Lillian lived several miles outside of town, and she drove too fast to get home. The red-roofed old stucco ranch house she'd bought years ago had always been a sanctuary for her – until today. She didn't want to take a chance on having Stuart turn up while she was still there, and she changed quickly into a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt, boots and a leather jacket. She stuffed a change of clothes, a bar of soap, her toothbrush and toothpaste into a backpack, emptying a bowl of fruit and English walnuts and the nutcracker into it on her way out the back door.
To be clean and not to starve, she thought. And to run. How her life's goals had changed of late.
She managed to get away from the house unchallenged, and she took the interstate to Albuquerque and then on to Gallup. The day was bright and windy, the strong wind gusts buffeting her small car from time to time as she drove. She played the radio loud – country music – something she never listened to and therefore was guaranteed not to bring any disturbing memories to the forefront.
She did not want to think.
She made good time, getting into Window Rock before sundown. She could have stopped to see Lucas and Sloan, or her mother, or Meggie and her now only slightly wild husband, Jack, and their newest baby – but she didn't. She filled her gas tank at a convenience store, and then she fumbled for the map and kept driving. She didn't want to wait until morning to sec Becenti. She wanted to get this over with, and arriving when it was nearly dark would give her a slight edge, she thought. She would be the weary traveler. He had had Katie Becenti to teach him how to behave, and he wouldn't turn her away without at least listening to what she had to say she hoped. And, in spite of her determination not to think, her mind was busy working on precisely what she would tell Becenti when she saw him – her opening argument, as it were. Should she appeal to his better nature? To his sense of duty to his job and his family? Or should she bait him and make him angry? Lord knows, she'd had enough practice doing that.
She was so determined to find the best approach that she missed the first turnoff, a narrow dirt road that wound upward and seemed to go nowhere. But, she was reservation raised and therefore undaunted. She backed up and made the turn, and she kept going, slowly guiding her low-riding car carefully around or through the potholes, if there was no other way. The farther she went, the more impassable the road became. She stopped at one point to look at the map. "Two and a half miles" Lucas had written. He was exacting about these things, so she kept going. Eventually the land flattened and broadened, and the road became somewhat less rutted.
She drove on. She could see a cluster of trees, and experience told her that this was a likely spot for the Becenti homestead to be.
It wasn't.
She kept driving, finally stopping again to look at the map. It showed that the homestead was somewhere in the vicinity, but not precisely where, and there was nothing about this particular stretch of road. The sun was going down. There was little daylight left for her to go aimlessly looking. She should have waited until morning.
On impulse, she got out of the car and walked to a cluster of vertical standing rocks she thought she could climb to get a better view of the land around her. She made her way upward carefully and with minimal difficulty. When she reached the top, she looked in all directions, seeing nothing in the least bit helpful – another stand of trees off to her right, long shadows from the monoliths. It seemed very quiet at first, just the wind and her labored breathing from making the climb, but then she heard a different sound, the faint bleating of sheep from somewhere – from that same stand of trees.
She thought that that had to be the Becenti place, and she scrambled down and walked back to the car, turning it around and trying to find the track that would take her in that direction. She eventually found what must be it, but her blind faith in Lucas's mapmaking had definitely been shaken. He hadn't put in the non-road to the trees.
Of course, in all fairness, he hadn't expected her to be doing this in near darkness. She switched on her headlights and drove in what she hoped was the right direction. Finally, she could see the rail fencing of a corral and beyond that, the vertical sticks of a large sheep pen. She continued until she could see a log-and-mud hogan among the trees. There was no sign of activity. No smoke coming out of the smoke hole.
She parked the car and waited, a gesture of politeness on her part to give Johnny time to prepare for company. The wind had picked up. The sun slipped behind the rock cliffs. She shivered and reached for her jacket, draping it over her arms.
She waited. The car shook in a gust of wind. She could see no flicker of light from inside the hogan. She didn't even know if she was in the right place. After a moment, she opened the car door and got out. She put on her jacket, and she stood looking toward the hogan.
Still nothing – except the continued bleating of the sheep, a bleating she instantly recognized, for all her disinterest in herding when she was growing up. Sheep in distress.
Coyotes, she thought, then immediately changed her mind. They weren't frantic enough for that; just unhappy – hungry or thirsty – and restless because of the wind.
She walked in the direction of the sheep pen. Maybe Becenti was out there. Maybe he hadn't heard her car. The bleating grew louder, and the flock crowded the fence at the sight of her, clamoring for her to take pity on them and put something over the fence. It was a decent-size flock – long-haired churros mostly, the traditional Navajo breed that had been captured centuries ago from the invading Spaniards.
She still didn't see anyone about. Someone should be out here feeding these animals. And where were the dogs? she wondered. Surely Becenti wasn't trying to keep a herd without at least one dog. It could be done, of course, but not easily, especially alone. In her experience there was always one adventurous ewe in the bunch who was forever trying to go her own way and take half the herd along with her, one whose wool was too prized or whose lambs were too healthy for her to end up in a stew pot for her mischief. God, she hated sheep.
She walked around the perimeter of the pen, still looking for Becenti. No one was outside. She walked back toward the hogan, leaving the sheep complaining after her. In spite of their noise, it was just too...eerily...quiet.
Where is he? Inside the hogan?
She didn't want to go barging in to see, and she still didn't call out to him, even though the time allotted for her to wait for his acknowledgement of her visit must be well past what Navajo decorum allowed. It was certainly past what she was willing to tolerate.
"Oh, the hell with it," she said aloud. "Becenti! It's Lillian Singer!"
Nothing.
She strained to hear over the bleating sheep and the wind. Still nothing.
She walked back to the car to get her flashlight, the big, six-cell nightstick variety she kept for illumination and, if necessary, protection. She was cold and she was hungry – and her mental state didn't bear scrutiny. The only positive thought she could manage was that even if Becenti wasn't here, she would have at least made her goodwill gesture on behalf of Lucas and Becenti's mother, and she could get off this family-induced guilt trip.
"Becenti!" she yelled again.
The sheep were growing more rambunctious at the fence. She gave a heavy sigh and walked back toward the hogan. Welcome or not, wrong abode or not, she was going to have to look inside. She recognized that she could just get in the car and leave – except that Lillian Singer didn't do things by halves. She had come all this way to lecture Johnny Becenti, and that she would do – if she could find him.
The door to the hogan hung slightly askew. She stood in front of it for a moment, then pushed it open.
"Becenti?" she called, shining the flashlight beam in side.
She could see the makeshift stove in the middle of the dirt floor – half an inverted oil drum with a square cut out at the bottom for an opening and a stovepipe that went up through the smoke hole. A cooking pot sat on top of the barrel, but there was no fire burning. She could see an old military
foot locker pushed against the wall, a small table, some chairs.
And a pile of blankets in the darkest corner. Someone was lying on them.
"Becenti?" she said quietly, keeping the flashlight beam elsewhere, still giving him – someone – the opportunity to invite her to come inside.
She walked closer. She couldn't tell if the person was asleep or awake. She could only hear a kind of heavy breathing –
She abruptly stopped. If she had disturbed someone's intimate tryst here, she was going straight back to Window Rock and punch her brother in the nose.
Her eyes became more adjusted to the darkness in the corner. No. This person was alone, and perhaps ill, not in the throes of passion. She stepped forward, crossing the dirt floor and kneeling down by the blankets. Johnny Becenti lay on the pile, his eyes closed, his breathing labored, painful.
Now what? she thought, trying to think of something to say to him. She wasn't supposed to be here.
But he didn’t give her time to speak. He suddenly reached out for her, his hand hot against her face.
“Mae,” he whispered. “Mae -!”
Chapter Three
The kerosene lamps had been lit – he could tell that much, even with his eyes closed. She had made a fire inside the oil drum, then she'd left for a time and come back again. And now...
He wasn't quite sure what she was doing now. He could hear the slight sounds of her moving around the hogan, but that was all. He thought she must be looking into the niches in the log walls to find out what he had, but he didn't open his eyes to see. It would take too much effort, far too much effort. He had to concentrate on trying to breathe. He was so cold. Everything hurt. His head, his arms and legs, and his chest.
She shouldn't be here. How can she be here?
At first he thought it was Mae who called him – her voice he heard in the wind.
Becenti! The way she always used to say it on those rare occasions when she was annoyed with him. And in his present state of mind, why wouldn't he think it was her?
He had done a great deal of late that would have caused his gentle wife annoyance.
But it was hardly less incredible to him that the voice belonged to Lillian Singer. Lillian, who never left Santa Fe if she could help it, who went to the opera and who moved in the same orbit as the artists and the musicians and the movie stars – and her longtime lover, Stuart Dennison. She was a woman who obviously needed a place like Santa Fe. She needed to be where she could live on both sides of who and what she really was. He knew that she had fled the reservation when she was still in her teens, and when and if she ever returned, it most certainly wasn't to a place like this – a one-room log-and-mud hogan with a dirt floor. No electricity. No running water. No heat save the oil-drum stove.
And yet she was here, and she apparently knew what she was doing. The fire was burning well. He could smell the woodsmoke, hear the oil drum pop with the heat. He wanted to ask her how she got here. He wanted to ask her –
He realized suddenly that she was kneeling by him, and he opened his eyes after all.
"What day...is it?" he said, clearly startling her – again.
"Friday," she answered. "Friday evening, actually." She watched him closely, he supposed, in case she decided that she needed to run. He had scared her earlier, grabbing her like that. She was still scared, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
"Johnny, are you in your right mind or not?" she asked bluntly.
"Not," he said, sounding much weaker than he intended. To his surprise, she smiled.
"Oh, good," she said. "That I'm used to. Here, drink some of this."
She offered him water, the bottled kind for the relentlessly health-conscious that he had seen advertised in magazines and never had the occasion to taste or buy. He was so thirsty, and because of that, he drank deeply, in spite of the burning pain in his throat, in spite of the fact that he didn’t want her here. She helped hold the bottle, because his hands shook so. His only thought was that maybe she wouldn’t leave, now that she had seen his weakness.
“More?” she asked.
He took another swallow, and then another and another, now of his grandfather, of a story the old man had told him once about a tiny puddle of water in the desert and two warriors. The Thirsty Warrior saw only the sunlight on the top. The Un-Thirsty Warrior saw only the mud on thee bottom. There was no doubt in his mind which category he fell into.
"What are you doing here?" he asked with some effort.
She completely ignored the question. "How long have you been sick like this?"
He shook his head and tried not to cough, tried not to get angry because her response was so typically Lillian. She always had her own questions, her own agenda. It was impossible for her not to be contrary.
"What – are you – doing here?" he asked again.
"Feeding sheep," she said. "If I can find something to give them. Where is it?"
He shook his head again. The motion caused a sharp pain to shoot through his skull. He had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out. "I – can do – it."
"So do it," she said mildly. "But I think you should know, if they aren't fed soon, they're going to be out of the fence."
He made a feeble attempt to sit up, and then another. The third time he tried, she put both hands on his shoulders to keep him down.
"Johnny, enough already. I'll do it."
"I don't – need – your help – "
"I don't care what you need. I'm trying to look after the damn sheep! Never mind, I'll find it myself."
She moved away from him and grabbed up a heavy flashlight and went out the door. She was gone for a long time. When she returned, she went immediately to the stove and dropped down in front of it, holding out her hands to the warmth.
"Did you – feed them?" he asked.
"Yes, and no thanks to you."
"I want to know – why you're here."
She turned to look at him. "I'm here, Johnny, because I needed a place to hide. And I'm using you as an excuse."
"I don't know what – that means," he said, holding her gaze.
She shrugged. "I'm not exactly sure myself. But that seems to be the bottom line. You want some soup?" He continued to stare at her.
"The question isn't that hard, Johnny," she said after a moment. "You say, ‘Yes, Lillian, I do,' or 'No, Lillian, I don't.' The choice is chicken and rice or chicken and rice. It's the only kind you had and it's ready." She stood and lifted the lid of a small pot on the stove to verify that fact.
"I don't want you here," he said.
"I understand that," she said, stirring the soup. "Now answer the question." She went to the table and brought back two – his only two – coffee mugs. She poured the soup into one, then gave him a pointed look.
He made a gesture of impatience – and acquiescence – with one hand. She could have pretended not to understand if she'd wanted, forced him to capitulate on a grander scale, but she didn't. She brought the cup to him, but she made no attempt to help him sit. He managed to raise himself up on his elbow with difficulty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and after a few sips, his hunger returned full force. The soup tasted exactly as he expected – essentially chickenless and canned – but it was still all he could do not to gulp it down like the starving man he was.
She left him with the cup and went to rummage in a backpack she must have brought with her. After a few seconds, she returned with a small packet of saltine crackers, or more accurately – cracker crumbs. He let her pour them into the cup.
She immediately went away again, this time to fill her own cup. She sat on the dirt floor near the stove to drink it, and much to his relief, she made no attempt to engage him in conversation.
But she kept looking at him, assessing the situation and his condition in a way that annoyed him far more than her talking would have and far more than he had the strength to be annoyed about. He didn't have the strength for anything, and he abruptly set the cup down a
nd lay back heavily.
"When you've finished, I'll take you to see a doctor," she said.
"No."
"Johnny – "
"No! I don't want to see a doctor and I – don't want you here – "
She gave a quiet sigh. "This is the deal. If you want to get rid of me, you're going to have to let me take you somewhere to get some medical treatment."
"No."
"Then I'm staying."
"I don't need you here!"
"I told you. I'm not thinking about you. I'm thinking about the sheep. And if you die – well, then somebody's got to bury you."
"You'd enjoy that, I guess," he said with every bit of the petulance he felt at her invasion of his privacy. He was not to be bothered. Everyone on the reservation knew he was not to be bothered.
"Well, you have gotten on my nerves on occasion."
He swore – just loud enough to make himself feel better and not necessarily loud enough for her to hear. He hurt so. His chest was on fire with the effort it took to argue with her. He lay there, trying not to gasp, his hand over his eyes.
"Johnny?" she said after a moment.
"What?"
"I'm afraid you've got that hantavirus thing."
He looked at her. She was serious. "I don't."
"How do you know?"
"Because – I'd be dead – by now – if I did."
She didn't look very reassured.
"It's something, Johnny. You need to see a doctor. You might even need to be in the hospital. If you won't do that, then I'll find Winston Tsosie. He can tell me the best person to do a chant. He'll know who can help you."
"Lillian – !" He broke off and began to cough. "I want you – to leave," he said when he was able.
She moved to the backpack, and he thought for a moment she was actually going to do it. She took out a cellular phone instead.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to see if I can get my sister-in-law. She can – "
"No – !"
"Sloan can tell me what to do for you."
Mother To Be Page 3
