"What you can – do – for me – is get – out of here!"
To his surprise, she did just that – but she left the backpack and took the phone with her. After a few minutes she came in again. She stuffed the phone into the backpack and came to kneel beside him.
"The transmission keeps breaking up," she said, as if this were information he had interest in or had even solicited. "I don't know if she even knew it was me. Johnny – "
"Lillian, for God's sake! Will you go away and let me be!"
"I think not," she answered without apology. "I told you. I need a place to hide – " She stopped, watching him intently. "What's wrong?" she asked abruptly.
"Nothing," he said, but he was beginning to shake. He was so cold. "Oh, God – "
She immediately took off her jacket and put it over him. Then she began to look around the hogan for something else to add to the pile – his heavy winter coat. But he still shook. He was ashamed to have her see him like this, but there was nothing he could do about it. Lillian was Lillian. Even if he'd been well, it was doubtful he could have made her go if she didn't want to. After a time, the chills ended, only to be replaced by profuse sweating. He threw the mound of covers off him, expecting an argument from her. But she wiped his face with a wet cloth and handed him two tablets and the bottled water.
"What is -this?"
"Aspirin," she said. "It's the only thing I've got that might help."
He hesitated, then took them, surprising himself and her. For a man who had wanted to die as badly as he had, he was now inordinately interested in anything that might make him feel better.
He must have slept afterward, but he had no idea how long. He woke up abruptly, uncertain about his surroundigns hut still knowing that there was something here that worried him.
Ah, yes. Lillian Singer. Where is she? he thought.
Or had he dreamed her and Mae both? He turned his head to look around the hogan. No, he hadn't imagined her being here. The fire was still burning and the bottled water was exactly where she'd left it.
He wrestled for a moment with the temptation to call out for her, but he realized almost as soon as the notion occurred to him that he couldn't do that. The idea was for her to go away, not think that he needed her. He didn't need her. As she so cleverly had pointed out, the sheep needed her. He could hear that they were quiet now. Fed and content – or out of the pen altogether and halfway to Albuquerque.
He lay there, listening to quiet sheep. Listening to the wind. A ghost wind.
Mae.
His wife had made her own funeral arrangements. She had lived all her life the Navajo Way, and she had remained traditional to the last. She had wanted all the taboos surrounding the dead meticulously kept. Without his leave, her family had carefully prepared her body for the long journey into nothingness. Her elderly father and her one male cousin had taken it to some remote and secret place for burial – for his sake, so that her chindi, the evil fragment of herself that remained on the earth, could never harm him. Part of him thanked her for relieving him of that terrible task. Part of him believed in the old ways enough to be at peace with what had been done.
And part of him wanted only to weep. He missed her. He'd had no idea what a great empty place her death would leave. If he had a grave to visit, if they had had children together, then he might –
He gave a quiet sigh. No. Nothing would be changed. He would still be alone – here. He would still be remembering and grieving. He didn't know what to do with it – all this sorrow. It was like a living thing that dragged him down into darkness. It was always there, whether he was asleep or awake. He couldn't bear the emptiness of the house in Window Rock that he and Mae had shared. He couldn't bear going to the law-enforcement building and doing the job he'd put before her more times than not. So he'd come all the way out here, away from everybody, not understanding until very recently that the emptiness wasn't in the house or in the job, but in himself.
And now he had another tribulation – Lillian Singer.
He lay there, still listening, and he realized suddenly how much he was anticipating her return. Surely he hadn't become that starved for human companionship – to the point that Lillian Singer would be welcome. But, even he would have to admit that her coming here hadn't been all that catastrophic – so far. She wouldn't let herself be ordered around, of course, but that was nothing new. She had done nothing but feed him, and build a fire to warm him, and look after the sheep. But the question still remained.
What the hell is she doing here?
Hiding, she'd said. From what? As abrasive as she could be, perhaps she'd gotten on the wrong side of someone during a court case, or more likely, she'd gotten a guilty client off and the victims didn't thank her for it. He certainly understood how that could happen. He'd been angry enough with her on similar occasions himself. She was a good lawyer; he would admit that. She was incredibly astute, able to uncover the smallest inconsistency or impropriety in police procedure, relentless in her questions and her arguments. Legally, she was a bane to any law-enforcement agency, and heaven help the agency if it couldn't prove the wrongdoing it claimed had been done. He had always hated to see her coming, and yet she was the very lawyer he would have wanted if he'd ever needed one.
He dozed off again, and when he woke this time, it occurred to him that Lillian's aspirin must have helped, because he didn't hurt nearly so much. She still wasn't in the hogan, but she had to have come back at some point. The fire in the oil drum was still burning and a different boiling pot sat on top of it. The lid rattled from time to time as the steam escaped. It didn't smell like more soup.
He struggled to sit up, and he realized that he had done more than doze. He could see daylight coming through the smoke hole.
So far, so good he thought as he made it to his feet. The effort sent him into another fit of coughing. He stood there, hunched over, his hands resting on his thighs in a useless attempt to stave off the pain.
"Where are you going?" Lillian said at his elbow.
"None – of your – business," he answered around the coughs.
"Do you need any help?"
"No – damn it, I don't,"
"I won't look," she said.
He glanced at her and frowned.
"Well, you've been asleep a long time," she said. "All that water and soup has to go somewhere." She was smiling a bit, her chin up in that slightly defiant way she had.
"It's not – your problem – "
"Oh, I know. I'm just trying to be helpful – I know," she said, holding up both hands. "You don't want my help. So sue me."
"Lillian – you could make – a man – really crazy – you know that?"
"Yes, I do. That's why I've never married – out of compassion for your gender."
"You're a damned – pain in – the – "
"Captain Becenti!" she cried in mock horror, smiling still. The smile eased a bit. "Can you make it to the privy or can't you?"
"I can – make it."
"Ah. Good. You can hold on to me until you get outside. Then you're on your own, and stop looking at me like that. I know you never planned on my finding out that even you have to heed the call of nature, but there you are."
She stood, holding out her hand to him.
"It's a good – thing for you – I feel this – bad," he said, letting her take his arm. He should have pushed her away, even if he did need the support, and he wasn't quite sure why he didn't.
"Yeah, well, fate loves the fearless," she said.
"What is – that?" he asked as they passed the stove.
"What is what?"
"On the stove – what is – it? You really know – how to make yourself – at home, don't you?"
"I didn't pillage your supplies. It's just hot water. Part of which I'm going to give you when you get back. You can do whatever you want with it. The rest I'm going to boil sage in – after which you will drink the subsequent sage tea. Do you have any idea how good sage tea is for
respiratory illnesses?"
"Yes," he assured her. "I'm surprised – you do."
"Boil sage – drink the liquid – cure a cold," she recited lot the benefit of his doubt.
"I don't have a – cold."
"No, you have pneumonia – or worse. Are you sure you can make it outside?"
"Lillian -
"You aren't going to shock me, Johnny. I have brothers."
"And I'm not – one of them. If I don't come back – don't come looking for me. I mean – it."
Lillian didn't go looking for him, as much as she wanted to. He was gone a long time. But, he didn't seem that much worse for wear when he returned. He was winded and still not up to looking alter a flock of sheep, but he was on his feet at least and that was a vast improvement over when she'd arrived.
She had the hot water ready for him as she'd promised – threatened. And a towel, and the soap she had brought in her backpack because she couldn't find his and didn't want to go rummaging through the hogan any more than she already had. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. She'd been afraid to sleep, because he was so sick and because of the sheep. Coyotes – both the animal and the human kind – always seemed to know when a potential victim was less than protected.
She wasn't surprised that Becenti made no effort at conversation. She wasn't welcome here, and he was barely able to stand. Neither thing was conducive to small talk, even discounting his taciturn personality.
She kept her back to him, and she could hear him pour the water from the pot she'd left for him into the wash pan, and then washing noises. Then she could hear him moving around the hogan – making a trip to the outside again, she supposed, to dump the wash pan.
"Lillian," he said when he came back, and she braced herself for Act III of "Don't Let the Door Hit You in the Butt, Ms. Singer."
"What?" she said, still not turning around.
"The sheep – "
"Are fed."
"And the horse?"
She looked around at him. He was putting on a clean shirt. "What horse?"
"The one in the corral."
"No horse, Johnny. Sorry." She supposed that when the hay and grain weren't forthcoming, it had jumped the fence, but she refrained from pointing out the obvious.
"I need that – horse," he said.
"Not yet, you don't."
"Lillian – "
"Would you mind if I fixed something to eat?" she interrupted. "It's been a long time since I had a meal." She had been making do with the fruit and nuts she'd dumped into the backpack, but now she needed something more substantial.
He looked at her. She didn't know if he was surprised that she would give him such a big opening to tell her to hit the road to the nearest restaurant or that she'd had the good manners to finally ask his permission to take over his hogan.
"In the containers over there," he said. "Coffee – flour – cornmeal – whatever. And there should be – some canned stuff – fruit and meat – milk. Eat what – you want."
The sage tea was ready, and she brought him that first. He took the cup, and for once, he didn't argue. Almost.
"Are you sure you – -used sage?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm sure I used sage," she answered, insulted. She knew as much about reservation plant life as he did, or she would have if she'd paid more attention to her mother.
He almost smiled, and he held the cup closer to sniff the brew. “Smells sage tea."
“Drink it!” she said, and this time he did smile – for a tenth of a second.
“What a wonderful – nurse you'd make, Lillian. You – missed your calling.”
“Maybe so, but I can do without your remarks. I'm not any happier about this situation than you are."
“Then why don't you – just go?"
"I told you why."
"No you didn't."
"You're sick, Becenti."
“I’m better "
"The sheep will starve if I go."
He sighed. "Probably – so," he admitted.
"The tea will help, you know."
He didn't say anything to that, but he did drink some of the sage brew before he lay back down.
"Can you make fry bread?" he asked after a time.
"I can," she assured him.
"As long as you're in – the mood to cook – if I asked you politely – would you make some?"
"If you asked me politely?"
"Yeah."
"After I alert the media about this remarkable first, you mean?"
He actually almost smiled again. "Yeah."
She shrugged. "Well. If it's politely."
Actually, she had already mixed the dough and had it in the two-hour "rest" her mother had always insisted upon. It had been a long time since she'd made fry bread, but she had no trouble remembering how. She had no trouble remembering anything. Bread recipes. Details of lost court cases. Humiliations in Santa Fe restaurants. Part of her was more than ashamed of having run away from another encounter with Stuart and his fiancée. Part of her felt only relief.
And part of her still wanted to cry – when she had never been one to shed tears over anything. She always duly noted how miserable she felt, picked up whatever salvageable pieces remained of an unhappy situation, and then she moved on. She certainly didn't run to the primitive outer reaches of the reservation and force herself upon a man who was essentially a complete stranger and who had never tried to hide his dislike of her.
She gave a quiet sigh. "You must be feeling better," she said, walking closer to him.
"I don't know," he said, his hand over his eyes. "I'm just...hungry."
"I still think you need to see a doctor."
He lifted his hand. "If you're going to – stay here, don't – talk," he said.
"Don't talk? Johnny, I'm a lawyer."
"Please – don't remind – me."
On impulse, she bent down and touched the side of his face. He was still burning up with fever, and he caught her wrist too late to keep her from noting it.
"This is – none of your – business," he said yet another time, and he was still holding on to her wrist. He wasn't hurting her, but he was strong, in spite of his illness.
"Well, actually, it is. I took the retainer."
"What – retainer?"
"If I can have my hand back, I'll get you some more aspirin – "
"Answer the – question!"
"I will," she said, pulling her hand free. She moved away from him and she could feel him watching her as she searched the backpack. She found the aspirins and brought them to him. There was just enough water in the bottle for him to get them down.
"The water barrels are almost empty, Johnny. How far away is the well?" she asked.
He swore instead of answering. She understood the response to the no-water situation perfectly; it was very much like her own.
"I could drive the truck around looking for it," she said, 4'but it would waste your gasoline. And the sheep are – "
"Damn it, Lillian – !"
"Johnny, this isn't my fault. I didn't use up the water. I'm just the messenger. And I can't help that you're sick. You're sick and the water barrels need filling. So deal with it."
"I'm not – "
He suddenly began to cough, and there was no water to give him.
"Here," she said, offering him the sage tea again.
He was still coughing, and he made no attempt to take it.
"Becenti – "
He made a wide backward sweep with his hand, knocking the cup to the ground.
"If you think that is going to hurt my feelings, you're wrong," she said, bending to pick up the cup. "You can suit yourself. You're the One with the cough."
But, inexplicably, her feelings were hurt. Appalled that she was actually about to cry, she turned away from him just in time to keep him from seeing it. His rudeness, his rejection of her attempt to help him was not unexpected, and it was certainly nothing to cry about. She had no reason to be upset, because none of this mat
tered. Johnny Becenti wasn't her responsibility. She'd done far more for him than his mother's twenty dollars covered. She didn't like sheep and she didn't like him. There was no reason in the world why she couldn't just get into her car and go.
Instead, she uncovered the dough for the fry bread and tore off a piece, pressing it into a round, flat shape for frying with a good deal more force than the task required.
"You don't have to – do that," he said behind her.
She didn't stop.
"Did you – hear me!"
"Yes, I heard you. I'm hungry. And unless you're planning on sending me the way of that cup, I'm going to make the fry bread."
"Lillian, are you – crying?"
"No!" she said, her voice breaking in spite of all she could do.
"Great. You're not – crying – and I'm not – sick. Lillian, what the hell – is wrong with you?"
"Everything. Everything is wrong with me. I lost a big case I shouldn't have lost. After all those years with Stuart, I just got dumped. Your mother and my mother laid a guilt trip on me you would not believe. I haven't had any sleep. I'm hungry. I don't know how to get water for all those damned sheep and I'm scared you're going to die, okay!"
She stood there, her back to him, the piece of fry-bread dough still in her hand. After a long moment, she heard him sigh.
"Okay," he said.
Chapter Four
He watched her make the bread. She had very long fingers and delicate wrists, but her hands were sure and capable. If she was still crying, he couldn't tell it, and most certainly, he wasn't about to ask. He lay on the blankets instead-more than disconcerted. If there was anything as incredible as the fact of her being here, it was her being here and in tears.
But he was curious by nature and by former profession, and he couldn't let her revelations simply lie. He waited until the bread was made, then he waited until they had eaten – fry bread and canned Vienna sausages and canned peaches to get some kind of liquid to wash it all down. He had no complaints about the bread. He was actually grateful that she had obliged him by making it, regardless of the fact that he neglected to say so. It tasted good – like his mother always made. His mother, who had somehow go Lillian Singer to feel guilty.
Mother To Be Page 4
