Opening the prayer book, Father John began reciting out loud the ancient Catholic prayers for the dead, asking God to bless the final resting place of His servant, Harvey Castle. Then he handed the container of holy water to Father Brad and, walking slowly around the casket, dipped the sprinkler into the water and flung it across the casket and the saddle. People in the front rows blinked as drops of water rained upon them.
When he had finished the blessing, Will Standing Bear stepped forward. “Jevaneatha neshait hideniau hethehe vedaw nau neyesawathawid jethee hevedathu, ” the elder prayed, the words soft and lilting. Holding himself perfectly still, with head raised and shoulders thrust back, the old man gazed across the knoll to the plains that stretched endlessly away. White clouds sailed across a sky as blue as the sea, and the canopy billowed in the breeze. Then, the elder said: “No matter what has happened, we must keep God’s commandments and walk in His road all our lives.”
The singers stirred around the drum. Two men started turning the wheels attached to the wide belt under the casket. Slowly the casket descended into the earth as drumbeats punched holes in the air. Suddenly Anthony stepped forward and held up his hand. The wheels stopped turning, and the drumming stopped. Leaning over the grave, Anthony picked up the saddle. He held it out to Father John. “It is for you,” he said.
Again the steady beat of the drums sounded across the knoll of the cemetery and drifted into the wind as the wheels began cranking. Father John watched the casket descend, the saddle heavy in his arms. He felt the moisture of tears on his cheeks at this double gift. He had the pleasure of receiving the saddle that had belonged to his friend, but since he didn’t own a horse, he would have the additional pleasure someday of giving the saddle to someone who needed it.
The drumming continued several moments after the casket had been lowered. Harvey’s family and the other mourners stood with heads bowed, and Father John let his gaze roam across the cemetery and onto the plains shining in the sun. Then he looked up. A golden eagle circled overhead. It swooped toward the group around the grave, then rose and glided west toward the foothills of the Wind River Mountains, wings outstretched. After a moment it circled back. Father John realized that everybody was looking up into the sky. Whenever the eagle came, it brought a blessing and the promise of harmony. It brought hope.
No one said anything, but the crowd, almost as one, had looked away from the sky and was watching a white Miata nudge its way along the dirt road past the line of parked vehicles and stop. Melissa Bennett got out and walked tentatively around the other graves toward Harvey’s. Anthony had started through the crowd toward her, and as soon as she spotted him she ran into his arms.
It’s no longer a buzz on the moccasin telegraph, Father John thought. It’s out in the open now for all the world to see: Anthony’s motive for committing murder.
19
“WHAT DOES MELISSA Bennett’s family think about her and Anthony?” Father Brad’s voice rose over the wind crashing through the cab of the Toyota.
“Just what you might guess.” Father John flipped down the visor against the noonday sun dancing on the hood and washing across Seventeen-Mile Road. The idea of judging others by the color of their skin made his own skin crawl, which was why he’d usually turned down invitations to the Cooley ranch. But Melissa was different. There was hope for the young. Harvey’s saddle shifted across the bed of the pickup, and thudded against the side.
As soon as they’d gotten into the cab, Father John had explained the double gift to his assistant who didn’t say anything at first. Then, shifting in the seat and looking out the side window, he’d said, “You know, this isn’t a bad place.”
Father John had glanced sideways at the blond priest in the black wool suit who looked like a Wall Street banker and wondered if, maybe, he’d been too hasty. He was always quick to size up people, and lately he was turning out to be wrong more often than right. You could never tell about anybody. After all, he looked a little like a banker himself today, in his black shirt and slacks. Realizing Father Brad had said something about leaving, he pulled away from his own thoughts and gave the young priest his full attention.
“You weren’t around yesterday when the Provincial called,” Father Brad was saying, “so I grabbed the chance to talk to him about a job teaching in Chicago or maybe St. Louis. Wherever there’s a prep school vacancy.”
Father John felt his grip tightening on the steering wheel. The next governor of Wyoming was demanding his ouster from St. Francis at the same time his assistant of less than three weeks was asking for a transfer. The Provincial must wonder what in hell was going on.
“Nothing personal,” the young priest added quickly, “but you’ve got to admit reservation work is pretty dull, except for when somebody gets murdered, of course, and I suppose that doesn’t happen very often. It’s too bad people like the Cooleys and Jasper Owens and some of the folks from Riverton and Lander aren’t parishioners at St. Francis. It would make an assignment here more interesting.”
Father John glanced at the speedometer and let up on the gas pedal. For a moment he’d thought this assistant was beginning to see beneath the surface of things. Why should he have expected that of Father Brad before his time? At least there was potential with this young priest, he was becoming convinced of that. He wished Father Brad had waited awhile before talking to the Provincial, that was all.
“When will you leave?”
“Depends on available jobs. By the way, the Provincial wants you to call him ASAP”
Message delivered, Father John thought. He had no intention of calling the Provincial any time soon to hear about his next assignment.
The parking lot in front of Blue Sky Hall was already filled. It looked as if more people had come to the feast and the giveaway than had attended Harvey’s funeral. Father John wheeled the Toyota into the vacant field across the road, and he and his soon-to-be-gone assistant walked in silence over the hard-packed ground past the old cars and pickups.
A couple of Arapaho men waited in front of the hall, doormen with John Deere caps pushed back on their heads. “Come on in,” one said, pushing open the door. The hall looked much the same as at last night’s wake—the same people milling about, except now there was the buzz of conversation. The table along one wall was covered with food: Hamburgers, potato salad, baked beans, steaming corn, and fry bread. The air was thick with the odors of fresh coffee, onions, hot oil, and dill pickles.
“What’s over there?” Father Brad asked, nodding toward the end of the hall. He didn’t point, and Father John felt a stab of pride. This assistant had figured out, in a short time, that Arapahos considered pointing rude.
Father John explained that the items Harvey’s family would give away were stacked on the table—blankets, shawls, star quilts. “It’s the family’s way of thanking people for all they’ve done during the last couple days. In the Old Time ...” He stopped, glancing at the young priest to see if this was a gift he wanted to receive. A hint of interest sparked in Father Brad’s eyes, and Father John plunged on, explaining how Arapaho families used to give away the dead person’s tipi and belongings, everything except for the things needed in the afterlife, which were buried with the corpse. Chances were that Maria and Rita had already quietly given away Harvey’s personal items to people they knew could use them.
Father John spotted Maria seated in a circle of grandmothers not far from the table. Leaving Father Brad with a group of Arapahos who had come over to welcome them, he strolled over to the old woman. Maria held out a thin hand to him. Her other hand clutched the knitted shawl around her shoulders, even though the day’s heat had settled over the hall like a shroud.
“Don’t forget your promise about Anthony,” Maria said, reaching for his hand. Her eyes, watery and clouded, locked on his.
Rita stepped away from the knot of people close by. Placing one hand on her mother’s shoulder, she bent down, bringing her face close to the old woman’s. “Anthony’s gonna be
fine. He’s home now, isn’t he?”
Maria ignored her daughter and kept her eyes on Father John. There was no mistaking the fear born out of memory, fear that the injustices of the past might be repeated in the present.
Anthony was talking to several young Arapahos in the center of the hall. He looked around, then started over. Anyone would know the young man had just buried someone he loved, by the sadness in which he moved.
Father John walked through the crowd to meet him. There were thousands of words he might say, all of them inadequate. Shaking Anthony’s hand, he managed, “I can’t tell you how much your gift means to me. I’m deeply touched.”
Anthony nodded and said something about Harvey wanting him to have the saddle. Father John knew that wasn’t quite true. Harvey hadn’t planned to die.
“You see Melissa at the cemetery?”
“Didn’t everybody?”
The young man shrugged. “I asked her not to come to the feast and giveaway. It’s going to take some time for people to get used to us. She’s been saying that all along.”
“How about Dorothy and Ned? Will they get used to you?”
“I’m going out to the Cooley ranch tonight so Melissa and I can talk to them together. If they see how much we love each other, maybe they’ll come around.”
Father John doubted it. His heart went out to this young couple, burdened by the past.
“How about some fishing up at Washakie reservoir tomorrow, Father? I could really use somebody to talk to.”
“Sure,” Father John said. The magistrate’s warning that Anthony should stay close at hand flitted to mind a moment, but he dismissed it. The young man wasn’t running anywhere. He just wanted to go into the wilderness where he could think, and he wanted a sounding board to test his thinking on. Of course he wanted to go fishing at the Washakie. That was what he had done all his life with Harvey.
Nodding toward the elders in a far corner, Anthony said, “Grandfather wants me to be painted today.”
Father John followed the young man’s gaze. Several elders were standing in a circle, each holding a buckskin pouch. They would begin the painting soon. Everyone who wished it would receive circles of sacred red paint on their foreheads and cheeks. The paint symbolized the gift of life given by the sun and placed all who received it under the sun’s care. It renewed the happiness of the mind.
Father John never ceased to marvel at the wisdom of Will Standing Bear. The rest of the family would not receive the paint until the first anniversary of Harvey’s death. It would mark the end of the half-life and give them the strength to move into the new life without Harvey. But Anthony needed strength now to move into whatever the new life had in store for him.
20
FATHER JOHN DECIDED to turn in early, but the temptation was strong to see how the Red Sox were doing. He flipped on the television in the living room. The game was still on. He sank into the overstuffed easy chair, removed the black wing-tipped shoes, and parked his pinched, sockenshrouded feet on the edge of the oak coffee table. It was the top of the ninth, the Red Sox leading the Mariners three-zip. With two strikes and a man on third, the pitcher wound up and sent a fastball across the plate. The batter laid a grounder out to left field as the runner pounded for home.
Now Father John’s feet were planted flat on the floor. He was on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, jabbing one fist like a boxer. He always watched baseball on the edge of his seat, the way he and his Dad used to watch it at Fenway Park. On the edge of the seat, leaning forward, punching the air. He was only dimly aware of the phone ringing in the front hall.
Slowly he backed out of the living room, keeping his eyes on the screen. The runner scored easily. The left fielder had the ball and was throwing to second as the hitter hurtled toward the base. The tag was good. Fenway erupted in cheers. The Sox would hold.
“St. Francis,” Father John said, slightly out of breath. He always felt as if he were on the field himself when he watched the Red Sox.
A woman on the other end—he didn’t recognize her voice—was talking about an emergency. It took a moment to focus on what she was saying. Something about an accident out on Seventeen-Mile Road and Charlie Taylor.
Fenway Park was still cheering as Father John slammed out the front door leaving the television blaring. The wind was calm, and a field of stars blinked in the dark sky. He slipped into the Toyota, turned the key and, ramming the gear into forward, shot out onto Circle Drive.
The compact of holy oil that he’d grabbed from the study rode light as a feather in his shirt pocket. Always carry your oils in an emergency—that was one of the first lessons he had learned at St. Francis. Steering the Toyota along Riverton’s quiet main street, he thought about that summer six years ago when Old Man Wilson’s daughter had asked him to come to the ranch because her father was feeling poorly. Feeling poorly! The old man had died in Father John’s arms. It had taken a couple of hours to return to St. Francis, get his oils, and drive back to anoint the body.
A crowd of people hovered around Charlie’s wife in the waiting area outside the emergency room at Riverton Memorial. Father John recognized a couple of parishioners. He could remember meeting Charlie’s wife only once—about a year ago they’d come to Mass one Sunday. She had the look of a sleepwalker, dressed in a wrinkled pink pantsuit with long black hair bunched around her shoulders. She was weaving on her feet as one of the other women helped her to a metal chair.
“They’re getting ready to take him into surgery, Father.” A nurse came around a counter and led the way into a maze of emergency treatment rooms. “Looks like the steering wheel crushed his chest when his pickup went off the road.”
Charlie lay on a hospital gurney, a hose stretched upward from one brown arm to a bottle of fluid dangling overhead from a silver pole. A black blood pressure cuff was wrapped around the other arm, and another nurse was pressing a stethoscope into the crook of the elbow.
“You only have a few moments,” the first nurse said. “The doctor is scrubbing now.”
Father John slipped the compact from his pocket as the nurse with the stethoscope stepped back, motioning him forward.
“Can you hear me, Charlie? I’m going to give you the last sacrament.” he said, leaning over the trolley. Charlie’s eyes moved toward him, eyelids flickering as if he were making an effort to stay awake. There wasn’t a mark on his face. His chest must have taken the full blow, Father John thought, as he made the sign of the cross on Charlie’s forehead, touching it with the oil and softly repeating the prayers. “With this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”
“No,” Charlie whispered.
Father John stopped. “Do you not wish the sacrament?”
Charlie’s eyes were bright, desperate looking. He managed to nod his head slightly, and Father John continued the anointing.
“No.” Charlie’s voice was louder, rough as sandpaper. “Accident.”
Suddenly the Indian stretched his fingers, clawing at the air, lips moving soundlessly. Father John bent over and placed one ear close to Charlie’s mouth. “Three,” Charlie whispered. Father John heard the rattle in the Indian’s chest, the death rattle he’d heard other times in other emergency rooms. Then a burst of whispered words came from the Indian. “Three.” “Three.” “Three.” “Ten.”
Two orderlies came through the door. “Ready,” they said, positioning themselves at both ends of the cart. Father John kept his hand on Charlie’s shoulder as the gurney moved through the doorway and down the hall. The squish of rubber wheels on the tiled floor sounded like footsteps in soft mud. He watched the gurney disappear past two wide swinging doors.
“He gonna make it?” Charlie’s wife asked. Her face pale, her eyes wide, as if she’d already guessed the answer.
“I hope so,” Father John said, wondering if he shouldn’t, instead, try to say something that would pre
pare her. There were no words that could prepare her for what was coming.
An Arapaho woman who looked enough like Charlie to be his sister got up from a metal chair across the room and said, “Charlie must’ve missed that big curve on Seventeen-Mile Road. He’s always drivin’ too fast.” At this, Charlie’s wife winced and drew in her breath. “Two kids came drivin’ by and spotted the wreck. Happened maybe an hour ago,” the other woman went on.
Father John was thinking that Charlie had been at the funeral Mass this morning and at the cemetery with the other council members. He was sure of it, but he didn’t remember seeing Charlie at the feast and giveaway.
“Where was he going?” Father John asked.
Charlie’s wife turned in the metal chair, pointedly ignoring the other woman. “He was out on council business. He works hard. He’s always out takin’ care of council business.”
“He tried to tell me something,” Father John said. “It was hard to make out. He kept saying ‘three.’ Then what sounded like ‘ten.’”
“It’s about ten o’clock now,” the Arapaho woman who looked like Charlie’s sister said. “You think he was askin’ the time?”
That idea hadn’t entered his mind. Father John glanced around the waiting room at the other Arapahos, their eyes on him, obviously following the conversation and waiting for his response. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
In his mind, he was turning over the other words Charlie had uttered, but he decided against mentioning them. “No” and “accident.” Charlie was in shock, but those words were clear. Was he in denial, saying that the accident hadn’t happened? Or was he saying he didn’t want it to have happened? Or—the idea hit Father John like a fastball in the stomach—was Charlie telling him it was no accident?
The Eagle Catcher Page 14
