of what he does here, how it compares to things on our rez.”
Nice, thought Lola. Maybe Edgar’s invitation was an olive branch, a way for the brothers to spend their first significant amount of time alone together in years.
Her appreciation was short-lived.
“Your rez? The one where you don’t actually live.” Naomi with her verbal knife again. Lola imagined a tiny silver rapier, flicking unseen, sheathed again before its victim realized he was bleeding.
“That’s right,” said Charlie. Lola knew it as one of his techniques. Agree with an accuser until he or she inevitably took things too far. Let them get themselves into trouble, he often counseled Lola, whose own response to insults, perceived or otherwise, was to fire back. “You and the girls can find a way to amuse yourselves tomorrow, right?” he asked her now.
“Of course,” she said, with a reassuring smile that banished the plea for forgiveness in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to explore, anyway. I’ll take plenty of pictures so you can see what you’ve missed.”
“I could go with you,” Naomi said, her reluctance obvious. “Or send Thomas along.”
“No, no. You’re far too busy.” Lola brushed the offers away. “It’ll be nice, just me and the girls. Honestly.” She saw no reason to add that she intended to explore her way right to the door of Betty Begay’s hogan.
EIGHTEEN
Ever since Margaret’s birth, Lola and Charlie had perfected the art of silent lovemaking. Strange beds, though, were always a challenge, prone to telltale creaks and groans. The guest bed in Naomi and Edgar’s house offered no such betrayal, standing firm against a prolonged assault.
“Ahhh,” Lola breathed afterward. She rolled off Charlie and fell back onto the mattress and patted it. “Good bed.”
“Good woman.” Charlie laughed beneath his breath. “Think Naomi and Edgar have it this good?”
Competitive even in bed, Lola thought. Men. She lay her head on his chest, slicked with sweat, and tried to pretend the incandescent feeling was simply the glow of toe-curling sex and had nothing to do with actual happiness. Her mind automatically rejected the word, an old superstition. Admit to its reality and something, or someone, would snatch it away.
Lola had left the blinds open. Moonlight splashed silver across the sheets. In the next room, the sewing machine whirred. Lola thought she and Charlie had been quiet. Now she wondered if they’d been quiet enough.
“Did you see those two at dinner tonight?” She didn’t really expect an answer, so accustomed she was to Charlie’s one-two-three-out fall into sleep.
But his response was strong and alert. “What do you mean?”
Lola shook her head. “Can’t put my finger on it. Just—something was bothering them. I can’t believe he defended the mine to her given how she feels about it.”
“She’s the one who wanted him to work there,” Charlie reminded her.
“Working there is one thing. Buying into it, though. She probably didn’t plan on that. No wonder she’s pissed at him.”
“Can you blame her?”
Lola wondered how she’d feel if Charlie went to work for one of the oil companies so eager to drill wells on or around the Blackfeet Reservation, on land considered sacred for millennia. She’d never have the same spiritual connection to the area that the tribe had, but in her relatively short time in Montana, she’d developed a sensibility about the land that defied logic, so much so that she struggled to maintain objectivity whenever she had to write stories about the drilling leases. No amount of money, she thought, would be enough to tempt her to work for one of the oil companies, and if it tempted Charlie, she’d be tempted to show him the door. She said as much and was relieved, if not surprised, by his laughing dismissal.
“Not a chance. But something was bothering you tonight, too. Those reporters.”
“What about them?”
“I said it earlier. You miss it. Your tribe. The same way Eddie misses ours.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. And I miss you.”
Lola slid her hand across his chest and spread her fingers, savoring the feel of him, the safety of it. Since her return from Wyoming they’d not spent a single night apart. Now that sense of safety creaked like skim ice beneath her, more fragile than she’d realized. “I’m right here. How can you miss me?”
“I miss the way you were.”
One of the things Lola loved about Charlie was that they never dissected their relationship, a neurotic exercise that, in Lola’s opinion, seemed to affect too many columns and books aimed at women. Whatever she and Charlie had, it worked. Usually they left it at that. She held her breath, hoping that if she ignored him, he’d let it go. She stiffened as he pulled her closer.
“When I first met you, you were fearless. You had that crazy short hair”—Lola, fresh off the plane from Afghanistan, had shown up
in Montana with hair cropped to within an inch of her head—“and an attitude that screamed ‘Don’t fuck with me’ from forty paces.”
“I took too many risks. You said so.”
“Yes, you did. But listen, Lola.” He released her and pushed himself up. Lola’s head slid from his chest. She propped herself on one elbow and studied his silhouette, waiting. In the next room, the sound of the sewing machine halted. Even the wind stopped, as though in anticipation of his next words.
“I’ve been thinking about this ever since we got here and saw what Eddie’s turned into. Maybe you took it too far. Just like he did with this bougie Indian lawyer thing he and Naomi have got going on. He’s not himself anymore, and you aren’t either.”
“I thought you liked me this way.” Lola groaned inwardly at the sound of her own words. Oh, lord. When had she become the kind of woman who changed to please a man? Although she knew it went past that—what she’d done was even worse. She hadn’t changed to please Charlie. In her fear, she’d backed away from herself.
Charlie interrupted her psyche’s wrestling match with itself. “I thought I liked you better this way, too. But you’re different now. You don’t get fired up about things anymore. Don’t get me wrong.” He held up his hand as Lola began to protest. “When you caught the scent of something big, you were a royal pain in the ass. But watching you go after it—that was a helluva spectacle.”
“Huh. You make me sound like Bub.” Lola was equal parts pleased and a little hurt. Where had that woman gone? The one who had once declared that working a breaking story was even better than sex—and meant it?
“All I’m saying,” Charlie said, “is if you want a piece of this one, you have my blessing. Remember when you were learning to ride?”
Lola had told him about her solo struggle to learn to ride Spot after she’d inherited him from Mary Alice. She’d fallen off, and fallen off, and fallen off again, ordering herself back astride the Appaloosa each time until she finally learned to stay on.
“It’s time to get back on the horse,” Charlie said. Then, quickly, keeping things light, he changed the subject, combing his fingers through her curls. “Why’d you grow your hair out, anyway?”
Lola had to think back. “It was easier to keep it clean when it was short. Water was almost nonexistent in Afghanistan. I used baby wipes for my ‘shower’. But keeping my hair short meant always having to cut it. Here, it’s easier to take care of long. Now I can just pull it back in a ponytail.”
As she spoke, the thing that had been knotted up inside her ever since Wyoming relaxed and expanded, stretching, testing its limits. It sought pain. Felt none. Maybe Charlie was right, that it was time to get past it. A pleasurable warmth spread through her. She pulled Charlie back down beside her. “Anyhow, what makes you think I need your blessing for anything? Here’s what I want a piece of.”
And, despite Charlie’s protestations that it had been many, many years since he was a teenager and what was she thinking, pestering a man who needed his sleep, she got it.
A few hours later, Lola and Charlie sashayed into a kitchen that held all the warmth and conviviality of the Arctic in mid-January.
“Whoa.” They moved apart. “What’s going on?”
Edgar and Naomi faced off over the island, eyes narrowed, lips compressed. Even in anger, Lola thought, they looked alike.
“Here.” Naomi slid an envelope along the countertop without looking their way. “Read this.”
Edgar slammed his hand against the marbled green surface. “Don’t touch it!”
Lola drew back. She and Charlie stared at the envelope. It was made of cheap white paper, the kind with the visible blue crosshatchings within and the stickum on the flap that never quite sealed. Someone had typed Naomi’s name and address into a computer, printed it out, and then cut out the rectangle and Scotch-taped it onto the envelope.
“It’s like those ransom notes with cut-out magazine letters,” said Lola. “Only lazier.”
“Look inside.” Naomi’s voice was hoarse.
“Don’t touch it!” This time, Charlie’s voice joined Edgar’s.
“Oh for God’s sake. My fingerprints are already all over it.” Naomi extracted a folded sheet of paper from the envelope, holding it by a corner. She shook it out so that Lola and Charlie could read it. The paper quivered in her hand.
Again, a computer printout.
Back off, bitch, or your next. And keep your mouth shut. If you think you can catch me, your a dumb ass.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” blurted Lola. “The improper ‘your’ is bad enough. And everyone knows dumbass is one word.” She looked at the faces around the island. “And, uh, it’s really scary.”
“Damn straight it is. But someone doesn’t think we should call the cops.” A vein pulsed in Edgar’s throat.
Naomi’s scowl matched his own. “That’s just giving him what he wants. More attention.”
“As if killing people hasn’t given him enough attention already. Assuming it’s the bomber. Which I think is a safe assumption.”
Bub, drawn by the palpable anxiety within the house, emerged from the girls’ room and circled the island, whining softly.
“Guys, guys.” Charlie’s tone came from long practice with domestic disputes, barroom drunks, and the occasional out-of-control high school football crowd. Lola stepped back and let him do his work. “Naomi, when did you find this?”
Distracting her with details, Lola thought. The best thing about that tactic—it usually worked.
“This morning.” Naomi looked toward the door.
“There?”
“Yes. When I stepped outside to face the sun.”
“Show me.”
Even at the early hour, heat and a handful of red dust shoved their way inside when Naomi opened the door. “There. On the top step. See that rock?” She pointed to a stone the size of a fist. “It was on top of the envelope, I guess to keep it from blowing away. I picked it up.”
“And opened it? With an envelope looking like that?” Incredulity messed with Charlie’s calm.
Letter bombs, Lola thought. The Unabomber and his ilk. Or the anthrax-filled envelopes sent to federal offices and media outlets after the September 11, 2001, attacks. That shit killed people.
“My question exactly.” Edgar’s grim satisfaction was evident. “I came in about then. You should have seen her face. Like she’d seen a ghost.”
“And with good reason,” said Charlie. “There’s no stamp on this. So the guy who left it either walked or drove up to the house. Either of you hear anything last night?”
Naomi’s hair swung back and forth in emphatic denial.
“Me, neither,” said Edgar. “What about you two?”
Otherwise occupied, thought Lola, but contented herself with shaking her head, trying to ignore the slight reddening of Charlie’s ears.
“Bub, stay.” Charlie held up his hand to keep the dog away from the steps. He scanned the ground around them. “No footprints, but the wind could have taken care of that.” He crossed to the driveway and spent some moments scrutinizing the tires on the vehicles there. His gaze swept the dirt again. “I don’t see anything here, but it doesn’t mean much. He could have parked on the main road and walked in from any of a hundred directions.”
Or he could have come from inside the house, Lola thought. “Where’s Thomas?” she said.
When they’d entered the kitchen, she’d thought Naomi was as angry as she’d ever seen her. Now she realized she’d been wrong.
“Why. Do. You. Ask.” Each word like a separate sharp stone hurled Lola’s way.
“Sleeping in. Look. His car’s still here.” Edgar moved between them, pointing out the obvious.
Again, Charlie went for distraction. “Naomi, do you have a baggie?” He wrapped it around his hand, then went back outside a
nd retrieved the rock, sealing it in the bag. It sat on the counter, a garden-variety chunk of desert sandstone turned menacing. “Maybe this will be useful. We need to talk about calling the police.”
They stood around the island, its granite expanse a demilitarized zone between them. Bub sat to one side, head cocked, eyes fixed upon them. Guarding them, Lola thought, keeping them safe. Naomi spoke first, simply ignoring the fact that Thomas had been raised as a possibility. “If we ignore it, maybe whomever left this will think I never saw it. The wind could have blown it away. There’s no reason to call anybody.”
“We can’t take that risk,” Charlie said. “For all we know, he was out there watching to see you open it.”
They all turned toward the door. Naomi rose and drew the curtains on the window above the sink. The darkness made the usually bright kitchen feel claustrophobic, foreboding.
Charlie took charge. “Here’s what we do. First, we make coffee.” That got the reluctant smiles he’d intended. Lola took her cue and busied herself with the coffeemaker. “Next, we call the cops. And the FBI. No, Naomi, hear me out,” he said as she began to object. “None of this has to get out. The cops can keep a lid on it so that he—assuming it’s a he and not a she—won’t get any extra attention from this. But this is a clear threat to you. We can’t screw around. And they’ll want to examine the rock and this note.”
Naomi accepted the coffee Lola handed her, took a sip, and then quaffed more deeply, signaling her appreciation with an exaggerated sigh; Lola had taken advantage of Charlie’s little speech to splash some “almond flavoring” into the mug.
“You’re going to need some sort of protection,” Charlie said.
Again, Naomi tried to protest.
Charlie shook his head. “We have to take this seriously—”
“Christ, Naomi.” Edgar interrupted him, motioning away the coffee, undoctored, that Lola offered. “We’ve already got two dead. If nothing else, think about Juliana.” Lola recognized the fear that flashed across Naomi’s face.
