Return of the Bones: Inspired by a True Native American Indian Story

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  “What you leave to me is priceless, Governor. Don’t forget the ceremonial staff.”

  “I also leave you the pride of a majestic people so always hold your head up high and walk in the clouds.”

  “I will,” she said.

  Her head rolled around her shoulders and she swore not to fall asleep.

  The grinding of the brakes jerked her awake. Just like the Pecos skeletons, she felt shaken and rattled as the train headed it seemed for a collision with Boston.

  She rubbed her eyes, feeling groggy and disoriented. She squinted at the window and got her first view of the city that sparked the American Revolution, all over a spilled cup of tea. The Jemez Pueblo would have appeared like an ancient mud-hut world to a blueblood Bostonian descendant. Hell, her family was so poor a king wrote a note, excusing them from helping the U.S. gain its freedom. Some people who populate Massachusetts believe their ancestors, who settled in 1630, were the first Americans. She descended from Americans going back to the year 1100 and beyond. While Bostonians could boast about graves dating from the Seventeenth Century, she visited to claim her ancestors’ bones, some from the Fifteenth Century.

  “Wake up. We’re here, Governor,” she whispered in his ear, shaking his shoulder.

  He moved as limp as a rag doll.

  Ah, he wet his pants.

  She shook him again to awaken him but somewhere on the tracks to Boston, he died in her arms, not alone this time, not so misunderstood. She did not know where he died nor at what time. Were they still at Philadelphia then? Had they passed New York or had they crossed the state line of Rhode Island? She could never say Grandfather died at Delaware, or Grandfather passed in New Jersey.

  But…he was really dead. The reflection of the train window showed skeletons form in the Pecos dirt, like in her dream, rise up to greet him and suck him back into the dust with them, leaving a vision of herself, alone in the middle of the ruins with her face covered by dust, the last surviving Pecos.

  No. Oh, no.

  She wailed, rocking, with him in her arms.

  “Wake up. Don’t leave me all alone, so alone, forever alone.”

  The men in white jackets came for him then, because she was so loud.

  They wanted to take him away but she clung to him and fought them, kicking at the seats.

  Finally, they both got off the train, her dragged by her armpits and him on a stretcher.

  “Wait. I don’t want him to be cold,” she said.

  She pleaded with them to stop so she could cover him. She would be nice. She wouldn’t try to scratch or bite, promise.

  She covered him with his blanket.

  “To warm you with my love,” she whispered and stroked his withered chest.

  He stared back with lifeless eyes.

  With shaky fingers, she placed his blanket over his face.

  “Here, this fell from his pocket,” an attendant said, handing her a note with her name on it. He gave her a card and told her when to come see about the arrangements.

  She nodded her head, dazed.

  Another attendant led her to the women’s bathroom.

  She slammed a stall door, sat down and unfolded the note which read: Granddaughter, my friend Jerry Norberto, writes this for me as I tell him what to say. You are an old fool’s joy, yet I have been harsh with you. I leave you the pride of the Pecos people.

  She tapped the ceremonial staff against the ground.

  With a trembling chin, she read his last words he would ever convey to her.

  Walk with your head in the sun, for you are a queen now, and have always been my princess.

  She lost it then, crying so hard she almost passed out. She swore her tears would never stop flowing. He had loved her and she was too stupid to realize it so she hid her own love. Now it was too late.

  She crawled out of the stall, and used the sink for support so she could pull herself up, huffing and puffing because her heart weighed a ton.

  She ran the water and shoved her face beneath the faucet.

  Her image in the mirror was of a shrunken, Native American woman, hair dripping wet, not dressed warm enough for a cool Boston evening, thin shoulders shivering, clutching a letter soaked with tears. Her face appeared terrified and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Ever since she saw skeletons at the Smithsonian, pity for the Pecos bones squeezed her chest.

  I promise. Whatever it takes, I promise. His wish was for me to bring the bones home. They are after all…my family, but thoughts of ancient bones stir no love in my heart. My family is the old man lying at a morgue in Boston. I care for no other bones but his.

  She tried to dial her cell phone but the numbers were so small and her fingers shook, so she dragged her shoes through the bathroom exit to a pay phone and by the ninth try, dialed correctly and reached Steve.

  “He’s dead. Oh, Steve, Grandfather’s left me for good. What am I to do now? How will I live?”

  “You’ll survive, Holly, just like you always have.”

  “Come quick. I need you.”

  She hung up the phone, and slid down the glass wall of the phone booth.

  She didn’t know how long she sat like that at the train station, looking out the windows at the fading light.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The bouncing taxi reminded her of her pickup, when she rode to Pecos with Grandfather joggling in the back on his mattress. She looked back, expecting to see his ghost. There was one more Pecos ghost, a living ghost, herself. Since his death, a voice nagged at her that if she understood the bones more, then she would understand him, and perhaps find peace herself. However, her family roots were a bitter herb to swallow because he died without realizing his dream. It was impossible to believe him dead. She kept peering at the seat next to her, expecting to see him puffing away at a hand-rolled cigarette, his crappy hat jauntily on his head.

  Oh, Governor, I miss you so.

  She slammed the door of her hotel room and kicked off her shoes.

  She held her head in her hands and rocked, on the sofa. She grieved alone, a zillion miles from home in what seemed like a foreign country, the Eastern U.S., Boston, big city, bright lights, tea and snobbery. She landed in Boston like a half-dead fish drowning in the Pecos River. She longed to call Steve but he had to get up at three a.m. and drive to Albuquerque to catch his flight.

  Grandfather would roll over at the morgue if he knew she shoved the ceremonial staff against the door handle to prevent any intruders from breaking in.

  She lumbered to the bedroom and changed into sweats, peeling her clothes off and letting the garments fall. She shuffled into the bathroom and brushed her teeth then gulped down a pain pill, hoping the drug would knock her out like a sledge hammer.

  She heard a jingle, spun around, and gasped at Grandfather who stared back at her from the mirror. He was dressed in the old way with leather shirt and breastplate shield made from bones. His only nod to the modern was a black, round felt hat on his small head. His hat brim reached the tip of his white bushy brows. A crushed feather stuck out from the hat band. He appeared shrunken, his hands nearly reaching his knees, yet a presence about him made him appear tall because a light glowed from him. White hair swirled around his face.

  She spun around.

  There was no one behind her. Just like him to play tricks.

  She turned back around and he stared at her from the mirror. Grandfather, she mouthed to his image.

  He held a cupped hand to her, as if offering something.

  She touched the mirror but her fingers banged against cold glass.

  Had he come for her, like in movies where a loved one crosses over to lead the way? Maybe her time had come, perhaps not. She had not completed her quest to take the bones home to Pecos.

  It was not so shocking that the old man was here, near his death place, where perhaps the other world lay just beyond.

  He had haunting grey eyes, like so many elderly have, because life has begun to fade from their sight as the curtai
n of death slowly closes. One has to merely pull the cord to cross over to the other side.

  His expression was sad…so sad…slowly…he faded from the mirror.

  “Don’t leave me. Please help me,” she said tearfully, knowing that if she looked behind, he would not be there. Her heart twisted as her loss swept over her, like a tsunami. She swayed and rubbed her eyes. What does this vision mean?

  She thumped her chest with her fist, and a hollow sound vibrated her ribcage. Her heart had been missing for years. Perhaps he was right and when the bones were reburied at Pecos, she would dig out her own heart. She would become a better person, a good wife, and maybe even a mother. Perhaps life would flow within and fill up her hollowness which only grew deeper in the last few hours.

  A clattering noise vibrated in the sink, sounding like pebbles falling.

  Peyote buttons rolled down the sides and settled at the drain.

  The sink had been empty except for a few water drops from washing her hands.

  She picked up the buttons and wiped her damp cheeks with the backs of her hands. Even in death he had magic. He left her the peyote, just what she craved. Peyote would erase her pain, if only for a while. She, too, belonged to the Native American Church and believed in both Christian theology and the ancient Peyote Religion. The Peyote sacrament substituted as the Catholic host to commune with God without the hindrance of a priest. The hallucinatory drug filled her with a sense of well-being and acted medicinal.

  The midnight bell tolled. Luckily, she skipped dinner. Only an idiot swallowed peyote on a full stomach.

  She dragged each button across the desk and blew on the hairy tufts then scraped the hair away with a butter knife before stuffing each button into her mouth and chewing. As bitter-tasting peyote seeped into her cheeks and down her throat, she imagined creamy butter on a light croissant. She chewed until her jaw grew sore, until the peyote turned to juice else her stomach would have hurled; peyote had such a nasty taste. There now, almost over. Swallow the last button.

  Rubbing her forehead against the desk, she clutched her stomach and breathed deeply. Don’t throw up. Think of something else, like pinto beans. Green chile stew. Indian tacos with cheese, crispy lettuce and juicy tomatoes. Yum-yum. Yuck. What a foul taste.

  Oh, God, I miss Grandfather so much.

  She rolled her chin around the wooden desktop and her bones cracked. Damned tension knotted her muscles. The clock ticked loud, making her dread the first hour of wanting to vomit and die. These and other discomforts were worth it though because eight hours of blissful hallucination would follow her initial reaction.

  Ah. An hour’s gone by.

  She ran a hand through her sweat-soaked hair and massaged her temples. It felt like a bowling ball balanced on her neck and a dull ache throbbed at the base. The room twirled and wiggled and she didn’t dare lift her head else she would fall from the chair. She gripped the arms. Okay, there is nothing wrong with your heart. Palpitations are normal.

  Good…finally…the taste and smell of peppermint, one of those Life Savers, the white ones. Or the green candies? Little green hole in the center…

  Her skin froze like those times in the damp kiva of her nightmares, cold like a grave.

  She rubbed her arms and shivered. Her heart had a hole because he died.

  On her bedroom dresser at home was a photo of an old man holding a little girl in his arms, her hands pinching his cheeks and making a face at him. The old man laughed and his eyes twinkled. Why were there such few happy memories except for a couple of old photos?

  The room whirled and light faded to black.

  She tumbled into a dark hole, only a caterpillar smoking on a mushroom did not lead her astray.

  She clutched the chair so tightly her finger may have broken.

  Don’t let go of the goddamned chair. Don’t. If you let go of the chair, you will fall into Shipapu where Masawkatsina awaits.

  The Keeper of the Dead knew her. She would not escape him this time.

  Quick! Run and hide. Don’t let Masawkatsina find you.

  Hold tight. If I fall, my head will crack open on the floor, only I won’t blossom in the crack that now had yellow flowers growing from the tile.

  What happens to the sunflower, come the cold grey winter? The sunflower dies…

  The hair rose at the back of her neck because the door creaked open.

  Something crawled on its hands and knees, waddled between the legs of her chair, and lifted her up…

  It wanted to kill her. If she fell from the chair she would die.

  She hiccupped and clutched the chair tighter.

  Why did the clock stop? What…? Oh God. Don’t look. Keep your eyes closed. Think. Think. Concentrate on something else. What…?

  Oh, yeah, Life Savers. Those beautiful white…wafers? Candy? Or mint green? A pungent green like the pine trees of Pecos. What did he say about bloody trees? Already, her memories faded. Oh, God, one day she wouldn’t even remember his face.

  Slowly, painfully, time passed and her chair lowered, floating back to the floor.

  Once again the clock ticked but the hand moving sounded like a loud knock on the door.

  Don’t let it in.

  She lifted her heavy head and observed the clock numbers. The numbers of both hands looked fuzzy, like when an eye doctor splashes those funny drops in her eyes.

  An intense face in a white jacket, wearing spectacles, bent over her. He held an eye dropper over her face and nearly poked her eyeballs.

  Liquid swirling around her eyeballs didn’t help her vision.

  Slowly, the man faded from view.

  She blinked at an eye chart on the wall. Uh…E D F C Z P…twenty-twenty…

  Her head rolled around her neck and the fridge swelled. The counter tops rolled like an ocean wave.

  She saw with a cat’s night vision, or might see this clearly if roaring drunk. The hallucination of peyote always made her feel like she could see through walls.

  A bee buzzed in her ear and left a drop of fresh honey on her tongue.

  The aroma of baked bread slammed against her nostrils and Old-Woman shoved a piece of bread in her mouth. The odor of legumes, grown as a family staple for centuries, had a homey smell and she clung to Old-Woman, begging her not to leave.

  But Old-Woman faded away and left her holding a piece of air.

  Paint on the kitchen walls peeled and exposed a layer of sun-baked adobe.

  Fresh earth dirtied her nostrils.

  She was home, this room no longer a modern kitchenette but the walls freshly packed into baked mud.

  Clean ceramic dishes on the counter top petrified into wooden dishes.

  A group of Native Americans materialized from the adobe walls. Each held a wooden bowl and spoon. These Indians who smiled at her, dressed like the ancients and appearing old-fashioned, were strangers.

  She cocked her ear to the bedroom. No dream catcher spinning. She did hear whisperings, but the gurgle of excited voices did not come from the bedroom. Ah, blessed peyote brought her this living dream and these visitors.

  Guttural sounds came from the people who danced in her kitchen. There were 96 men and 100 women, some old, some young, and a few hundred or so children of various ages all chattering in Towa.

  They spoke…to her, held their arms out…to her, smiled…at her.

  Rise to you feet. Greet them. Oak scraped against tile.

  Happy faces smiled and beckoned with a finger to come closer.

  She floated on air towards the gathering, shyly looking down at the dirt floor. Reddish dust stirred on her tennis shoes.

  The others, the ones who pointed at her and flirted with her, wore moccasins on their feet. The dust of Shipapu stirred around their ankles.

  “Welcome,” each person whispered to her.

  One stroked her cheek. Another touched her arm. Others brushed her face with soft lips. The smell of the Pecos River rose from the roots of black hair, grey hair, and white hair.


  “I am your Auntie,” one whispered.

  “I am an uncle,” another said.

  “I am your cousin,” a young woman said, smiling and squeezing her hand.

  The gathering separated and one-by-one, each pointed to a cradle in the corner.

  She walked towards the cradle half-covered by a colorful ceremonial rug. There had been a birth in this room. Gifts for the baby lay on the floor beside the cradle; one was a rattle created from two rattlesnake tails. As a child, she had such a rattle left over from infancy, a gift from him.

  “You are of the Snake Clan,” they all chanted.

  She held back her tears and looked down at the cradle, fearing the worst.

  Ah, a live child.

  An infant girl with an adult face squinted at her. It was like looking into a mirror at her reflection.

  Fingers touched her hair.

  Warm breath caressed her neck and blew into her ears.

  “How we have missed you, Child. We have always loved you. In your heart you have known us.”

  She squeezed her eyes and her damp lashes brushed her cheek.

  A loud rattle, many loud rattles, jingled around her, but the snake rattle lay still. Instead of flesh and blood family, a gathering of skeletons balanced on their bony feet. Child skeletons wrapped bony arms around bony legs of adult skeletons. One child skeleton balanced atop an adult’s shoulders. Other children with small skeletal hands clutched adult hands.

  The skeletons rocked, on feet of brittle bones.

  No. Oh, no. Please.

  Their eye sockets emptied of every remnant of life.

  The skeletons collapsed to the dirt floor with a crashing sound.

  Red dust swirled around the bones until they vanished.

  She leaned against the adobe wall and sat hunched over, breathing deeply. The cracks in her heart were bigger than the cracks in this surreal kitchen’s adobe.

  She dropped to her knees and covered her face with her hands. Usually peyote made her feel giddy and light and…A familiar pain slammed against her chest and closed up her bleeding hole, like a hot poker cauterizing her wound. He was gone and never coming back.