Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  Ben got out of his truck and walked to the back door close to his office. He was meeting Emmett or Em today. That is, if he showed. He’d missed two appointments in a row. Odd kid. Ben couldn’t put a finger on it, but something else was going on with him—besides the sex-change operation. As if that wasn’t enough. Ben didn’t think he’d ever seen a more unlikely candidate.

  Ben pushed open the door to his waiting room and there he was. Only this time very obviously a handsome young man—jeans, sweatshirt, hikers. No eyeliner. He’d have to remember to tell Julie it wasn’t permanent.

  “Em—”

  “Emmett.”

  “Sorry, am I allowed a little confusion? Come in.”

  “Sure.” The grin was boyish, completely disarming as he picked up a book bag and followed Ben into his office.

  “You know, you really look great.” Ben meant it. Emmett seemed rested. His hair was cut short on the sides, parted on the left, top combed straight up and back, shiny even in the subdued light of the outer office.

  “Taking sides?”

  “No, I want you to reach an informed decision concerning your sexuality but—”

  “I look better as a male.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t have to.”

  “I’ve never been convinced that you were ready.”

  “Could be true.”

  “Have a seat.” Ben moved a stack of papers from the chair by his desk to the floor.

  “I just stopped by to say I was leaving for awhile. Going home.”

  “Oklahoma, isn’t it?”

  “Close enough.”

  “What will you do?”

  “School, maybe. Spend more time doing my artwork.”

  “I wish you luck. I’ve enjoyed our talks.” Even if they didn’t seem to go anywhere, Ben thought. But maybe the young man standing before him with purpose and resolve had benefited in some way. “I’d like to know how you’re doing. I’ve been known to accept collect calls.” Ben reached in a desk drawer and brought out a card. “I’m adding the number where I can be reached on weekends.” Ben jotted down his cell number.

  “Thanks, Doc. Don’t worry, I’ll be in good care.” He held out a hand to shake Ben’s—the cuticles faintly pink from recent polish—before turning and taking those characteristic over-long strides out the door and around the corner.

  Ben pulled out his chair and sat down, but suddenly he didn’t feel like doing anything—certainly not the pile of paperwork beside him on the floor. There was something vaguely disconcerting about Em’s departure. Too glib. But he had stopped by to say good-bye. Was he simply leaving to seek another opinion? What was that quip about being in good care? Were Ben’s feelings ones of wounded pride? Some overblown paranoia? He’d just gotten started with Em. A brief five weeks, a half dozen appointments counting this one; yet, he would miss him. It had promised to be an interesting case.

  Chapter Nine

  “What do you mean he just left? Walked away? Is that his decision to make?” Julie was sitting crosswise on the truck’s front seat and, as usual, fired off twenty questions before he had time to answer one. Maybe the mouthful of Lotaburger would slow her down. Lunch was burgers at Albuquerque’s finest and then it was back to work for both of them.

  “I don’t feel good about it, but there’s no way or reason to hold him.” He shook his head as Julie held out the sack of French fries.

  “I just don’t believe he could change his mind so quickly. He seemed pretty determined to do this sex change thing when I saw him. I mean he was really into makeup and pantyhose.”

  “I know.” Julie ate fries three at a time slathered in ketchup.

  “He looked good as a female. Seemed like he’d been practicing for awhile. But you didn’t see him today. Totally natural. Just another guy.”

  “A lack of nail polish does that.”

  Ben laughed. “More than that. There seemed to be a resolve. I wish I knew who talked him out of the operation. I worry that I witnessed some schizophrenic—”

  “You worry too much. I’d think you’d feel relieved. His life wouldn’t have been easy.”

  “A hundred years ago it would have been easier. He would have just been labeled a ‘contrary’ and life would have gone on.”

  “Another one of those concepts that the Anglo world could have benefited from?”

  “Maybe. The Plains Indians had a separate camp for those who were different. Someone wanting to dress as the opposite sex or who had opposite interests lived away from the main group and was ordered to do everything backward. They rode horses backward—”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Clothing was worn backward. But there didn’t seem to be a stigma attached. It was just accepted—those members of the tribe were different.”

  “What did the pueblos do with their contraries?”

  “One pueblo called them berdaches. They simply were thought to follow a different life-calling.”

  “Sounds too civilized. You mean someone showing obvious homosexual tendencies isn’t ostracized? Even today?”

  “Not really. They’re accepted as different and, in a way, honored for being different. Parents or grandparents talk about sons who always take the female role in play, but it’s never in a derogatory way. There seems to be some teasing but it’s not an offensive thing.”

  “So, a hundred years ago, what did these berdaches do?”

  “Cooking, weaving, laundry—they took the female role early in life. Even in clothing, as a child a berdache might adopt some female slip or short skirt or a bidonne, the blouse that bares one shoulder.”

  “There are documented cases?”

  “Many. The Zunis had a young man named We’wha, who became rather famous in the late 1800s.”

  “What do you mean by famous?” The fries were forgotten and getting cold on the dash.

  “Well thought of, devoted to his family,” Ben added. “If I remember the story, he was raised by an aunt after he lost his own parents to smallpox.”

  “That must have been difficult.”

  “Maternal aunts are often thought of as little mothers and I think it was a maternal aunt who took him in. That meant he could remain a member of his mother’s badger clan so the transition wouldn’t have been too drastic. Family ties would have stayed intact.”

  “I still can’t believe that there wouldn’t have been a problem, I mean a little boy who dressed like a girl.”

  “You’re judging by present-day standards. Most Indian children slept with other adults in one big room—whether it was a teepee or an adobe house. Sex was never a secret. It was even discussed freely. There were just a lot fewer taboos all the way around.”

  “Beats how I got my questions answered.”

  “Do I dare ask?” Ben teased.

  “I think most children want to believe in Immaculate Conception at a certain age. My mother wasn’t into explanations or picture books. It’s a shame our house had more than one room.”

  “I think it was a blessing.” Ben ducked a blow to his shoulder.

  “Hey, is that some kind of comment on my parents’ sex life?”

  “I’m not going to say, but things might have been different if you had been raised by Connie.”

  “I’m sure of it. She just exudes sexuality. Odd she never had children.”

  “She married into a ready-made family.”

  “All three within five to ten years of her own age. I get the idea there’s still no love lost. Byron is supportive of her only because she has the money.”

  “What’s it going to be like working there?”

  “Guess I’ll know more this afternoon. There’s a hearing in Bernalillo. Two o’clock at the County Courthouse. Connie, et al., stand to lose a lot if the Sandia Pueblo wins its claim.”

  “There’s a chance the housing project will have to be scrapped?”

  “More than a chance.”

  + + +

  “Wayne.” Julie
had just pushed open the heavy carved wooden door to the private conference room on the courthouse’s second floor, and there he stood. Five years was a long time since she’d thrown the half-carat diamond at him and walked out, but he’d put the time to good use. His curly, sandy hair was neatly trimmed; he wore copper wire-frame glasses, a lightweight wool black sweater over chinos and five hundred dollar loafers—she’d bet on that. In fact, everything about him shouted success.

  “That’s Esquire to you,” he said laughing. “I thought you knew I was the corporate counsel.”

  “No.” She hadn’t been in the office long enough to know.

  “Who’d you think knew you well enough to fill the candy dish with Jolly Rancher watermelon candies?”

  “Funny what we remember.”

  “Good things, Julie. I’ve missed you.” He squeezed her hand and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ve dreamed of us being together again.”

  Three people entering the room saved her from having to respond. Stammer something politically correct under the circumstances but which would preserve their working relationship because, like it or not, it appeared he was part of the team. A man in a cowboy hat threw an arm around Wayne’s shoulder and led him to a table in the front. Wayne looked back and winked, smiling as broadly as if he’d just won the lottery. Audacity? Yeah. She got the distinct impression he expected her to fall into his arms.

  Julie took a seat near the back. She needed distance. What an odd twist of events. In five years, Wayne had not tried once to get in touch. So why the chummy act now? Funny Connie hadn’t mentioned his working for her. Julie and Wayne had visited the CdeBacas more than once. It was no secret that Wayne was Bev Conlin’s favorite. Had Julie been set up? Some plan hatched up by two good friends to get them back together? No, she couldn’t think that. It truly didn’t make sense. Wayne had more than likely approached Skip with law degree in hand and asked for work. It simply must have slipped Connie’s mind or she would have mentioned it. And now that Julie was engaged, did it matter?

  People were entering the room in a steady stream. County officials, representatives from several federal agencies, and a large coalition of neighboring landowners were expected to attend. A contingent of ten governing members from the pueblo walked past single-file and took seats in the front row. Julie recognized the pueblo’s young governor, Stewart Paisano. He looked grim. No, that was too harsh, he just looked determined—doggedly determined. The case had been in and out of the courts for years. It was time for closure.

  Connie swept past her, head bent in conversation with Byron on her right side and Cherie hugging her left. Connie’s simple white blouse, tucked into a denim skirt drawn together by a wide concho belt, the silver discs catching the lights, drew people to her stark beauty. Julie watched as heads turned and many openly stared. Julie marveled at the perfect bun of dark hair barely flecked with gray. Time had been kind—much kinder than it had been to her mother. She would bet Connie hadn’t had a thing lifted or tucked.

  Wayne rose to greet them and sat just behind the trio, below the podium that loomed between two flags. A commotion at the back diverted attention and Julie couldn’t help but stare as Jonathan loped down the aisle to join the group in front—long-legged stride, head full of bushy hair stuck forward as if to balance his gangly frame. Seeing them together, Julie was again struck by how he seemed a misfit, an outsider among beautiful people. She watched as Wayne rose to shake his hand only to have it pushed aside. Family dynamics were fun to watch. She just wished she wasn’t so close to this demonstration.

  Someone started to lower a screen using a remote, but Governor Paisano waved it away. A news crew from an Albuquerque station had set up in the back of the room. The case had received a lot of attention. Some felt a win by the Indians would set precedence—other tribes would try to regain land lost to them.

  After a few introductions and a statement of the meeting’s intent, Governor Paisano got up to speak.

  “I was twelve or maybe thirteen when I knew that the mountain had crept into my body. The mountain fed my spirit and awakened my soul. Even as a young man it was important to my very being.” There were appreciative murmurs from the audience. “I was on the mountain with my father. We were hunting. I think it was February because it was bitter cold, but I remember the peacefulness, the quiet. I stood and listened to the birds and the wind and let the scent of cedar, piñon, wild sage and chamisa wash over me. You can hear things there that you can’t hear anywhere else. It gives you a sense of peace and of hope. It brought me back to reality, to who I was, who we are as a people and how we’ve been able to exist for all this time.”

  He paused and poured a glass of water from a pitcher balanced on the edge of the podium. “Long before there was Sandia Pueblo, there was Sandia Mountain. In our language, T’uf Shur Bien, Green Reed Mountain, in my native Tiwa language. Green Reed Mountain is the altar of my people’s faith.”

  Someone near the front had uttered an “Aye, Aye” and the governor nodded in the man’s direction. “Every morning we pray to the mountain. It’s where the sun rises. In our culture when the sun rises, Mother Earth is being replenished with sunlight. ‘Sunlight’ is a key word in our language. So is ‘mountain’ and ‘water.’ I would compare these to the host and the wine.”

  Wonderful analogy, Julie mused, so eloquent, and the governor was probably no more than two years her senior.

  “I hope you can understand that to continue to see development up there, the overuse of our sacred altar is disheartening to us. We compare it to the desecration of a church. We have been in litigation since 1978. It is our contention that the U.S. Department of the Interior botched an 1859 survey, thereby robbing us of 9,890 acres given to us in the 1748 Spanish land grant. We are only fighting to regain what is rightfully ours—ours under law.”

  Once again, he paused for effect, sipping water and gazing at the audience. “We have nothing to lose. We will protect this mountain at any cost. And that cost can be met. We are no longer the poverty-ridden people shackled for generations by a lack of capital. Tribal gambling establishments have allowed us to fight on a level playing field. I have the council’s direct order to protect our interests. And let me reiterate—at any cost.”

  The governor sat down amid wild applause. It was some minutes before the next speaker was able to get anyone’s attention. When Wayne turned to survey the audience, Julie thought he looked tired, a twitch under his left eye belied tension. Connie didn’t move but stared straight ahead, back rigid. Cherie and Byron conversed, heads bent over some document on the table in front of them. Jonathan turned to glare at the audience, defiant, a chip-on-the-shoulder dare for someone to challenge him. There was a tremendous amount of money and pride and hope on the line. Julie felt herself drawn into the argument—no, battle. Anglo versus Indian and if the governor could be believed, money was no object. In a few short years the tiny pueblo had amassed the fortune necessary to take on Goliath.

  She assumed Connie’s team would be up next, have some sort of rebuttal, and she wasn’t surprised when Wayne stood and picked up a stack of papers from the table. But Connie detained him with a hand on his arm and simply shook her head. Julie could tell Wayne was protesting, but once again, Connie shook her head. And by the abrupt way Byron pushed back from the table, her decision wasn’t met with support.

  Wayne walked to the podium, hesitated, looked at Connie and then said, “Ms. CdeBaca requests that we forfeit our turn to refute the argument set forth by the honorable governor of the Sandia Pueblo.”

  “You goddamn lying Indian bitch! You have no right to decide what happens to my father’s land.” The room quieted as if all the air had been suddenly sucked out of it. Jonathan leaned across his two siblings, hands flat on the table. “You’ve waited all our lives to screw us—waited until Dad died to throw everything away. Those ten thousand acres are ours. Ours!”

  Byron grabbed his arm and Wayne hastened to restrain him from the opposi
te side but Jonathan twisted away and, knocking his chair aside, strode up the aisle and out the back exit.

  Julie knew the cameras had caught it all. The audience now was alive with murmured speculation. She marveled at Connie’s composure. Connie faced the podium, her head slightly inclined to her right, as Wayne seemed to be pleading. She again shook her head. Wayne stood and, looking at Byron, shrugged his shoulders. Whatever the topic of discussion, and Julie assumed it was not refuting the governor’s claim, Connie seemed to be adamant. A rapping on the podium by the next speaker brought everyone’s attention back to the front.

  Representing New Mexico, Senator Jeff Bingaman, the next person to speak, set up a slide presentation. Senator Bingaman was sponsoring a bill in the U.S. Congress that might end the decades-old battle. He approached the podium, cleared his throat, and begged the audience’s indulgence as he reiterated the history of the land. He added that he thought an overview would be helpful in realizing the scope of the concerns on both sides. Someone in the back of the room dimmed the overhead lights.

  “The history had its beginnings in 1748 when the Spanish lieutenant governor of New Mexico set the eastern boundary. The pueblo said its land extended to the crest. To muddy the waters, the same grant recognized the Roberto CdeBaca claim to some 10,000 acres and said the family’s land extended to the top of the mountain. The lieutenant governor ruled that the family’s claim superseded the pueblo’s interest. In 1848, Mexico and the United States signed the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo to end the Mexican War. Under this treaty the U.S. agreed to honor Spanish land grants, but they did not specify which claim—the CdeBaca family or the Sandia Pueblo.