CHAPTER NINE

 

 

It had been stupid to promise a ring in twenty-four hours, but Rose helped him. Her brother did fine inlay jewelry and knew where to go in Gallup to pick up a half carat diamond of good quality for the center—and didn’t mind doing it on a Saturday morning. Ben gave him the money after looking at a number of settings and deciding on a wide gold band superimposed with a narrow raised band of polished slivers of turquoise, coral, shell, obsidian and pipestone—all the colors of the Southwest set to look like bright multi-colored stripes. One of a kind. Wasn’t that what Rose called it? And if her brother worked on it for the next eight hours, it would be ready by that evening.

Hannah and .22 were already waiting on him when he got back to the clinic. Dr. Lee was talking with Hannah; .22 had dumped a box of toys in the middle of the waiting room floor and was making revving noises for the engine of a red plastic Ferrari before he sent it spinning across the waxed tile. Ben had never seen him play before. .22 mentioned something about frogs, but there were no toys that Ben could think of at the boarding house—or books, or dogs and cats. Those things would be stimulating and helpful, encouraging him to use his faculties. He’d remember to suggest a few acquisitions to Hannah. In fact, he wondered what .22 did all day. Surely setting the table three times a day didn’t take up all his time.

“My car fast.” .22 looked up at him.

“I can see that.” Ben stepped to one side as .22 crawled after the toy. “Would you like to bring your car with you? We’re going to visit in my office.”

“Where’s that?” .22 sat on the floor, the corner of his mouth twitching spasmodically.

“At the end of the hall.” Ben pointed through an archway next to the receptionist’s desk.

“Okay.” .22 struggled to his feet but paying attention to Ben was short-lived when he spied the pop machines. “Me want orange.”

“Would it be all right? Or too much sugar under the circumstances?” Hannah turned to Dr. Lee.

“It shouldn’t make a difference. Let me.” 

Ben waited while Dr. Lee found two quarters and produced an orange soda. .22 made car noises all the way down the hall when he wasn’t slurping his drink. Some were quite realistic. One would think .22 had lived next to a raceway. But then maybe he’d watched television. There weren’t any sets at the house, but, perhaps, there had been one where he had been staying. Not that Ben was a proponent of TV, but under the circumstances it might be something else Hannah could add. There were programs on the educational channels that could be helpful.

“Here we are.” Ben held the door open.

“We play now?”

Hannah must have described what they were going to do as ‘play.’ It seemed a good enough explanation. .22 appeared comfortable.

“Yes.” Ben had set up a card table and two chairs in front of his desk and pulled out one of these chairs now and motioned for .22 to sit. Ben wished he’d thought to bring a box of Kleenex as a sneeze produced lots of nose-wiping on .22’s shirt sleeve. 

“.22, I want you to listen carefully. I’m going to give you a word, and I want you to tell me what it means. Are you ready?”

.22 nodded vigorously.

“Winter,” Ben said.

“Cold.” Ben waited, but that seemed to be all that was coming.

“Breakfast.”

“Morning eat.” 

“Good. Now let’s try ‘calendar’.”

.22 looked around the room, then became agitated, stood and walked behind Ben’s desk. “On wall. On wall.” He was pointing but couldn’t see one.

“You’re right. A calendar is usually hanging on the wall. I don’t have a calendar, do I?”

.22 shook his head and walked back to his chair.

Ben made a notation on a yellow legal pad. “Now I’m going to ask you some questions. I want you to think carefully before you answer.” Ben waited until .22 had settled down.

“What color is the American flag?”

“Red. Blue.” .22 blurted out. 

So much for careful thought. “Is there another color?” Ben prompted.

.22 shook his head, then brightened and said, “Stars.”

“How many months in a year?” 

“Birthday month, Santa Claus month, fire-cracker month.”

“How many eggs in a dozen?”

.22 rocked gently and stared at the table.

Ben waited, then asked again, “Do you know how many eggs are in a dozen?”

Finally, .22 shook his head but didn’t look up; his thumb had crept into his mouth.

“Do you know why we cook our food?”

“Tastes good.” His head came up and the grin was ear to ear. His thumb left a moist trail along the edge of the table.

“Why do we wash our clothes?”

“Socks smell.” .22 put a tennis shoe on the table and pointed to the ragged top of a stained red sock. 

“That’s good. But we need to keep our feet on the floor.”

.22 obeyed immediately, plopping his foot down, then looked up to stare, mouth slack, eyes slightly watering but eagerly fixed on Ben. He’s starting to enjoy this, Ben thought.

“Why shouldn’t we fight with others?” Ben asked.

“Black eyes.”

Ben smiled. .22 seemed to be relaxed now. Each answer that he considered right elicited a little bounce in his chair or the clapping of hands.

“What would you do if you saw a fire in your house?”

“FIRE. FIRE.” .22 shrieked and pushed to his feet tipping his chair over before he opened the office door and yelled one more “FIRE” into the hallway.

Ben had no idea what Hannah and Dr. Lee thought, but no one came running down the hall. Ben closed the door and waited until .22 had returned to sit at the table.

“If I had ten apples and you ate three, how many would I have left?”

“Me sick.” .22 rubbed his stomach. “Apples hurt tummy.”

“Let’s play with a puzzle.” Math didn’t appear to be a long suit and Ben decided to try something else. He put an opaque plastic screen between them and then dumped a half dozen large wooden pieces—the legs, body, head, and tail of a goat onto the table arranging them in mixed order before he lifted the screen.

“Can you put these together to make an animal?”

.22 leaned forward. A spasm in his right forearm scattered three of the pieces, but he grabbed the back legs and put them on the front of the body, the front legs on the back and then put the tail under the goat’s chin.

Not bad, a basic understanding of goatees, Ben thought, but not exactly what the test asked for. Ben then used flash cards for colors and numbers. .22 did fairly well. He couldn’t remember more than three digits, but Ben had suspected that. His reading was barely beyond pre-primer and caused agitation, but he figured out “dog” and “run” and “red” and “boy” among others. And did better than Ben had anticipated on the Dolch list.

Ben then put three story cards on the table—a child standing in the snow, a child rolling a ball of snow, and a child standing beside a three-ball snowman—in reverse order and asked .22 to tell the story. He was quick and correct and very pleased with himself, pausing long enough to gulp the rest of the can of orange pop, some of which dribbled down the front of his shirt.

He failed two other picture-story tests—in one .22 had a man with a flat tire open the trunk after he had used the jack. But he copied three geometric figures correctly only going outside the lines when he was asked to put a circle inside a square. He could repeat certain tapping sounds made by drumming fingers against the table top and follow-the-leader when Ben held out his own hands and opened and closed his fists or turned his hands palms down, then back to supine. .22’s hand strength was awesome; he tied and untied his shoes, hopped on one foot, but couldn’t stand on one foot with his eyes closed.

He drew the arms coming out of the head in a picture of himself; produced a respectable “Harold” with the d and r reversed; but excelled at putting round pegs in round holes, nuts on bolts and matching green wires with other green wires. 

“So what does all this mean?” Hannah nervously picked at her cuticles. Ben had asked .22 to wait in the reception area while he talked with his mother.

“I’m sure you’ve heard some of this before, and I think you want me to be honest. Harold is impaired. We both knew this before we tested, a 60-65 IQ, somewhere in there. He will always need supervision. But group homes would offer this. The positive side is how well he did on the vocational screening. Harold would be a good candidate for any number of assembly-line jobs—simple tasks, nothing intricate—things that take matching, some concentration, moving large objects ... he’s amazingly strong. He may not always make the right decision if left on his own, but in a controlled atmosphere, he’ll do fine.” Ben paused. “I do think he lacks stimulation. He needs to practice putting things together, taking them apart—to play with toys that provide problem solving. I don’t know what he does with his time all day, but he could watch television—educational channels.”

“I’ve never let him watch TV. Violence and sex didn’t seem to be the sort of thing I’d want to encourage.”

“I understand. But some programs would give him an idea of the outside world, how people react to different situations.”

“He does have a hobby. A few years back he began to collect frogs. He takes care of them, does all the feeding, cleaning of the aquariums. He’s even earned some pocket money by selling some of the big ones to restaurants.”

“Really?” Ben remembered .22’s comment about his bedroom being too loud. He hadn’t made that up.

“Would information like this help in the evaluation? Should I tell the examiners?”

“Of course. Anything that indicates he can adjust.”

“Dr. Pecos, will you be perfectly honest with me. Do you think he’ll pass the other test? Do you think other examiners will find him trainable, too?” Hannah was grasping the edge of his desk, knuckles white. 

“I would be shocked if they didn’t. I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

If he had thought there might be another emotional outburst like the night before, he shouldn’t have worried. Hannah simply began to sob, her head in her hands, shoulders convulsing, almost no sound except for her gasps for air. Ben tried to comfort her, but she pulled away. It was obvious that all the years of wondering had taken their toll. 

 

+ + +

Ben checked the picnic basket one more time. Champagne, a wedge of Camembert, crackers, a cold pasta and shrimp salad from the deli at Furr’s in Gallup—Rose had done a pretty good job at following his list but not without a lot of teasing. Had he forgotten anything? The ring was in his pocket. He’d told Julie that they were eating out. Out wasn’t a misnomer. He’d planned an evening under the stars, a dinner on a mesa. It would be different, romantic. He’d even thought to pack candles.

For once, it hadn’t rained that afternoon. The temperature had risen to the mid-eighties by four p.m. and would drop into the forties that night. Maybe, they’d need another blanket. 

Which meant he wasn’t planning on returning to the boarding house much before dawn. He hadn’t consulted Julie. Maybe he was assuming too much, but instinct told him it would be all right.

And it was. When she met him at the door in heels and strapless sundress and he’d said they might need a blanket, she’d simply asked him to wait a minute and she returned in hiking boots, jeans, and flannel shirt, with two blankets under her arm.

“More like the dress code of this special restaurant?” Julie asked. She had tied her hair back with a green ribbon that matched the shirt’s Black Watch pattern, but red-gold wisps escaped and softly framed her face. And she looked eager as she slipped a hand in his. In a rush he realized that he was going to make promises to this bright, vivacious woman—had, already. It made him feel good. He fought a temptation to kiss her; he knew the hall had eyes of its own. Instead he simply said, “I think you’ll pass,” and grinned. 

Ben had remembered a road that left the main highway some five miles back and disappeared into the El Malpais, the badlands to the south. The rough terrain was dotted with huge humps of hills that reared out of the desert. If his timing was right, they’d be able to climb to a rock outcropping overlooking the valley and have dinner while the sun was setting. He put an arm around her and pointed out their destination in the distance, a wide, level expanse of basalt a quarter of the way up a towering mesa already turning rose-purple in the late afternoon light. And then he shared his day—an old habit—but it felt comfortable. 

“I know you don’t want to believe anything good about Hannah but I think you’ve misjudged her.” Ben shared how .22 had done that morning, explained the circumstances and the test. 

“Poor woman. What a tyrant her husband must have been. So you think .22 will do all right in front of strangers?”

“He should. He may not be as socially awkward as I think. Of all things, Hannah said he collected frogs. He must have more than one or two in his room; she mentioned something about his cleaning aquariums.”

“I’ve seen them. I was treated to a tour. It’s a horrible place. I don’t see how he sleeps in there, but believe me, he has more like two hundred.”

“Two hundred frogs?”

“I’m not a good judge, but most seem to be toads.”

“People don’t eat toad’s legs, do they?”

“What?” She grimaced.

“Hannah said .22 has sold to restaurants. I just assumed that his collection was all frogs.”

“Hmmm. Most of the ones I saw had bumps on their backs, warty protrusions—”

“Yuck. Let’s think of something a little more appetizing to talk about.”

Julie laughed, kissed him lightly on the cheek, then sitting close, comfortably slouched so their shoulders touched. 

He left the highway at the County marker, and they bounced along a barely discernible two-track road. Buffalo grass caught at the bumper and crunched under the tires. The windshield was coated with dust by the time he pulled the truck close to the base of the sloping wall and parked beside a clump of piñon. Green and brown, vegetation and dirt, a person had to see the beauty of the desert to like it out here. He looked over at Julie and felt a twinge of fear. Was he expecting too much? Slip a ring on her finger and she’d become a homesteader? Was he being foolish?

Julie stepped out of the truck and stood gazing up at the flat-topped mountain. 

“Any guarantee my deodorant won’t fail before we get there?” Julie had shaded her eyes and was studying the sheer rock climb in front of them.

“Hold that romantic thought.” Ben laughed. “There could be a path around to the right—if we’re lucky we’ll find stepping stones right to the top.”

“You’re putting me on.”

But he wasn’t; they walked to the back side and there they were, steps winding upward disappearing among the boulders. The first inhabitants of this land considered the area sacred and regularly made pilgrimages, wearing moccasin-smooth niches along the rock face. Hideouts like these had been life savers when the Spaniards had attacked. Where the going was steep, the old ones had flinted away grooves in the stone forming footholds as the path wound among shoulder-high boulders, making ascent fast when it had needed to be. 

Ben took the picnic basket, Julie the blankets. They climbed in silence.

“This is perfect,” Julie said, a little out of breath, but almost reverently as they reached the level outcropping of rock. Ben watched as she walked near the edge to enjoy the panoramic view. They were only a hundred feet above the truck and still some three hundred feet from the actual top but the valley rolled out from the base of the mesa and stretched as far as they could see—a sharp contrast of emerald squares to rough, black eruptions that had burst through the earth’s bubbling surface in some prehistoric age. In fact, these odds and ends of mountains were huerfanos, orphans and outcasts, stranded edifices destined to stand alone, separated from what was called the Rockies.

“I want this to be your home.” It wasn’t what he had planned to say. But it was the truth. They stood together and he turned her toward him tipping her head back to look him in the eye. “But I want you to be happy,” he said.

“I haven’t had second thoughts, if you’re worried. I know what I’m doing. And I’m marrying you, not the landscape.”

“I worry that you’ll be too isolated. These aren’t skyscrapers.” His hand swept across the view to the west. Pinnacles of rock worn wind-smooth to a pale tan striated sandstone, some towering hundreds of feet in the air, jutted out from the base of the mesa. 

“What happened to the man who had it all figured out last night? How I’ll commute, tape a show, fly back home for a few months ...?”

“I just want you to be sure.”

“Is this the place where I say I’ll show you how sure I am?” Julie was teasing but had unbuttoned her flannel shirt, letting it slip to the ground. He watched as she propped a foot on a rock and unlaced first one boot and then the other kicking them to one side. Next came the bra and jeans. 

“Should I ask to see the ring before I let this go too far?” Her thumb was hooked under the elastic waist of her jockey briefs. The ribbon had slipped from her hair and she tried to keep the red-gold strands from drifting across her face, finally giving up and pushing them behind her ears. There was a smattering of dark rose freckles across her chest. And he liked the way she stood there—assured, confident of her body, inviting him to view it, knowing she could excite him. He laughed. “You’re so good at shedding clothing, why don’t you help me with mine?”

“Great idea.” She paused in front of him. “I want you. I want to be with you. I wasn’t ready four years ago. The time wasn’t right. It is now.” She put her arms around his neck and started to say something else, but he kissed her—mouth, eyes, nose. With a little help, his boots and shirt and jeans slipped to a pile at his feet.

The warmth of the granite slab felt good against his back. Her hair smelled like rain as she snuggled into him. There wasn’t any talking now. So much for wanting to go slow. Abstinence had fueled a hunger that surprised him in its intensity. And he heard each of them say “I love you” in their slippery frenzy, both breathless, moaning, pushing and thrusting until his body shattered into liquid pieces and he felt her slump against him.

In the quiet that followed, he stroked her back, her hair, and listened to the wind whistle flute-notes around the base of their rock haven. Had he ever felt this good? Or knew that what he was doing was so right? 

“Does this qualify us for the mile-high club?” Julie rolled to the side then slipped to the ground. 

“Probably not.” He laughed, then stooped to fish the ring box from a jeans pocket. “But something tells me I better keep my promise. One ring in less than twenty-four hours.” He took it out and slipped it on her finger. “If you’d like something different—”

“It’s perfect.” She sounded awed. “It looks like out here. Your landscape will never leave me.” She held her hand out from her body so that the sun gave the diamond dots of color and the raised band of inlaid stripes sparkled against the gold.

“It looks good with what you’re wearing.” Ben had started to dress but hadn’t taken his eyes off of Julie’s nakedness. Julie suddenly looked self-conscious. “Hey, no complaints.” He pulled her to him. “You have a choice—seconds, or champagne.” He thought the decision had already been made as her arms went around his neck. 

 

+ + +

 

“Has anyone seen Salvador?” Hannah asked. “He didn’t show up for work this morning.” So that’s why there’s an assortment of dry cereals on the table and a note to help yourself, Ben thought as he watched Julie pick up the box of Special K. Hannah had to open the trading post.

“He might have gone into Gallup,” Ben said.

“I think he would have told me. He’s always dependable. Besides, his truck is here. You don’t think Tommy picked him up again? For more questioning, maybe?” 

“I’ll check when I get to the office. Tommy’s still in the temporary offices next door.”

“I understand that congratulations are in order.” Hannah smiled at Julie. “Rose’s brother does the best inlay work in the village.” Hannah studied the ring on Julie’s finger.

This is going well, Ben thought. Absolutely no animosity. He began to relax.

“Is this an engagement or wedding ring?” Hannah asked.

Odd question, Ben thought, as he watched Julie hesitate.

“We’re engaged. We haven’t set a date yet. Maybe, at Christmas.” She glanced at Ben.

“It’s my understanding that all Indians are married under the blanket. At least, that’s what Ed used to say. And since the two of you carried enough blankets out of here night before last—” Hannah was looking at Ben. There was a smile but he thought it was snide, meant to be hurtful.

“Does it make any difference?” Ben cut her off. He didn’t know whether he was reacting to being lumped into the racist “all Indian” reference or he hated to see anyone make light of their happiness. Ben put his arm around Julie.

Hannah shrugged and turned away. Her interest in them as sport seemed short-lived. “I’ll be at the trading post. If you see Salvador send him over.” She refilled a pitcher of milk, set it on the table then walked out the back door.

“Every time I feel sorry for her, she ruins it.” Julie started to say something else but stopped as .22 pushed open the dining room door.

“Me hungry,” .22 mumbled. He looked half asleep as he picked up two bowls from the stack at the end of the table and filled both with Cheerios, scattering a generous cup or so on the table.

“Hey, pal, why don’t you eat one bowl at a time?” Ben leaned across the table but .22, apparently afraid that Ben would take one of the bowls, swept them toward him spilling still more of the little round oat O’s.

“Me hungry.” This time it was pronounced clearly and a couple decibels louder.

Ben decided upon a different tactic. “What are you going to do today?” 

“Go to river.”

“Is Sal going with you?” Julie asked.

“Maybe yes.” 

“Will the two of you fish?” Julie poured milk on one bowl of Cheerios for him.

“Catch frogs.” At this point .22 slouched down in his chair, leaned over the table and began to snag Cheerios from the table top with the tip of his tongue, flicking them quickly into his mouth and stopping only to belch or emit a lifelike, “rrrri-bit.”

“That’s pretty good.” Julie laughed.

“I hate to leave all this wildlife, but I’m running late.” Ben pushed back from the table then bent down and kissed Julie.

“Me, too. Me, too.” .22 leaned across the table toward Julie, eyes closed, lips puckered.

“I don’t kiss frogs, remember? Unless it’s like this.” Julie kissed her fingers and pressed them to his forehead.

 

+ + +

The watch was cheap, a Timex. The silver band with chunks of spider-web turquoise set on either side of the face had been won in a poker game—a long time ago from a Navajo. But the watch worked and its dial glowed in the dark. He never thought he’d be thankful for that. Sal looked at the watch’s face and felt a tongue of panic lick up his spine when he realized he didn’t know whether it was eight a.m. or eight p.m. He practiced slowing his pulse by taking deep breaths. It must be morning. And this would be the start of his third full day in the lab—locked in the lab. He was buried underground in a place no one knew existed. But he couldn’t think that way. This was only a test. Of wills? Or of winning? But weren’t they the same?

He’d argued with Hannah on Friday. It had started out innocently enough. She had come down to check his progress, pick up what amber he’d finished. She’d had a port-a-potty put in. 

Said she thought he would be pleased. Now he wouldn’t have to leave, interrupt his work, just to take a leak. She seemed pleased with herself—almost manic in her effusive praise of his work, picking up nuggets, holding them under the bench lights, oohing and ahhing, saying this was some of the best color he’d ever produced.

And then she had seen the boxes. He was in the process of dismantling the lab, taking apart the driers, the heating elements. He had enough inserts to finish the last twenty-five pounds. The liquids would be last. He’d take the resins outside to destroy, treat them as potential toxic waste, make certain they didn’t find their way into the river. He was being careful.

“What are you doing?” She walked among the crates next to the bench. Her voice was flat, soft.

“Just getting a head start on shutting down. I imagine I’m going to have to be out of here soon, with the place sold.” He stood watching her back as she moved along the bench, picking up a nugget, putting it down, moving on. Her shoulders stiffened and her movements became jerky. She knew he was quitting. So, what was wrong? He braced himself. 

Then she came to the tortoise shell. He hadn’t meant for that to happen. He had forgotten the two test pieces he’d tossed on top of the convection dryer. At first she was quiet, turning them over and over in her hand, studying them before she said anything.

“So this is why you can just quit making amber. You’ve found something you like to do better, something just as valuable, something that you care so much about that you’ve hidden it from me.” Her back was still to him. She held the tortoise shell under the bench light.

Sal didn’t say anything. He simply had to let her anger run its course. Like always. Only maybe this time it was going to be worse. Her voice was so quiet. He almost wished she’d do something, turn around, confront him.

“Who said you could waste time on this cheap shit? I think our bargain was for amber, only amber.” Then she seemed to reconsider, “Actually, this does make sense. It’s not so bad, good, really. It’ll pass and you’ll have something to make after you sell me the recipe for amber.”

“I’m not selling, Hannah. Tortoise shell or no tortoise shell. I’m not making anything fake anymore. Can you understand that? We’ve made the money you needed. Harold completed school, the house renovations got you a buyer. I’ve been able to help my family. All and all I’d say we’ve been successful. I’m stopping while we’re ahead, before we’re found out.”

“But tortoise shell—”

“No.” Sal thought his voice boomed across the room. He thought it sounded unnatural. She ought to know the risk of selling tortoise. At least amber wasn’t on an endangered species list. He was sorry he had even experimented now. He’d never try to sell tortoise. He hadn’t made the pieces with sales in mind—it had been just one more challenge.

“Is it because I never said that I love you? Never let you live in the big house? Or are you punishing me because I’m leaving?” Hannah now stood two feet in front of him. Her white skin was splotched, angry red smudges colored her cheeks and her eyes glittered. He could handle her anger better than this. Where was she leading?

“Why are you tormenting me? Refusing me? You’re going to make me do something I don’t want to do,” she said.

She had reached out to caress his face, letting her hand trail down the front of his shirt before dropping to her side. He willed himself not to flinch, to stand quietly, to wait. Her lips parted and small, even white teeth peeked out. He watched as she ran her tongue along their lower edge.

“Do you love me?” Luckily, he didn’t have to answer because she went on. “Or was it just sex? All those years only meant a roll in the hay now and then, didn’t they? There was no commitment, just air that thing out every once in awhile, and everything would be all right. Harold meant nothing to you. All those years I struggled alone.” 

She let her fingers trace the bulge at his crotch. Still, he willed himself to stand without emotion. He knew he wouldn’t get a hard on. All his senses were on alert, on caution. His skin prickled. She’d never acted like this before. Maybe if he said something, explained ...

“We were adults. There was never any talk of my getting a divorce. That wasn’t what we were all about,” Sal ventured.

“What were we all about?” She tipped his head back to make eye contact, and her fingers were like ice.

“About friendship and caring—helping one another.”

“And good friends do this to one another? I’m not asking for you to give me the recipe. I’ve offered to buy it.”

“No one will get the recipe. I won’t perpetuate a lie.”

“Why don’t you just call the authorities and report what you’ve done if your conscience is bothering you so bad?”

Sal had thought of it, but didn’t because he wasn’t the only one involved. He cared that much, and maybe lots more once upon a time. But that was gone now. 

“Harold loves me. Are you jealous?” 

“How can I be jealous of your son? You’ve been a good mother considering—”

“Considering that I tried to kill him, is that what you were going to say?” She bristled.

“Considering that you’ve been alone.”

This seemed to appease her. She looked away, seemed calmer.

“I’m going to miss you. But maybe you’ll be with me in spirit. Maybe I’ll be able to keep you with me always.” She looked up, her eyes begging for reassurance. Sal smiled. So all this was just due to jitters over moving, leaving behind everything she’d known for thirty years. He guessed he’d feel the same.

“I’ll never be that far away from you.” He held his index finger and thumb one inch apart. “Think of me and I’ll be there.”

She smiled back, a wan, nervous smile and then she leaned forward and hugged him. 

“Forgive me. I haven’t always been fair. But I do things that are the best for all of us. Do you believe me when I say that?” She pulled back and searched his face.

“I do.” Then he started to add, “There was a time—”

She put a finger to his lips to silence him then snuggled against his chest.

Sal smoothed her hair, buried his nose in its woodsy fragrance. He held her like that. A minute. Two minutes. Then she stepped back and walked toward the stairs. She hadn’t said anything when she left. There were no more threats about the amber, no offers to buy his secret. She just left. He hadn’t suspected then that she would lock the trapdoor, bolt and secure it so that he couldn’t leave. And when he did discover it, he’d laughed. It was like her. A harmless threat. Like a kid who takes away the ladder to the tree house but brings it back later after the point has been made. 

By the next morning it wasn’t funny any longer. And she had turned the lights off, probably from the electrical box outside. Or maybe a fuse had blown. He could give her the benefit of the doubt. But that was becoming difficult. He had turned everything off—bench lights, overheads, fans—before going to sleep and when he woke up, the lights simply didn’t work. He was in the dark. The pitch blackness that smelled slightly of dampness and mold pushed in upon him. He had fits of sneezing and his eyes watered. Then the fans had come on—fans only—circulating the air, lifting his spirits until he had tried the lights and found he still had no power.

And then he had heard the snap of an opening somewhere. A sliver of light played at the top of the stairs, but the wedge of a door closed before he reached the top step. There was a flashlight and a sack of food, a banana and two boxes of dry cereal.

He didn’t need to dwell on the fact that there was a dumb-waiter opening to deliver food, a narrow slot built into the heavy insulated door. He had never noticed it before. He should have suspected something when she insisted on putting in a cot and table, let alone a port-a-potty. This was calculated, planned in detail. If he hadn’t seen it coming, it only magnified the fact that he didn’t have a clue as to how it would end. 

He couldn’t let himself think that she would kill him. Wasn’t this all because of the amber? Wouldn’t he be safe as long as he didn’t give up the recipe? Probably. He thought of his notebook and how he’d hidden it and not kept it with him. It would be safe, this one bargaining chip that might save his life. But people would look for him. He felt a flood of relief. Yes. He wasn’t thinking straight. He would be missed. He needed to meet with Julie about the show. It was a stroke of genius that he’d asked her to help him hide the fetish jar—she’d know he’d never leave it behind. 

And .22—he’d promised to help him catch frogs. They were going to the river this morning. .22 would whine until Hannah released him. And Tommy Spottedhorse. He knew that Sal wouldn’t skip out. Tommy hadn’t jailed him again, sent him to Gallup for lockup because he knew Sal was honest and wasn’t going to go anywhere. Tommy would try to find him. And his sister expected him for dinner. Yes. He’d almost forgotten a celebration dinner on the Fourth. They were going to see the fireworks. It would be all right. Hannah couldn’t get away with it. She couldn’t leave him there to die. 

 

+ + +

 

“Rose said you were coming in over the holiday weekend. I thought I’d make myself comfortable. If you call this comfort.” Tommy indicated the straight-backed metal chair next to Ben’s desk. “This is just one step above prison issue.”

“Is there a difference between prison issue and regular government issue?” Ben laughed. “At least it matches the desk and filing cabinet.” He pointed to his coffee mug. “Can I get you some? It’ll be instant, but I just need to heat some water.”

Tommy shook his head, “I don’t have long.”

“What’s up?”

“For starters, I’m kicking myself. I think I’ve been an ace idiot. Here take a look.” Tommy tossed two Polaroid snapshots on Ben’s desk. “Old camera but best I could come up with.”

Ben picked up one, then the other. “Looks like a knife.”

“Is a knife. I found it on my desk Friday wrapped in that morning’s newspaper, Albuquerque Tribune, and stuffed into a reinforced manila envelope.”

“Something tells me I don’t have to ask what it is,” Ben said.

“You’re right. It’s the murder weapon. That’s the stiletto that killed Ahmed. Lab guys confirmed it this morning.”

“Why would someone leave it on your desk?”

“Why would one person leave it, you mean. One good set of fingerprints on the handle belong to our pal.”

“Sal?” Ben couldn’t believe it.

“None other.”

“Have you brought him in?”

“I was out there a half hour ago, just missed you. Hannah says he’s disappeared. She hasn’t seen him since Friday. How ’bout you?”

“The same, I guess. Hannah was ticked that she had to open the trading post this morning. But where would Sal disappear to?”

“Who knows? The only sure thing is I’m up to my ass in a homicide, and I let the guy who did it go.”

“Are you thinking Sal left you the knife and then skipped out?”

“That’s my best guess. He could be halfway to Mexico City by now.”

“His truck’s still at his trailer,” Ben said. “It looks like he’s been working on it recently.”

“I saw it. That’s what makes me think he took off for the badlands on foot or borrowed a car.”

“El Malpais?”

“Yeah. He could hole up for awhile, do penance, then work his way toward the border.”

“But why would he give himself away? Give you the murder weapon?”

Tommy shrugged. “He could have been told to do it—to come clean. Probably had a ceremony and, according to Indian ways, the priest told him to get rid of anything having to do with the dead man. Maybe he was being bugged by the old ones. Sal was complaining of bad dreams when he was in jail. He told us he saw supernaturals. It could be, he just needed relief.”

Ben nodded. But it bothered him. Sal seemed too honest. When they had questioned him, Ben thought Sal seemed uneasy—who wouldn’t be, under the circumstances. But taking off? That certainly hadn’t been Ben’s impression of what he might do. 

“Now what?” Ben asked.

“I put out an all points. Luckily, we got some mug shots when he was in jail a couple weeks ago. We’ll get a packet out. One thing’s for sure, he’s a hundred or so miles away from here by now.”

 

+ + +

 

“Boy, are you popular. So much for your trying to catch up on any work over the long weekend.” Rose had stepped into his office just as Tommy was leaving. “I had hoped that we might have a minute to talk but they said it was an emergency.” 

“Who’s they?”

Rose waited until Tommy was out of hearing. “Sal’s sister and wife.”

“What do they want? Have they found Sal?” 

“I don’t know. They seem pretty upset.”

“Send them back.”

The first thing that struck Ben was how old the two women seemed. Yet, both were probably in their early fifties—the same as Hannah, but there the comparison stopped. These were matrons—women who got their short hair regularly permed, let the gray show, and chose navy polyester slacks, anklets, flat-heeled oxfords, and plain blouses that pulled taut across ample bosoms and rounded abdomens. Each held an oversized vinyl purse on her lap, across plump legs that dangled over the edge of the chair, feet just brushing the floor.

Sal’s sister introduced herself as Daisy Sandoval and seemed to be the spokesperson, indicating Sal’s wife might want to see him by herself later on. But when Ben looked over inquiringly, the other woman stared resolutely at the floor. Some sixth sense nudged him that this wasn’t going to be easy.

“There’s something very wrong,” Sal’s sister began. “Sal was supposed to have dinner with us last night. My son just returned from California. I had invited Mary,” Daisy gestured toward Sal’s wife with her chin, “and my son’s girlfriend. I had fixed paper bread. Sal’s favorite. After dinner, we were going to watch the fireworks at the Civic Center. He never showed up.”

“If something had come up, would he have called?” Ben asked.

“More likely, he’d drop by. He’s always coming over. I saw him Friday morning. Sometimes I help him with his laundry. They live apart, you know.” Once again, Daisy indicated the woman beside her. “So, he doesn’t have anyone to take care of him.”

Ben couldn’t help compare the picture being painted of a helpless Sal with his own situation. There was no way he thought Julie would take care of him, well, at least, not in the way Daisy was describing. That wasn’t his definition of a wife—laundress and cook—but old ways die hard on the reservation.

“He hasn’t come back for his clothes. He left three pairs of jeans, six T-shirts, socks and the sheets off of his bed. Now, you tell me, what did he sleep on Friday night?”

Sal’s wife nodded. Obviously, it was common knowledge between the two that Sal only had one set of bed linen.

“I see why you’re concerned.” What else could Ben say? Should he broach the subject of Sal’s being implicated in a murder? He really couldn’t say anything until Tommy gave him the okay. But maybe if he asked general questions ...

“Do you have any reason to think he might have left the village?”

“And gone where?” Daisy scoffed. “You don’t know Sal very well. He’d never leave. He takes what you’d call a vacation not five miles from here and meditates but that’s more for cleansing, ritual reasons before a ceremony.” 

“I dreamed he was buried,” Sal’s wife said.

Daisy’s head jerked abruptly in her direction.

“What?” Ben thought he had misunderstood.

“He sent a messenger to me in a dream. He’s been buried alive.”

Ben realized he was staring, what an attention grabber. Daisy was the first to speak.

“When was this?” Her tone was sharp. 

“Last night.” 

“Tell us what you saw,” Ben said. It wasn’t that he believed in this type of telepathic communication. But, then again, he didn’t rule it out. He noticed Daisy’s brows knit in a frown. This must be news to her, too. And he sensed she didn’t like to be surprised.

Mary moistened her lips. She’s enjoying this, Ben thought, center stage, all eyes focused on her. Would she fabricate a story for this attention? He’d watch for clues. 

“I didn’t go to bed until after the news. I always watch channel seven.” She shifted her purse and methodically folded the handles inside the flap of a pocket attached on the outside of the bag before continuing. “I usually can’t get to sleep easily. Sometimes I get up and down three or four times. I live by myself. I, that is, we, Sal and I never had children. I live in Sal’s parent’s house to the right of the plaza.” She paused to glance quickly at Ben. “Sal has lived at the trading post since he started working there.”

There was no indication of how long ago that was, but Ben seemed to remember someone saying Sal had been there for fifteen years, a long time to be separated without divorce. He wasn’t sure how important this was to the story; he had the distinct feeling his Indian listening habits were being tested.

“But the house that comes from his family has his spirit. He is of the badger clan, one of the thirteen matrilineal clans of the village.” 

Did he need a history lesson? Better yet, could he get out of one? Ben relaxed. This wouldn’t go any faster with urging— even if he could give it.

“Sal’s spirit called me by my Indian name, Maiatitsa, little blue bird, and warned me of the snowy owl.” She paused for effect. The owl was a portent of death, Ben knew, but why the winter color of white, an absence of any hue in the middle of summer? What was even more interesting was that her voice had taken on onerous tones and she was rocking, ever so slightly, back and forth.

“Look to that which reflects the light of day, has no color of its own and keeps the sun from penetrating below the ground by blanketing the earth, deadening the spirit.” She droned on, staring from under lidded eyes. “And be wary of the snow maiden who lives to keep green shoots from reaching the warm rays, who guards against life escaping from her watchful eye, whose hoary breath can paralyze—numb the stinger of the bee, the claws of the bear, the heart of the hunter.” She paused for emphasis, then shook her head, blinked her eyes and suddenly returned to normal. Yet, Ben had the distinct feeling he had experienced the spirit that spoken through her. It was eerie. He felt shaken.

“Sal’s spirit cried out to me. He’s being held underground by the snowy maiden.” She indicated she was finished and slumped back in her chair, eyes averted.

No one spoke. Ben wasn’t real good at metaphors but you didn’t have to be a literature major to think of Hannah. He couldn’t check an involuntary shudder. But wouldn’t Sal’s wife naturally suspect Hannah? Want to implicate her, get her in trouble? Could you lose your husband to another women and not feel some animosity—an anger that even years couldn’t erase? Ben stole a look at Daisy. If anything, her frown had gotten deeper. She seemed speechless, just stared at Sal’s wife. Wasn’t it truly possible that all this was just for attention like he first suspected? And as far as that went, hadn’t it worked?

“We must consult the priests,” Daisy said.

Not ‘I believe you’ exactly. But she wasn’t saying that she didn’t either. How tactful, Ben thought. Both women stood. Daisy thanked him for his time and then they left. He heard himself making lame promises to keep in touch, let them know if anything came up and for them to be on guard. 

And then he sat back down at his desk. He couldn’t stop himself from putting some credence in what Sal’s wife had said. At least, he was certain she was telling the truth. The truth as she saw it. The supernatural so easily intertwined with life sometimes. If his grandmother were still alive—

“I always hate to interrupt a trance.” Rose was kidding, but she must have been standing in the door for a moment.

“Come in.” Ben blinked then pushed his hair back off his forehead with two hands. It was difficult to dispel the mood Sal’s wife had created. And he was irritated at having to talk to someone right now. “What’s up?”

“Well, this may be nothing. I probably shouldn’t be bothering you—”

“Hey, I’m already bothered.” He tried to sound like he was joking but saw Rose hesitate. “No, really. Here’s a chair.” He walked around his desk and pulled one of the chairs closer. “Now what’s all this about?” He sat down across from her.

“This, I guess.” She held a video tape in her hands. “Yesterday, we caught the kids who had been raiding the pop machines.”

“That’s great. Was it someone after some firecracker money?”

“More like cigs and beer, or pot.” She gave him a look that said he might be out of touch with teens. She was probably right.

“But that’s not exactly why I’m here.”

Ben waited. Rose was fidgeting with the tape, reluctant to talk. But why?

“You know, it might be easier if I show you what I saw. Let you see for yourself, decide for yourself.” She grinned. “See if you think I’m ’round the bend.

He followed her to the nurse’s lounge, which held an old TV and ancient VCR machine. Lunch seemed to go faster for some with the soaps on. Funny how civilization intruded upon the reservation. Did that mean As the World Turns might have universal application? He didn’t know. It just seemed so incongruous out here.

He watched as Rose pushed the cassette into the machine and fiddled with the knobs. The screen came up a fuzzy gray drizzle then snapped to a clear picture of the reception area. He watched a still life of the pop machine, the six straight-backed chairs, the hanging pots of wandering Jew and philodendron, the Yei rug, tile surfaced coffee table, magazines haphazardly tossed on top ... all in black and white. So what was he supposed to see? He started to say something. Rose shushed him and pointed.

He could just make out Hannah and .22 walking up to the front door, pushing it open. This must be Saturday morning before the testing. Then Dr. Lee came out from the back. As Ben watched, Dr. Lee bussed Hannah on the cheek. A kiss. Now that was interesting. Suddenly, Rose put the tape on fast forward.

“Not that this isn’t worth watching but let’s get to the good stuff.” She released the fast forward and the tape slowed to normal speed. 

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll see. Or, at least, I hope you will.”

Now it was Hannah alone, Hannah chewing her cuticles, pulling at a hang nail, Hannah looking out the window, suddenly hopping up as .22 enters from the back with Ben. Ben motions for .22 to stay and Hannah to go back to his office with him. Now there’s only .22 playing on the floor. He picks up the Ferrari and runs it back and forth along his leg.

Looking around he lets the toy car fall. And then he stretches. Fingers clasped, he pushes his arms above his head and yawns, then digs in his pocket and, bounding upright, walks to the pop machine.

“Stop the tape.” Ben didn’t mean to yell. “Can you replay that part—start with the yawn?”

“It gets better. Let me continue and then we can go back, okay?”

Ben nodded and then sat forward leaning against the conference table, trying to stop his brain from whirling in confusion, stop the questions, just watch ...

.22 puts one quarter in the slot but drops the other, which rolls back into the center of the room. He deftly turns, retrieves the quarter and then flips it. With thumb and forefinger he sends it spiraling into the air, catches it and smacks the coin against the back of his hand. Heads or tails? Ben couldn’t tell which. But did it matter? Because ... but wait. Suddenly, .22 appears to go limp; his arm jerks forward. The soda is obviously forgotten as he slumps to the floor, all the while nervously facing the camera. Did he hear someone coming?

Ben watched .22 wet his lips, reach in his pocket, then rub at his eyes, which suddenly water. As if in slow motion, .22’s jaw falls open and his upper lip starts to twitch just as Dr. Lee reenters the picture to squat beside him. Dr. Lee’s back is to the camera, blocking .22, but it’s obvious that he’s asking questions from the way .22 nods or shakes his head. He ends by patting .22 on the shoulder before leaving the room.

“That’s about it,” Rose said just as the screen went fuzzy. “Replay?”

“You bet. But I’d like to stop a couple places, mind if I man the controls?”

Rose handed him the remote after pushing rewind.

“I’m so relieved that you think something’s fishy, too. I don’t always check the tapes in detail, just record over; but I needed to adjust the camera and figure out why Friday’s tape kept jumping around—see if I’d gotten it fixed by Saturday. It’s like watching two different people, one retarded, one okay—even if only for a couple seconds.”

Ben nodded. He probably couldn’t say it better himself, and he wasn’t thinking multiple personality.

“Do you know .22?” Ben asked.

“Not really. Everyone knows about him, how his mother tried to kill him and Tommy’s mother saved him. Tommy’s mother used to call Hannah the Indian word for evil. She used to swear she could prove Hannah tried to kill the boy and not just once.”

“Why wasn’t anything done?”

“I guess it was, sort of. Ed Rawlings sent his wife away. So, what do you make of all this? Why would .22 pretend to be more incapacitated than he is?”

Ben didn’t answer just shook his head. He was looking at a replay of .22 letting the plastic car slip from his lap. He slowed the tape. 

“Do you mind if I have a copy made?”

“No problem, but you can keep the original.” 

“Thanks, and thanks for saving it. It brings up some questions, that’s for sure.”

“You would know. Didn’t you test .22 on Saturday? Yellow Skin said you planned on it.”

“Yeah. And I’m not sure my findings match what I’m seeing.”

“There’s probably some medical explanation. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I better get back to work. Yell if you need me.” Rose walked back out front.

Ben pressed Play. He was engrossed in what he saw. He knew what he suspected. But what did he really have? One minute —probably less than one minute of tape that showed a young man going from impaired motor control to what appeared to be more normal in the blink of an eye, and then slip backward again. Now he struggled with movement, controlling his tics, his arm; now he was tossing a coin in the air, perfectly in control; now he was slumped on the floor, eyes watering, lip twitching. Ben switched off the machine and leaned his chair back against the wall.

He had either watched an academy award winning performance or ... or what? What explanation was there for this apparent respite, however brief, from affliction? And would others agree with him? Rose saw a difference. But was it big enough to do something about? Was it documented anywhere that .22 didn’t have normal moments, times when he was more in control? Was there proof that he couldn’t have flipped a coin or stood upright, tall, head not thrust forward? And did it say anywhere that he couldn’t bend over, pick up a coin and not lose his balance?

But wasn’t it more about his facial expressions? For a few seconds, his face lacked any reminder of the Cheerio-eating frog demonstration Ben had watched at breakfast. For those few seconds on the tape Ben had seen the eyes of an intelligent human being, not someone who struggled with a sixty-five IQ, but a man who—if you ignored his shaved head, the scabs covered by ointment, the pimpled chin and watering eyes—might be handsome. But again, who was to say that .22 couldn’t go in and out of his impairment—waver—have lucid moments with good motor control then back to struggling? Had anyone documented that? And who could he ask? Not Hannah. But maybe someone at the school or, perhaps, Dr. Lee.

Ben sat quietly. He had to face it. Was this just his own ego struggling to find an answer—help Ben save a little face since he had been the one to test .22? What was it Rose had said, if anyone would know, he would? Could he have been so thoroughly duped? Wouldn’t he have suspected? He had been complete in the testing. Just because it was a trial run to assure Hannah wouldn’t be cheated out of her inheritance didn’t mean ...

Ben let the chair crash forward. The inheritance. Of course. There were a few hundred thousand dollars riding on .22’s abilities, or lack of, as the case might be. Why couldn’t Hannah have gotten someone, an actor, to impersonate .22? But, damn it, he looked like Hannah—those same watery blue eyes, blond hair—wouldn’t that have been hard to match?

So why couldn’t Ben shake the feeling that he had been used? If he wasn’t who Hannah said he was, wasn’t it a stroke of genius to set up a test of his skills? Didn’t they need to make sure .22 would pass—but not just in skills, in believability? What better way than run the act by a shrink ahead of time. 

But didn’t that raise questions about the real .22? Was there a real .22 still alive and well somewhere? Ben cursed the holiday. Tomorrow he’d call every institution in Albuquerque that might have had as its ward one Harold Rawlings about ten years ago. 

“Want me to have a copy made for you? My son gets videos done at the high school. They’ve got some pretty good equipment.” He hadn’t heard Rose return.

“That would be great if he has the time.”

“As upset as you look, there’s no way I wouldn’t make him have the time.” Rose smiled. “I’ll leave both on your desk after lunch tomorrow.”

Ben thanked her and walked back to his office. What should he do? What reason did he have to check hospitals? Did he really have enough to go on? He was suspicious, but that was about all. And actually what crime had been committed? .22 wouldn’t go for testing before the board until Thursday. Hadn’t Hannah said the appointment was Thursday in Albuquerque? 

Then if all this was a charade, and the inheritance was gotten under false pretenses, there would be a crime and it would be time to bring in the authorities. But Ben felt an urgency. He needed to do something now. Three days. Could he come up with more evidence in that time? He knew he was going to try. And he knew he would ask Julie’s help.