by Jill G. Hall
Betty Lou tilted her head. “Welcome. Hogan.”
Sylvia thought of Bay Breeze. Could someone really live in this primitive structure covered with mud?
She picked up Lucy, followed Betty Lou to the building, and entered past the doorway blanket, where the woman motioned to the right. Stepping inside the muggy building, an enticing aroma of cedar and cooked corn greeted her. The simplistic beauty of the circular dwelling astonished her. It had no windows, but light shone through the smoke hole at the top.
“Sit.” Betty Lou picked up a spoon from the stove and pointed it to a sheepskin rug on the earthen floor. Then she stirred the pot on the stove and added a log to its dark potbelly.
Sylvia studied the dirty carpet. Ordinarily, she would have been disgusted, but under these circumstances, she couldn’t wait to collapse on it. Her head felt dizzy and her body fluctuated from cold to hot. Careful not to jostle a sleeping Lucy in her arms, she settled onto the soft wool and looked around.
She had expected the structure to be dark with dirt walls, but instead, the interior had been lined with wood, like the cedar closet at home. Framework ceiling poles overlapped each other in a circular fashion. A loom leaned against a wall, strung with an unfinished blanket, red zigzags woven into gray and black.
Sylvia rested her hand on Lucy’s back. Betty Lou crouched in front of them and touched the injured leg, and the puppy cried out. Delicately, Betty Lou manipulated her other legs. She returned to the harmed one and instructed. “Sylvia, hold tight.”
Grimacing, she did as told. Betty Lou yanked the wounded leg straight out with a jerk that made a loud pop. Lucy screeched and then hummed a low moan.
“Oh, you poor, sweet girl.” Sylvia kissed her head.
“Better now.” Betty Lou nodded and stood up. “Hungry?”
At the stove, she filled a bowl and placed it on the ground. Lucy perked up, hobbled over, and gobbled all of it all up. Then she lumbered back to Sylvia, plopping down next to her.
Betty Lou smiled at Lucy. “See, didn’t need a vet.”
Sylvia touched her throbbing head.
“I’ll heal it too.” Betty Lou pulled a bandana from a basket, sprinkled liquid on it, and wrapped it around Sylvia’s head.
Sylvia tried not to stare at the suede pouch that hung on a leather string around Betty Lou’s neck and wondered what was inside it. “I don’t know what would have happened to us if you hadn’t come along. Thank you.”
“Knew you were in trouble. I sensed it.”
Sylvia didn’t really know what that meant but didn’t want to be rude and ask. Did this woman have special powers like Glinda the Good Witch? “We’ll get out of your way soon. May I use the telephone to call a taxi?” She thought about her wrecked T-Bird with a sigh.
Betty Lou giggled. “There’s no phone.”
“You live out here without a phone?” Sylvia frowned.
“Yes. No poles on the reservation.”
“Reservation?”
“You’re on Navajo land now,” Betty Lou answered with a deep voice, moved to the stove and stirred the pot.
“Then could you please take us to a hotel?” Sylvia needed a shower and a warm bed.
Betty Lou ladled more thick stew into a tin cup, added herbs, and handed it to Sylvia. “Eat first. Make you better.”
The mouthwatering aroma was so enticing that Sylvia couldn’t say no, and she took a bite. It tingled her mouth with an assortment of flavors: meat, corn, parsley, and something that tasted like licorice. It was so good that it reminded her of Ella’s Goulash.
Betty Lou pulled up another sheepskin and sat across from her. They ate in silence, except for Lucy’s gentle snores.
The stew warmed Sylvia’s stomach. “This is yummy!”
“Secret Navajo recipe.”
Sylvia touched her head. “It actually feels better now.” She tossed off the blanket and unbuttoned her jacket.
“Told you so.” Betty Lou unwound the bandana. Sylvia set her cup down and relaxed back onto the sheepskin with her elbows for support. Betty Lou’s hair appeared as shiny as mica in the soft firelight, her smile crooked and eyes full of mischief. She seemed like a wonderful person, but Sylvia had been a poor judge of character before.
39
Sylvia asked, “Do you live out here all alone?”
“Usually. But sometimes my husband sleeps here.” Betty Lou grinned her slanted lips.
“Where is he now?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t? Is he on a business trip?”
“Something like that.”
Sylvia leaned toward Betty Lou and gazed into those dark eyes. She felt connected to her, as if they’d known each other forever. “Do you love him?”
“I love him more when he’s not here.” Betty Lou snickered.
Sylvia’s eyes opened wide, and she put her hand on Lucy’s sleeping body. “Why?”
“He drinks too much. Gets mean and scares me.” She leaned toward Sylvia and whispered, “Sometimes makes me want to kill him.”
Sylvia gasped and clutched the amulet. “Has he ever hurt you?”
“Plenty.” Betty Lou shrugged and rolled back her sleeves revealing red scars. She mocked herself in a high-pitched singsong voice: “Felt butterflies in my stomach. Thought it love.”
Sylvia nodded. “I’ve felt that way before.”
The hogan grew dark. From outside, an owl’s song, like a low-pitched flute, penetrated the chilly space. Sylvia shivered and pulled the blanket back around her shoulders.
“Still cold?” Betty Lou put another log in the fire. She lit a lantern, hung it on a nearby hook, and sat in front of Sylvia cross-legged. Removing the pouch from around her neck, she dumped the contents into her skirt’s lap: clear crystals, a carved turquoise bear, black rocks. Her hand clutched a crystal like the one on the rearview mirror, and she replaced the other pieces in her pouch. With eyes closed, she held her hand toward Sylvia. After a few moments, Betty Lou’s fist began to shake.
Sylvia wondered if this was another nightmare or maybe even the Twilight Zone. But those would be frightening, and this was not. Calmness settled in on her, and, stretching out her stiff legs, she rested weary arms by her side.
Betty Lou rose, circled Sylvia several times with slow, prancing steps, then began to yip, not unlike the sounds those nighttime coyotes made. But instead of being scared, Sylvia allowed the echoing vibrations to move through her like enormous hugs of power filled with adoration and self-love.
Betty Lou opened her eyes and sat back down. “Butterflies are not real love. After a time, they always fly away.” She waved her hands like butterflies, reflecting dark shadows on the wall.
Sylvia imitated her. First she wiggled her right hand and then her left. The shadows shifted, and a flutter of butterflies flew off the wall and into the room; silent pastel wings surrounded them. Mesmerized, Sylvia watched the clear colors flit around the space. They swarmed overhead and landed on her body like soft kisses. Betty Lou clapped her hands twice, and the butterflies evaporated.
Sylvia’s hands continued to dance in the firelight. Her right shimmered with fire hues of bright orange, magenta, and ruby; it felt hot but was soothing. Her left hand streamed shades from indigo to violet, the other fire colors, and felt cool and refreshing, but not freezing.
Betty Lou stood up again and with quick steps rubbed her palms together. On impulse, Sylvia jumped up and copied her until fluorescent sparks crackled and hissed and flew high up to the dome-like roof. Lucy hopped up with a bark.
Sylvia felt radiant, rose up, and drifted into the sparks. She became one of them, a red, white, and blue Fourth-of-July firework. Her body vibrated, and she could hear her heartbeat. It had never felt so open.
With a grin, Betty Lou sat back, watching. Sylvia wanted to be near her, and she floated down to her sheepskin. Trance-like, she settled into Betty Lou’s eyes for direction. Following Betty Lou’s gaze upward, she watched as the sparks dimmed and then d
isappeared like shooting stars.
Betty Lou paused for a moment then commanded with a mellow voice: “Share your sorrow.” She pursed her narrow lips that Sylvia knew could hold a secret.
Sylvia sat tall and alert, her tongue loosened, and she couldn’t hold back. “I killed a man,” she blurted. Her whole body released from saying it aloud. She searched Betty Lou’s face for a reaction, but it remained unchanged, listening eyes encouraging the truth, as if she had already known.
“It must not have been on purpose.” Betty Lou folded her hands in her lap. “You’re a good girl.”
Sylvia became consumed with grief—sorry for Betty Lou and sorry for herself, for the way they’d been mistreated. She tried to hold back, but a flood of tears escaped her, and she couldn’t stop. With her body wracked with grief, Sylvia wept while Betty Lou sat guard.
Time passed. It was hard to tell if she had sobbed for a minute or an hour, but the tears finally subsided. Betty Lou handed Sylvia a kerchief. “Blow,” she instructed.
Sylvia did and then tried to smile.
“Tell me all.” Betty Lou seemed to glow in the dark.
“My fiancé, Ricardo, drank and was mean, too.” Once she began, it was impossible to stop. She told Betty Lou everything: Paul’s warnings, Ricardo’s charm, his deceptions and death.
“It’s not your fault.” Betty Lou smiled serenely.
“But I shot him.”
“There is good and evil. Ricardo was evil.”
“But it’s a sin to kill.”
“Maybe your God did not want him on earth anymore.” Betty Lou looked up for a few moments as if listening for a god to speak, then nodded. “I know you are forgiven and blessed.”
Sylvia wished she could believe that. Maybe with time, she’d be sure. Drained, she yawned and couldn’t keep her eyes open. She didn’t want to leave now. Betty Lou made her feel loved and protected. “It must be late. May we stay here with you?”
“Yes, sleep here.” She nodded.
Sylvia looked around for a bed. “Where?”
“Here.” Betty Lou pulled over more sheepskins.
Sylvia yawned again and caressed the thick fur. She curled up onto her side, body warm with Lucy asleep beside her.
Betty Lou lit a stick of white leaves. She wafted it around the room, spreading a pungent but calming aroma. A sliver of daylight shone under the hogan’s blanketed door. It was hard to believe they had been up all night, and Sylvia rolled onto her stomach, feeling as if she were part of the earth, sensing its slow rotation. Betty Lou covered them with a blanket and chanted an Indian lullaby. In its rhythm, like a gentle rain, Sylvia could hear a song of redemption. Betty Lou’s low voice massaged Sylvia’s body like one of Ella’s nighttime back rubs. Feet toward the fire, Sylvia rested, convinced for a moment that God had forgiven her for shooting Ricardo.
40
Walking home, Anne passed a bakery, and the smell of cinnamon reminded her of that morning a week ago when Sergio brought her his secret-recipe spiced donuts with fresh coffee and then joined her back in bed. She almost missed her plane. He seemed to really like to listen to her talk. Not like Karl, who had always changed the subject to his own interests. In their short time together, she felt closer to Sergio than she had to Karl after a whole year. She felt like Sergio might be the one, even though he lived all the way across the country. The day she left, he texted a quick thank-you and she had replied but still hadn’t heard back from him again. Maybe it was just a one-night stand.
She pulled the yellow UPS slip off her mailbox. Funny, she hadn’t ordered anything lately. The writing indicated that the package had been given to Mrs. Ladenheim. Anne knocked on her landlady’s door. At least her rent was paid.
Mrs. Ladenheim answered with her usual hangdog expression. “What?” She twisted a curler in her hair.
“Thanks for accepting my package.” Anne put on her best smile.
“What do you mean?”
Anne held up the slip.
“Oh, that.” The older woman walked down the hall into a back bedroom.
Anne didn’t have the patience for this. She was exhausted. Not only had she worked a morning shift at the St. Francis; she had also covered for Fay at the Noir all afternoon, and it had taken her a few days to get the jetlag out of her system.
The Siamese cat slid by. Anne reached down to pet it, but it hissed and skittered back inside. After a few minutes, Mrs. Ladenheim returned, shaking the box. “Can’t hear much. Feels heavy, though.”
Anne put out her hands and took it. It wasn’t heavy at all. As she clomped up the stairs, she read the return label: S. Parmeggianno. She didn’t know anyone by that name.
On her daybed, she set the package in her lap, grabbed some scissors, and slit open the tape along the side. She folded back the tissue paper and smiled—shoes just like the ones Sergio had thrown away at the subway station! She looked closer and saw that these were the real thing—not like the knockoffs she had bought on eBay. Real Ferragamos! And brand-new too. They must have cost a fortune. Anne ran her hands over the soft leather, so unlike the stiff insides of her old slingbacks. She pulled off her wingtips and slipped into the new shoes. They were exactly her size.
She rifled through the box for a card, found one, and read:
Big Foot—
You are a delight. Thanks for the kisses. Watch your step in these.
Sergio
How did he guess her exact size and find her mailing address?
Now she knew he had been thinking of her too. She looked at her phone. It was almost ten PM there. She shouldn’t call this late. Her mother had taught her it was rude to call anyone after nine.
Holding up her pant legs, Anne modeled the shoes in the mirror. They sure looked sexy. She considered texting him but really wanted to hear his voice, couldn’t wait until morning, and dialed his number.
He answered right away. “Yes?”
“How did you know my size?”
“So good to hear your voice.”
She thought about his juicy tongue twisted with hers in the back of the taxi and his warm hand on her thigh in the cool night. “And know the type?”
“I sell shoes for a living.”
“You do not!” She thought he was in art too. He had said something about following the trends.
“Yes, I do. The minute I saw you, I thought, Now, this girl has style. A size nine. I recognized the designer right away.”
“But those weren’t even real.”
“The intent was there. You deserve the real thing.”
She looked at her image in the mirror again. “I can’t accept them. They’re too much.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I’m going to send them back.”
“Don’t you dare! They won’t fit me.”
She laughed. “But . . .”
“It won’t hurt anything for you keep them.”
She hadn’t owned a new pair of shoes in ages. “I’ll think about it. How did you get my address?”
“I have my ways. Any plans to come back to New York soon? I really want to see you again.”
“We could Skype.” There’d be no harm in that.
He sighed. “Guess that’ll have to do for now.”
She laid back on the daybed and imagined them dining at Jardinière, her favorite San Francisco restaurant. He’d probably even go to the ballet with her. There could be no denying that instant connection. “You could come here.” It slipped out before she could catch herself.
“Am I invited?”
She paused and looked around her shabby space. He lived in a tony high-rise overlooking a park. She thought about all the work she had ahead of her to complete her series. Fay was coming over next week to see its progress and pick out a piece for a group show. Anne really needed to focus on her career, and he would be quite a distraction. “This isn’t really a good time.”
“I hope someday it will be.”
“Hope so too.”
41
Get up, sleeping head,” Betty Lou called to Sylvia.
She hadn’t really been asleep, just floating on the sheepskin as if it were a cloud. She touched her once-tender forehead and sat up. Sunlight streamed through the hogan’s smoke hole, and memories filtered through Sylvia’s confused mind: stew, butter-flies, fireworks, confessions, and lullabies. She remembered the flash flood and crunching metal and looked around for Lucy, who was asleep beside her.
“How many hours have we been here?” Sylvia asked.
Betty Lou handed her a cup. “It’s been days.”
“What! You must be joking.”
“Drink tea. You’ll feel better.”
“But.”
Betty Lou waved her hand at Sylvia. “Hush and drink.”
Parched, Sylvia smelled the minty concoction and sipped. She rotated her shoulders and neck then asked, “What about the trading post?”
“It’s closed.”
“Is it a holiday?” She drank the tea, sweet heaven.
“More important to be with you.” Betty Lou grinned at her. Neat braids hung over a green 7 Up T-shirt.
Sylvia smiled, comforted to be with someone who cared about her. “Have I really been asleep all this time? I don’t understand exactly what happened.”
“Don’t need to know.”
Betty Lou took thin bread from the stove, put it on a plate, and handed it to Sylvia. The color of charred embers, the bread tasted ashy, and she tried to choke it down with tea.
“Oops. Forgot honey.” Betty Lou dropped a dollop on the bread. Sylvia tried another bite. The smooth honey masked the bread’s blandness.
Lucy perked up and hobbled over for a bite. Betty Lou mixed a bowl and set it in front of Lucy. She quickly ate it up. Then she lay back down and fell back to sleep.
“Sweet, sweet girl, so tired.” Betty Lou sat cross-legged in front of Sylvia and looked at her. “Had dream about you.”
“Really?” Sylvia nibbled the bread, filling her empty stomach.
“Saw man.”
