Chapter 2

 

 

Weird. That was the only word that Zac could think of as he walked to the squat, tan building with the ends of trees sticking out of the walls in what he had learned was something called “adobe style” and those tree trunks were vigas. He’d bet that inside there were small pieces of wood between the vigas and those were called latillas. To be fair, if his ancestors had figured out how to make homes from snow and ice, he guessed these people had a right to build houses out of mud and tree stumps. But they were strange—floors made of bricks and walls two-feet thick. It was a lot to get used to. He pulled open the heavy, natural wood door to the men’s restroom. Sand crunched under his sneakers as he walked in. At least the room had light. Two naked bulbs hung from cords that stretched to the ceiling. If the bulbs had ever had any kind of glass covering, the shades were gone now. Sheets of metal acted as mirrors and lined the wall above and behind the urinals and the trough-like sink to the right. The metal wasn’t a good replacement for glass and offered only a fuzzy outline of the room’s contents at best.

He had walked to the nearest urinal before realizing he was being watched; someone was in the stall directly behind him. His eye caught the movement of the stall’s door in the distorted reflection of the pretend-mirror. He turned to look and saw an eye quickly disappear as the door shut and a pair of dusty biker boots step back. Could be some pervert. They had had a video in health class last year about men doing things to boys in places like this. Or maybe the guy was just curious. Zac wasn’t going to let it bother him. He wasn’t afraid. He’d just finish up and walk back out to the truck. He didn’t even turn around again.

Zac zipped up his jeans and stepped to the sink. The long trough had four faucets. Not one of them turned on—no water; he tried all four. This time the door to the first stall opened and a really big guy stepped out. He was as tall as Dad but lots fatter and he had a beard instead of hair on his head. His beard reached to his chest and had beads braided in it. That looked weird. The guy shaved his head but decorated his beard and the beads were all red, white, or blue.

Zac knew this guy was called a skinhead and not just because his head was shaved; his T-shirt had a confederate flag on it. He bet he rode a Harley or drove a truck. Bad-ass. The term just popped into his head, but Zac bet it was the truth. This guy looked like he got off on being mean.

“Hey, kid, you an Indian?”

“Yeah, are you?” The remark brought a loud guffaw.

“Oh, sure kid, maybe your red-ass needs a whupping for having a smart mouth.”

Zac shrugged, pushed his mask up over his nose, and took a couple steps toward the door.

“Not so fast. I’m getting me an idea.” The man stepped in front of the door and blocked it. “I think you just might be able to help me out.”

“How?”

“I think I’ll call it running interference.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you sorry-ass red suckers are going to let me drive my rig onto your land so I can get to Shiprock before night.”

“Why can’t you just go?” This wasn’t making sense.

“’Cause they gotta take your temperature and a history of what you’ve been doing, that’s why—in case you’re bringing the illness with you. And if you’re white, you’re shit out of luck. You gotta turn around and drive another hundred miles out of your way just to get where you’re going—temperature, or no temperature.”

“It’s called sovereignty. A tribe has sovereign rights. If they don’t want you on their land, they can keep you off.”

“Oh yeah? You think you and all your red relatives have the right to screw up my day? Cost me a day’s wages? Well, you got another think coming.”

The guy was beginning to bug Zac. He took a step forward only to be grabbed and spun around with his left arm doubled behind his back.

“Ow. You’re hurting me.”

“You’ll hurt a lot more if you try to get away. Don’t mess with me. Only good Indian is a dead one to my way of thinking. Now we’re going to walk out of here with you in front of me—close, real close. Don’t try anything cute, ’cause I got this 9mm pointed at your head. You understand, kid?” He waited until Zac nodded, then added, “Okay, then, open the door. We’re going out.” The barrel of the gun was cold and Zac believed his threat. He pushed the door outward.

In the fifteen minutes he’d been inside, the wind had fallen away to just an intermittent soft gust here and there, and the sun was seventy-five percent back to full strength—blindingly bright and beating down on the parking area.

“You see that truck over there? Got Rocky Mountain Transport on the sides in red letters. We’re gonna walk over there and the two of us climb up in the cab. Then I’m gonna fire her up and we’re gonna bust through that barricade and just keep on going. You do anything stupid, you’re out of here. Like in a box. You know what I’m saying?”

Zac nodded. He knew he was shaking but he couldn’t stop. And his arm really hurt. The guy had it jerked up high against his back. He only pressed harder if Zac tried to lean away from the pressure.

“Okay then, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Ben watched Zac walk toward the restrooms. What had he been like at eleven? Much the same if he remembered correctly. A little arrogance that comes from being a cute, smart kid with a doting grandmother or, in Zac’s case a grandmother, an aunt and a mother. Neither Zac nor Ben had a father growing up. That was going to change for Zac, Ben promised himself—it wasn’t too late to fill a void.

The six people nearest the roadblock were Navajo men—three were in the uniform of tribal police and judging from the stack of crates and boxes behind them, they were safeguarding a cache of supplies waiting to be taken onto the reservation. He didn’t see a pickup or two behind them or any other method of transportation though. The eighteen-wheeler idling to the side appeared to be an interstate transport judging from the tags. They must be waiting for someone from off the Rez to pick them up.

The four-foot-high stacks of worn tires made an effective barricade stretching across both lanes. Two Ford Broncos with Navajo police insignia were parked to the side with two more uniformed men leaning against the hood of the nearest SUV. It was a decent show of power Ben thought, enough to discourage any acting out by motorists surprised at being stopped, or protestors who got out of line. The sandstorm had called a halt to all activity and the protestors were just now picking up their signs and gathering at the road’s edge. They seemed to be protesting the situation—a major artery being blocked—not the fact that their travel had been interrupted. And it looked like a few people were getting their fifteen minutes of fame. Two men from NBC had their cameras rolling as they moved among the crowd. One stopped to focus on an interview taking place.

The Navajo man in uniform closest to Ben walked over. “Billie Benally, local Chief of Police.” He stretched out his hand and shook Ben’s. “Sorry about the handshake; I just used sanitizer. Wasn’t sure you were up for an elbow bump.” The chief laughed, “I was notified that a Dr. Pecos was heading this way with supplies for the FEMA settlement? Am I right in thinking that’s you?”

“I’m Dr. Pecos and if that’s where I need to deliver supplies from IHS, then, yes, I’m your man.”

“Good meeting you. We already have supplies just sitting and waiting on transport. The guys picking these up had car trouble—truck just quit on them. We’ve got another truck going over to the Rez from here, but they can’t take everything. Would six of those crates fit in the bed of your truck? We’d appreciate the help.”

“Sure. I’ll make room. Let me get the truck.”

In ten minutes everything was snugged in tight and covered with a large, tie-down blue canvas tarp. “I’ll have two of my guys hitch a ride in that sedan with the school teacher.” He pointed in the direction of an elderly blue Toyota Corolla much in need of a new paint job. “That way somebody will be at the settlement to help unload. Can’t guarantee any help being at the camp. But that’s right, you have no idea where you’re going or what you’re getting into. Well, welcome to FEMA’s best mucked up attempt to help the Natives.”

“Sorry, I’m not following. FEMA? A camp?”

“You’ll get your choice from about fifteen trailers, maybe more by now. Cast-offs, most of them used. Remember Katrina? Well, that’s what we’ve got going out here. Rows of trailers out in the middle of nowhere. Three hospital tents not even completely erected yet and they need more—an additional three are supposed to be delivered today. Spotty electricity, even though they’ve got some guys working on it, running water every other day until they can clean out the only functioning well—there’s talk of a new well, but that depends on whether they can get a rig out here. I’ll bet you that could be thirty days. And who’s going to pay for it? The bright spot is that you’ll have broadband access. Got that set up, tower and all, last year. Yeah, that’s a nice modern touch but overall, it’s not going to be what you’re used to. Well, you get the picture--you’ll be roughing it.”

“Didn’t you mention the woman over there is a school teacher?”

“Yeah, Miss Otter, Miss Carolyn Otter. Single woman. These kids, K through twelve, are her life. Won’t find anyone more dedicated to their work.”

“Otter? Is she Native?”

Billie laughed. “No, but I’ll tell you how she got her name—from the kids. Carolyn was flattered to death—her real name was McKowski, hard for the kids to pronounce or even remember; so, they gave her the name of Otter. But come to find out the name had special meaning. Tell me, Dr. Pecos, you ever smell an otter?”

Ben shook his head. A vision of cute furry animals floating around a pond on their backs holding each other’s paws came to mind.

“Well, let me tell you, they smell. No, STINK is more like it. Don’t know if it’s all the fish they eat and they’re just pooping out rancid cod liver oil or it’s something in their fur but you don’t want to put your nose on one.”

“So, the schoolteacher had no idea that giving her that name might be a comment on her personal hygiene?”

“None. She loved it. Even had her name changed legally to Otter. That’s been years ago. If she ever found out she’d been the brunt of Indian humor, she never said. It’s been so long no one even thinks about it anymore. She’s just Miss Carolyn Otter, teacher. We’re lucky to have her.”

“Her school is nearby?”

“Yeah, the camp is about five miles from a cluster of family dwellings that includes the school—as the crow flies. You’ll find that’s a favorite Anglo saying out here. Tough to find a direct path to most things. Most times the straight line takes miles off the journey, but meandering is the only thing that will get you where you’re going. The school attracts quite a roster; some students come in from up to fifteen miles away. The building that houses the school is old, but functional. The camp is going to tap off of its electricity—they’re running some temporary poles between the two areas. Water’s being trucked over from their community well now. It will all get fixed—it’s just not fixed now.”

“Miss Otter lives out here?”

“Drives back and forth from Shiprock. She’s out here today getting her classroom ready for school to start. My kids are pissed. Their friends over in Gallup won’t be starting school on time this year. But the Rez has its own rules. And everybody’s got to be front and center come Monday next week.” Billie laughed. “Nobody said being Indian was easy.”

Ben laughed with him. He liked this easy-going man who wore his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and had a turquoise and silver bracelet that covered his entire left wrist.

“Gallup is a ways from here.”

“Yeah, but it’s about the closest big city.” Again that laugh. Gallup being a ‘big city’ was a stretch, Ben knew. “I have to go over once or twice a month. In addition to wearing this uniform and taking care of everything that comes with it, I’m a silversmith and need to keep my sellers happy. I got three stores that sell my stuff. Need to top up their inventory pretty regularly. Those tourists want their trinkets.”

“Not sure this year there’ll be a lot of tourists.”

“That’s a fact. The virus hasn’t done us any favors. Maybe you heard that Gallup was completely closed off to all visitors earlier this spring. If you were on I-40, there was no stopping.”

“What’s the protesting about?” A woman walked by carrying a sign that read ‘The Highway is MY way’ and pushed past a group of protestors to get closer to the barricade.

“Navajo elders, and backed by the Navajo Nations’ President, aren’t allowing anyone to cross or enter Indian land who’s not a resident or doesn’t have a good reason to be here. Granted this highway’s the fastest way to Shiprock but there are ways around. It’s just one step in trying to keep the virus from spreading. Once on Indian land, we all wear masks and adhere to a strict curfew. You’ll get fined if you’re out running around after nine—unless you’re on hospital business, of course. We’re ill-equipped to fight the virus once it takes up residence on the Rez. We’re lucky. We’ve got a President who’s taken the illness seriously and moved quickly to contain it.” Billie turned to survey the parking lot. “Most of these people are outsiders. Some are just seeking excitement. Some think they need to travel north and pissed that they can’t. Like that skinhead. Oh, shit, that looks like trouble.” Billie pulled his two-way radio off of his belt and barked into it, “Heads up, coming your way. You got my six?” Then took off, still giving orders that Ben couldn’t hear.

Ben turned in the direction Billie was headed. A mountain of a man, three hundred pounds if he was an ounce, bald head now shining in a ray of sunlight, his T-shirt proclaiming his affiliation, was striding purposefully toward the lone eighteen-wheeler in the lot. He was holding a gun on a kid, pushing that kid in front of him. Oh my God, the man had Zac.

“My son! The guy’s got my son.” Ben caught up with Billie.

“Stay back. I’ll handle this.” Billie jogged across the highway slowing to a walk keeping his hands out in front of him, but Ben was staying parallel to him and moving at the same rate of speed. There was no way he was going to hang back. He fought to keep the panic down. It would be okay, he would reason with the guy, the cops would let the truck go through—thoughts were coming fast one piled on top of another. Please, God, don’t let anything happen to Zac.