The Ties That Bind

by Andi Marquette

  "Honey?"

  I turned at the sound of her voice and smiled. "What's up?"

  She joined me, shutting the door behind her. I slid my arms around her waist and felt her snuggle against me. "River's coming down."

  "When?"

  "He's leaving tomorrow morning. He'll get here late tomorrow night." She put her head on my shoulder.

  I brushed my lips against her forehead. "I'll tell Kara and see what she wants to do. Maybe get a hotel room or something. Or maybe she'll want to go back to Tucson for a while."

  "No."

  I pulled away so I could look at Sage. "Where's River going to sleep?"

  "One of the couches. But he'll bring an inflatable mattress or that damn cot so he can sleep out in the mud room. He's Mr. 'I hate civilization.' Remember?" Her voice held a trace of laughter. "Besides, I already made it very clear to Kara that she's welcome to stay as long as she wants, and not to feel uncomfortable in the midst of this because she's family and she's always welcome to share the love and the pain."

  "What'd she say to that?"

  "She said she was going to ask me and you anyway if it was okay for her to stay and let her be helpful."

  I snapped my mouth shut, trying to keep my jaw from falling off my face.

  "Yes, your sister said that. And your response will be?"

  "'Thank you'," I recited like I was in grade school. "'Thank you, Kara, for helping out. It's great that you're here'."

  "Very good. Tell her that as soon as you have a chance. She needs to hear it from you because, after all, I'm just the cool girlfriend."

  "You're the very cool girlfriend," I said.

  "So are you." She kissed me before taking my hand and pulling me toward the front door. "Nothing more we can do tonight. So let's finish this pizza party and have some dessert."

  Chapter Eight

  "I'LL CALL YOU if I'm going to stay in Santa Fe."

  I looked up from my monitor, not sure what Kara was talking about. She was standing in the study's doorway, looking at me.

  "Did you hear anything I said?" she asked, but without the irritation she usually expressed with me.

  I sighed. "I'm sorry."

  She walked over to me and gave me a quick hug. "It's okay. You've got a lot on your mind."

  "Santa Fe," I started. Her date with Shoshana. "Oh. Yeah. But that's this evening, isn't it?"

  "I'm going to do some sight-seeing. Part of finding myself and all that."

  I managed a smile. "Sounds good. And you'll call if you're staying there tonight. Gotcha."

  She stood looking at me, worried, like Chris had regarded me the night before. "Kase, I won't go if you want me to stick around the house with you today."

  I brushed her off. "Nah, it's fine. Go have fun."

  Kara didn't move. "I know how you get."

  "What does that mean?" I winced the moment I said it. "Shit. That sounded pissy. Sorry."

  "It means that you tend to bottle things up and you don't ask for help. You go into your head--and that can be a hell of a bad neighborhood--and you put up your analytical walls."

  I clenched my teeth then forced myself to relax. New leaf. "You're right. And Chris lectured me, too. I'm working on it." I smiled. "Right now, it's okay. But I'll tell you if it's not."

  "Promise?" She crossed her arms.

  "Scout's honor." I gave her the Boy Scout salute and tried to look earnest.

  She giggled. "Just call if you need to. Or if you want to."

  "Will do. Hope you have a good time."

  She turned to leave.

  "Hey--"

  She stopped in the doorway, waiting.

  "Thanks for sticking around. And you look nice." She did. She wore loose tan linen trousers, an olive v-neck tank, and leather huarache sandals.

  She held my gaze for a long moment before replying. "You're welcome. See you later."

  I listened until I heard the security door close and then I turned my attention back to the monitor. I typed "Ridge Star Drilling" into Google and waited to see what popped up. Not much. Let's see...date of incorporation in 1999. Hmm. I clicked on a few other sites and found an innocuous-looking legal document outlining a lawsuit against Ridge Star for the death of a worker in 2000. I bookmarked it and continued my search and found two other references to deaths at Ridge Star, men killed while on the job. One died when a load of pipe shifted off a hauling truck and crushed him and the other fell headfirst forty feet off a grated walkway onto a concrete platform. One of the men was Navajo. I wrote that down. I found some complaints about safety violations and wrote each incident down.

  An hour later, I sat back, tugging on my chin. I'd gotten a crash course in the New Mexico oil and gas industry. The state was the third-leading producer of natural gas in the country. So production was up in the last two years, a combination of an increase in wells drilled and the discovery of more potential underground rock reservoirs of naturally occurring hydrocarbon-based gas. And the San Juan Basin--the northwestern corner of New Mexico--accounted for some sixty-seven percent of natural gas production in the state, Farmington a hub city for all this activity.

  None of this was new to the state's history. Since the 1920s people had been sucking oil and gas out of the ground here. Oil peaked in the 1960s but since the late 1980s-early 1990s, gas production increased, especially in the San Juan Basin. And like any kind of boom, an influx of industry requires an equal influx of workers, which can often lead to tensions with older, more traditional industries and long-time residents.

  Okay...so what? I tried a couple more searches and uncovered an article that documented some of the safety violations and subsequent injuries and deaths on oil and gas rigs in western states. New Mexico figured prominently in these and the list included three separate incidents within four months on Ridge Star equipment over the past year. That seemed high, even for this industry. So Bill basically stumbled upon the obvious. I stood, frustrated, and went into the kitchen for the last bit of coffee, by now the consistency of Rio Grande mud. I poured it into my cup anyway and added more halfand-half.

  Bill had been a long-time, old-school roughneck. He knew drilling and he knew all its attendant effects. He was part of the whole male-centered transient culture that defined the job. He'd no doubt seen a few grisly injuries and a death or two. This was a hardened man who'd lived a hard life, some of which he'd brought on himself. So why the hell would he freak at what was going on at Ridge Star, if something were, in fact, going on? Why wouldn't he just move on to another rig?

  I took a sip from my cup, staring at the sink. Something about this wasn't adding up. Why would Bill give a shit about safety violations, working in an unsafe industry most of his adult life? What did he really know? I needed to see the letter he'd sent to River. I headed back to the office just as the home phone rang. We kept it in the kitchen, so I had to backtrack. I checked the caller ID on the handset but I didn't recognize the number, though it had the New Mexico area code. I answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi," said a male voice with a slight drawl I guessed was Texan. "This is Ward Lindstrom, calling from Farmington. I'm trying to reach Sage Crandall."

  I set my coffee on the counter. "She's not available at the moment, but I'm her partner. Can I help you in some way?"

  Long pause. Probably absorbing what "partner" meant. I took the phone into the office and picked up a pen on my desk. I pulled my legal pad closer.

  "I'm the attorney handling her father's will." he said it tentatively, though I didn't hear any underlying revulsion at the lesbian connection.

  Will? What the--? "I see. Can I have a number where you can be reached? I'll have her give you a call as soon as she can."

  "That's mighty helpful." He sounded relieved and provided the number. I wrote as he spoke and repeated it back to him.

  "That's my cell. I'm available any time."

  "Great. I'll let her know."

  "Thanks. Bye, now." And he hung up. I took the phone back into
the kitchen and set it on its base. A will. This should be interesting. I retrieved my cell phone from the dining room table and called Sage.

  I RETURNED FROM UNM around 4.30, having completed my campus errands like checking in with the department secretary, slogging through my academic snail mail, and then working out. As I was trying to unlock the security door, my cell phone rang. dropped my gym bag on the floor of the porch and pulled my phone off the belt. Sage.

  "Hey, sexy."

  She giggled. "Hi. What are you doing?"

  "Trying to open the front door but I'll wait on that. Did you get my message?"

  "I called him."

  I set my school bag beside my gym bag and leaned against the wall next to the front door. "So what's the deal?"

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. "Well, this guy is Dad's lawyer. At least where the will's concerned. River and I are named in it."

  Damn. You may already have won a trip to Farmington. "Did he tell you specifics?"

  "Some. I asked whether Dad had left any instructions about what to do with his body."

  "And?"

  "He did. I almost lost my shit, I was so surprised," she said wryly. "He wants to be cremated and he wants Tonya to take his ashes to some place he picked out with her."

  "Hell. So he was pretty serious about her."

  "Sounds like it." I heard a shrug in her tone. "Here's the really surprising part. He left money to do that. So I'm going to contact the OMI and go over there with River and we'll have Dad transported back to Farmington. He even has a funeral home designated."

  "Wow." I ran a hand through my hair. "Well, good for him, taking care of that, at least." "Yeah. River and I'll have to go to Farmington to do this in an official capacity. The lawyer's scheduling with Tonya." "Honey--" She kept talking. "This kind of official thing--I'll see when

  River wants to go up and then I'll call the lawyer back."

  "Sweets--"

  "I've never been to one of these," she continued, as if she was trying to both avoid the subject of her father but somehow deal with his death.

  "Babe," I said, with a little more force.

  "What?" she sounded surprised, as if she didn't know I'd been trying to talk to her.

  "I'm going with you." I nudged my gym bag with my toe.

  Pause. "Really? Kase, that would be so great."

  "Hey," I chided her. "I'm your partner. I love you. I'm not going to let you go through this without me. My schedule's pretty clear. So whenever you and River and Tonya can get together is fine by me."

  Sage didn't respond right away but I heard her breathing. Then, "Thank you. I was afraid to ask." She said it in such a way that it reminded me of a kid trying to carefully wake up a sleeping adult.

  That bothered me. "Why?"

  "I didn't want you to freak out about getting sucked into family drama--"

  "Okay, wait. I'm part of your family. When I signed up for this ride, I knew it wasn't always going to be rose petals and hallelujah choruses all the time. I'm in this with you, as long as we ride this horse. I know you sometimes have trouble believing that, but please try." I remembered how Melissa used to avoid asking me to help her with things because she was afraid of my reaction. Sage sometimes did that, too, and I recognized it as residue from growing up with an alcoholic parent. She never knew what kind of reaction she'd get so she learned not to ask for anything and not to rely too much on anyone because alcohol always pulled the rug out from under her.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "That wasn't a very healthy thing to do on my part."

  "You don't need to apologize." I rubbed my palm on my shorts. "You didn't do anything wrong. You just need to remember that I'm not your past and you don't ever need to be worried about talking to me. Ever." I started pacing the length of the porch, wondering what I might be trying to work out, hooking up with another woman who grew up with an addict for a parent. The thought didn't go anywhere because in the great scheme of things, it didn't matter. I felt like me around Sage. I saw where I ended and she began, and how we complemented rather than subsumed each other. I loved her. And right now, that's what was important.

  "Sometimes--" she hesitated.

  "I know. Old stuff. And a lot of that is coming up right now. But I'm here. And that's the one thing you don't ever have to worry about. Okay?" I paused in front of one of the windows.

  "It's hard for me sometimes," she admitted. "I'm working on it."

  My gaze shifted to the windowsill, a little concrete ledge. At first, what I saw didn't register, so I turned my attention to my sandaled feet. "I know. It's okay. I'm working on stuff, too." I glanced again at the windowsill and this time, my brain clicked into gear. Several small turquoise stones, each irregularly shaped but about the size of my pinkie fingernail, lined up in a neat row from one end of the sill to the other. Even in the heat of an early August day, a chill tainted my skin. "What do you want for dinner?" I asked, almost jumping over my bags to get to the other window. Same thing. A row of turquoise.

  "I'm cooking tonight."

  "Cool. You want me to put anything out?" I reached for one of the stones but stopped and drew my hand back.

  "Honey, what are you doing?"

  "Uh, is there a reason that a bunch of turquoise is on our front windowsills?" I crouched down so I could study the stones without coming into physical contact with them.

  "I put it there."

  "When?"

  "Thursday."

  Two days after the porch incident. Why hadn't I noticed it before now? "Do I want to know why it's out here?" But I already knew. I just wanted to hear Sage's perspective.

  "How about we talk about it when I get home?"

  I thought I detected a bit of strain in her tone. "Sure. I'll see you when you get here."

  We signed off and hung up, leaving me to ponder the turquoise as I unlocked the door and carried my stuff inside.

  I LEANED AGAINST the counter, watching Sage cook, enjoying the way she coordinated so many things at once. She stirred the chicken dilruba in her favorite cast iron frying pan then she set the wooden spoon on the ceramic holder I'd bought her. She checked the nan in the oven and glanced over at me, smiling. "See anything you like?"

  "You have no idea," I teased back. "I was thinking about that first time you invited me over. You cooked tikka masala. I knew I was in serious trouble from that point on."

  "Trouble?" She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. It had gotten free of the leather tie.

  "In a really good way."

  She laughed and stirred the dilruba again. The florid but earthy smell of Indian food filled the kitchen and I remembered that first dinner with Sage, fighting my feelings until the moment she asked me to leave, saying she couldn't be that close to me and not want more. I asked her to dance and we did, there in the living room and all the reasons I'd manufactured to justify avoiding my attraction to her crumbled in the heat between us and the warmth of her mischievous smile.

  "Turquoise can be a marking stone," she said, still stirring.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. "A deterrent?"

  "Maybe." Sage continued to stir, not looking at me. Her arm moved in gentle, rhythmic circles.

  "It's been almost four days," I said, remembering what Ellen Tsosie had told me.

  Her arm stopped moving. She raised her head and her eyes held a strange, guarded expression. "I had someone over," she stated. "To do a cleansing ceremony." She stirred a few more times, then stopped and set the spoon on the holder.

  "When?"

  "Wednesday afternoon. I called you but you weren't at the house."

  My throat tightened. "Why didn't you call my cell?"

  She didn't answer. Instead she checked the nan in the oven, spending way too much time obsessively poking at it.

  "Sage," I started.

  She closed the oven door and straightened, staring at the stovetop, hands on her hips. She turned, something like resolve in the set of her jaw and shoulders. "I'm not sure."<
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  I nodded, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Old stuff, I chanted wordlessly.

  "I'm sorry. I was afraid you'd think I'd gone crazy, talking about witches."

  "The Navajo kind?" I clenched and unclenched my teeth.

  She exhaled and dropped her gaze. "Yes. I didn't want you to laugh at me."

  That hurt, somehow. "Why would you think I'd laugh about that?"

  She raised her head. "Because you can be so damn rational and logical. I knew you'd tell me it was just a dog, that I was just upset about the possibility that my father was dead on the Rez." She crossed her arms, daring me to refute her.

  "I--you're right about my damn rational and logical side. But I would never make fun of you or what you believe."

  "Not overtly." She turned her attention back to the stove, stirring again.

  "What are you trying to say?" I stopped leaning on the counter, confused and hurt at the prickle in the air between us.

  "I don't think like you do." She paused, watching the dilruba. "I've seen some things that logic can't explain. I don't look for explanations, either. I just accept that there are things I don't understand, things that don't respond to science or logic or rational thought." She met my gaze then, clouds gathering in her eyes like storms over Hopi mesas. "And maybe you don't do it on purpose, but you have a certain tone you use when I talk about things like this."

  I kept my mouth shut, knowing it was the best course of action in this conversation.

  "It's a professor tone. Respectful, but with a patronizing edge. Like you're trying to figure out how to get me to come around to your way of seeing things." She turned the heat off under the frying pan, every movement tense. She emptied the pan's contents into a serving bowl. Steam curled into the air as she did so. She did the same with the rice.

  I didn't know what to say. I went through the last few days in the tight silence that separated us, and through other memories we'd been making. "Do I really sound like that?" I asked, throat tight.