The Darkness Rolling

by Win Blevins

“She looks at me like I’m crazy. ‘What? I should be sorry?! Haven’t I had everything? Stupid, but … Haven’t I loved a man? Didn’t I get a job I adored? And I found the love of my life, which is—guess who, Iris?—you.”

  Iris let that sink in. Everyone in the living room was perfectly still. “Now,” Mom goes on. “‘You remember the prelude to Tristan and Isold?’—she never gets tired of playing that piece on the Victrola—‘We did a lot of performances of Tristan at the Met, and I ended up feeling like it tells my story. That opening melodic phrase, so poignant, and ending on that chord of yearning—the one that cries for resolution, for fulfillment?’

  “Sounds like a sad story, what with that piece of music? No. Mom says to me, ‘If I’d stayed here? I’d never have heard the greatest singers in the world pour their hearts out in the world’s most splendid melodies. I’d never have had any really large feelings, even if one of those feelings was longing. Most of all, I wouldn’t have had you. You are my fulfillment.’”

  Iris paused, maybe overemotional.

  “‘Any feeling is a great thing, Iris,’ my mother tells me, ‘as long as it’s a grand one, a tidal wave that sweeps you away.’”

  Linda said, her voice soft, “I’m on board with that. Any adventure is better than sitting around waiting for something to happen in your life.”

  Iris looked straight at me. “I know Mom would want you to hear that story.”

  I had nothing to say.

  “I have a question, Iris.” Surprise—this was my mother. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you in New York painting and doing your shows in big-time galleries?”

  Iris shrugged. “There’s no explaining love, for a person or a place.”

  Grandpa held up his blackboard. I hadn’t even noticed him writing, but he pointed it toward me. It said, FOLLOW YR DREAM.

  * * *

  Mesmerized by the flames of the pinyon fire, Buzzard wished he could smell it. Remembering that smell brought back the feeling of being in the hogan of his childhood.

  Those five gathered around the fire beyond the window were talking about their dreams. He didn’t pay attention to every word. He was sure, though, that he’d had dreams as a kid. He couldn’t remember them anymore, but he knew bone-deep that he had them. All gone now.

  Dreams as a young man, too. Winning the bareback competition at an Indian rodeo. Being named best all-around cowboy. Having the women crowd around him, admiring, eager to have a drink with him, ready to slip out into the cottonwoods for some adult fun. The rides, the drinks, the lays—those were his dreams, sort of, and sometimes he made them come true.

  The taste of whiskey rose in his mouth. Funny, he didn’t like it, not one bit, and he spat.

  He watched his son and that Iris standing in front of the huge fireplace, warming their backsides. The old man, the movie star, and Buzzard’s wife sat facing the blaze, their eyes lit and their conversation warmed by the flames.

  Some part of him felt lost. He had to get some sleep. Pull himself together.

  * * *

  My grandfather tucked his blackboard back into the pouch. Iris spoke up. “Uncle Mose, I’m sorry you can’t tell us just how you made your dream happen.” She opened her palms in Nizhoni’s direction.

  “You want me to do that, Dad?”

  Mose gave an emphatic nod. Yes.

  “Our family? Traders, always traders,” Mom said. “In Santa Fe a lively business trading up and down the Chihuahua Trail.

  “Lots of times the sons went out to set up smaller trading posts, and the family’s power increased.

  “Now picture my father, the grand engine who is Mose Goldman. This tall young man rides to the farthest corner of the rez, sets up at the spring—the heart of Oljato—and trades with local people from a tent. They’re leery of him at first—these are the children of the Hoskinini, people who escaped the four years in a concentration camp for Navajos by hiding out. But he speaks their language and treats them with respect, so they gradually come to trust him a little. Maybe even like him.

  “His thought is to build a bustling business over the years, sell it, and move back to Santa Fe in triumph.

  “But he falls in love with a Navajo woman, and he comes to love the Navajo people and the country we live in. His dream changes—he wants to live among us, raise a family, and be happy. His family, unfortunately, turns out to be me, just me.

  “Mose Goldman walks wherever the path of his dream leads. When the destination changes, he’s still ready to ride on his spirit of adventure.”

  Grandpa gave Nizhoni a lopsided grin and shot his good fist upward in triumph. Cockeyed tensed, like he might jump off Iris’s shoulder, but he didn’t.

  Iris pitched in. “Now, Uncle Mose claims he won’t go back to Santa Fe, regardless. When he was doing rehab there after this stroke, he insisted on coming home. Mom and Aunt Nizhoni gave in to him. Silly.”

  Grandpa gave her a stern look.

  Iris said, “I’m going to hog-tie him and take him back to finish that rehab.”

  Mose Goldman stuck out his tongue at her.

  I looked at Linda. She was quiet. Maybe thinking of her options, her future. Weighing her own dreams.

  * * *

  Far too late into the evening—a really fine evening—I escorted Linda back to the town car. As I turned the key in the ignition, I came right out with it. The question had been waiting for days. She said being a movie star made her feel like a phony. So why keep it up?

  “Linda, I really want to know. You have what every young woman in America dreams of. Does being a rich, famous movie star satisfy you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay.” But, from her tone, I didn’t believe her, not all the way.

  We rode in silence for a couple of minutes.

  “It was my mother who wanted it first,” she said. “Even way out in Cherokee country, she got her hands on fashion magazines and such and dreamed of living the glamorous life.

  “About the time I was born, the movies became gigantic, and she invested all her dreams in me and Hollywood.

  “Dallas was our first step up. I was performing at twelve. I went to a Hollywood scout’s audition the next year, and he liked me. I made my first Hollywood movie at the age of fifteen. I liked the clothes, the jewelry, the attention.

  “And in the end…?”

  “In the end I guess I ate my mother’s dreams and they turned into part of me.”

  “You’re happy?”

  She laughed. “Let’s just say Beverly Hills is more appealing than a Texas feed lot.”

  Seven

  The next morning I stepped out of Linda’s cabin and got spanked in the face by a note on her door.

  STAY AWAY FROM THE SAILOR

  HE WILL GET YOU HURT

  I stared at it. It was written in a child’s printing. The culprit had fastened it with a thumbtack and had done it while Linda was asleep. While we were asleep. That gave me almost as many creeps as the scrawled words.

  I yanked it off, shouldered the sticky door back open, padded to the bed, and handed it to Linda.

  She read it, stuck it out to me, and said, “Forget it. I’ve had worse, far worse.”

  “Recently?”

  She shrugged.

  “Linda, listen to me. I can’t protect you if I don’t know everything.”

  She walked to her dresser and pulled out an envelope that had been folded and folded again. I recognized that envelope. Inside was a letter, worn thin with folding and refolding.

  She gave it to me, and I sat heavy on her bed, reading. Plenty of details, but no signature. Then I read it again.

  “You’ve had this since we got to the hotel in Winslow?” I said to her.

  “Yes, yes, you were there when I got it.”

  “You may have put yourself in danger by ignoring it. Maybe all of us.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Believe me, in the real world this is a big deal.”

  She turned her back to
me.

  “I have to show it to Mr. John,” I said. “This is his shoot. And your life.”

  She shrugged. Acted like she didn’t care, one way or the other.

  “Get dressed,” I said.

  “I don’t know if I like you like this.”

  “Get dressed.”

  * * *

  Mr. John’s face turned the color of a red onion. “Get Julius,” he told a flunky.

  Linda tried to say something.

  Mr. John put his finger in the air. The message was clear—not one word yet.

  Julius read the letter impassively. Then he read the scrawled note. When he finished, the cigar twisted, and I could almost hear the wheels grinding in his head.

  Mr. John said, holding out the stationery, “This letter, this was waiting for you at La Posada?”

  She nodded yes.

  “This other letter, this note, you just found it on your door?”

  Yes again.

  “Julius,” John Ford’s voice boomed, “do we think it was written by the same person?”

  “We are forming an opinion.”

  “God, Julius, you are infuriating. Everything we’re doing—a private bodyguard, a studio bodyguard, go to the middle of nowhere—and we still can’t keep crazy people at bay! I don’t know whose head to have first.”

  Mr. John paced the floor, tapping the letter against his forehead.

  “Very nice stationery.” He looked into Linda’s green eyes. “Who was the last boyfriend you dumped?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  She was on shaky ground there.

  “Let me rephrase that,” Mr. John said. “Do you remember the last boyfriend you jilted, and was there more than one?”

  She turned her face up to him, an attempt at defiance. “Could we talk in private?”

  “We cannot. Answer my question.”

  “Fine. Frank Cantonucci.”

  “Would you repeat that?”

  “Frank Canto— You know exactly who I am talking about.”

  “Yes, I do. Oh, this is sweet. You dumped Frank Cantonucci. Toss in Mickey Cohen,” he said, “and we’re really off to the races.” Mr. John put his hands on his hips, looked out the window, and shook his head. “Zanuck will have a coronary if he hears about this.”

  “Don’t tell him,” Linda said.

  “I have no intention of telling him,” he said. “Julius, get over to Goulding’s, make some calls, track this down. Do whatever you need to do to make it go away. To make him go away. Bribe him. Tell him I’ll give his wife a small role in something. Threaten to get Mr. H. on his ass. Take care of it.”

  All of this sounded like very bad business.

  Julius said to Ford, “Done.” He was squinting at Linda when he said it. I didn’t know their history—how could I?—but I had a feeling that this wasn’t the first time she’d complicated his life.

  “And be back ASAP.” Julius was already out the door.

  Then Mr. John turned to Linda. She shrank a little closer to me. Fortunately, I had remained off Mr. John’s radar. So far.

  “You! What do I do with you? I can hire extra security, but I can’t keep tabs on your entire life, Linda. Frank…”

  He paced, pulled his chin, and stuck his face in hers. “You have stepped into deep shit, and you’re such a kid that you don’t even know it.”

  For the first time, Linda looked scared.

  “You know he has plenty of guys who could follow you here, take care of you, and … Look out there. One very large desert. No one would ever find the body. Your body. Get that?”

  “I can’t—”

  “Don’t talk. I’m too angry, and I’m not finished. Getting involved with a mobster? Linda, they don’t go away. And jilting a guy close to Mickey Cohen?”

  “It was stupid, I understand.”

  “I could fix it so you didn’t work again.”

  Her lip trembled.

  “But, God help me, there is something so vulnerable about you.…”

  Then Mr. John looked like the air had gone out of him. A spent balloon.

  “What now?” she said.

  “To hell with the message left on your door. I take threats seriously, but I will not be coerced. Since the guy making trouble wants Yazzie gone, he stays. And we need to beef up the security. I’ll hire more, and we’ll see what Julius wants when he gets back.”

  Mr. John looked at me. I was visible again. As long as that had happened, I stood straight and worked myself into looking tough.

  “I trust Yazzie,” Ford said to Linda. “He’s a good man, although he has fallen for your charms like everyone else except for me, Julius, and the makeup man. Don’t look at the floor, Yazzie.”

  Mr. John mused. “Today Cathy Downs will be here. I’m not letting her walk into this situation.”

  I was embarrassed beyond belief. Of course Julius would have told Mr. John about our goings-on. That was his job—security—and I should have figured that included being a spy.

  Julius came in and shut the door too hard. “I did what I could for now. More later.”

  “What do you want for security?

  “The Seaman goes. He’s a magnet.”

  Mr. John barked, “Damn it.…”

  Julius came back at him. “He goes. He’s the problem.”

  “Who the hell do you think is in charge here? I say what’s what.”

  “May I remind you that the note appeared while Yazzie was with her? At night? And no more afternoon naps.”

  Then Linda stepped in, for her in a gentle way.

  “You don’t want to lose those afternoon shots,” said the star to Mr. John. “No nap, and I don’t glow for the camera.” She looked straight into Mr. John’s eyes. “You don’t want that.” Her words fell on the floor and rolled around.

  “That’s bull,” said Julius.

  “Both of you shut up!” Mr. John snapped. “Here’s what’s going to happen. One armed man will be with Linda every minute. When the crew is around, when she’s napping, when she’s sleeping—all the time. And that armed man is Yazzie.”

  Ford glared at Julius, who then looked at his shoes.

  “When Linda is on the set, or in the tent, or at the Porta-Potty, a second armed man will be within another dozen steps of her, his attention on no one else. Who do you want?”

  “Colin,” said Julius.

  I breathed easier.

  Mr. John leaned into Linda’s face. “Even if it’s your next studio that’s paying for your protection,” Mr. John said with pepper in his voice, “right now you’re working for me.”

  She studied the ceiling.

  “I am waiting,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  “And you’ll do as I say?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s not bad,” said Julius. “I’ll get Colin on it right now.”

  “Yazzie, there’s no way in or out of the cabin but the front door?” Ford said.

  “None.”

  “All right. While she’s inside, you will be her protection. Yazzie, you’re here in the afternoon and at night, with Colin outside the cabin. You’re right with Linda on the set, and Colin’s her shadow. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Linda,” he said, “take no chances. Never be without two armed men. Never.”

  He started out the door and turned back. “And don’t tell anyone—cast, crew, anyone—about the note on the door or about that letter.”

  Eight

  After a few days, things settled down some. Whatever had happened, and whoever had tacked that note up and sent that letter, the incident seemed faded. Maybe a twisted jab. A wicked one, but …

  One lunchtime, when Linda was finished being a bad girl with me for an hour or so, I stepped out of the cabin and into a surprise.

  “Hi, Yazzie,” said Iris with verve. “I came down to, you know, see what’s going on. Raphael here has been very nice to me, and— Is Linda inside there?”

&
nbsp; “Uh, yeah.”

  “I just want to say hi to her.”

  Iris slipped past me through the cabin door. Automatically, I looked for Linda’s guard, Colin. He was sitting in front of Raphael Garibaldi, fifty feet away. Colin had a ruff of Woody Woodpecker red hair, a flock of freckles, a short burly frame, and the eyes of a rooster ready to fight. His amiable Irish looks were a mask. Perfect view of the door, and plenty of attitude that was well-disguised.

  Raphael was the makeup man who worked on Linda every day, just before the costume woman finished her up for the next shot. I sat behind the guard and next to Raphael, which I knew would irk him a little. He didn’t like all the lunch-break time Linda spent with me. He often nudged her to get down to her dressing room faster so he could do her makeup, get things moving for the costume person, and get her in front of the camera.

  From inside the cabin I heard the enthusiastic greetings of two young women who sounded like old friends.

  Raphael got up and followed Iris inside. I leaned against a cedar tree, waiting. The tree trunk curved back. Good smell. It was comfortable.

  Out they came in about two minutes. Iris and Linda made a beeline for the cedar. Iris gave the guard a What’s-going-on-here? glance along the way, and she plucked her sketchpad from behind the tree.

  “I’ll introduce you to Mr. John and tell him you’re a great artist,” said Linda. “Mr. John loves artists.”

  “Meanwhile,” Iris said, looking at Colin, “this gentleman and I haven’t been introduced.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, embarrassed. “Iris Goldman, this is Colin Murphy. Colin, Iris Goldman, my aunt.”

  Politely, Colin stood and nodded. “Seldom seen so young and beautiful an aunt,” he said.

  Iris was plainly embarrassed. Her right forefinger went to her mouth in her habit of touching the crooked tooth, but she kept her upper lip over it. “You’re pretty husky for an Irishman,” she said. Then she turned kind of red. It was about the first time I’d seen Iris with a lame comeback, more like something I would say.

  “Let’s go,” Linda said. We walked down the hill.

  Linda wasn’t giving me a choice about Iris being around, and I wasn’t sure how that would work out on all fronts. As we approached the mob of crew around the shot, Iris almost danced with excitement.