THE RHYTHMS OF THE REZ
The warmer than expected reception Charles Bloom had received from Rachael Yellowhorse was the first happy feeling he had experienced in a half a year. It was apparent there was an immediate connection between the two. Charles hadn’t expected something romantic to materialize so quickly with Willard’s younger sister. He had come to answer some long-nagging questions. But connecting so strongly with Rachael had now changed the main reason for visiting. He had another purpose besides unanswered questions for staying on the rez, and it was Rachael Yellowhorse.
The impromptu dinner with Rachael and Preston Yellowhorse had led to an invitation to move from the cramped cheap hotel off the strip in Gallup to an equally small trailer home behind Rachael’s prefab hogan. The offer had been heartfelt and had surprised Rachael herself at her ease in offering a basically unknown white man to move in behind her. What she knew of Charles Bloom had come from not only Willard, but also numerous Native artists who had worked with Bloom’s gallery over the years. They all had said the same thing: he’s a man of honor. To have honor is the highest compliment a Native person can bestow on someone, and knowing this was the tipping point for her.
Bloom lived and worked in one of the most expensive cities in the country, Santa Fe. The prospect of moving into an unfurnished, drafty 1948 Mobile Sportsman Trailer with no Internet was not the most appealing prospect, except that Rachael was only a few yards away. Then again, Bloom loved cars and recognized the old trailer model. It was the same exact year as when the ill-fated Tucker cars came out. Only 52 were made. Charles, looking at the beat-up trailer with dead weeds all around its frame, tried to imagine its pristine original condition being pulled by a brand new Tucker. He thought of the irony that a medium-sized Yellowhorse painting would sell for around $400K, the same amount for which George Lucas, the filmmaker, had sold his Tucker in 2005.
The trailer had been abandoned on the rez 25 years ago. Rachael’s father had claimed it since it was on his wife’s ancestral land. The trailer’s tongue had nearly broken off and the original owners probably figured it just wasn’t worth the trouble fixing, so they left it, a not-uncommon occurrence on the rez. Winston Yellowhorse, Rachael’s father, had carefully attached the damaged trailer tongue to his old Ford and moved it to its final resting place behind his own now-abandoned hogan. The old trailer had never really been occupied since Winston Yellowhorse found it, except for the occasional distant relative or wayward raccoon.
The outside still retained its lovely aluminum covering, but there were now numerous dents so it looked more like a golf-ball cover. In a few places the underlying wood had rotted away. Now cold air or bugs could breach the trailer’s inner surface easily. Amazingly, most of the original furnishings were intact. The first thing Charles the art dealer noticed was a print by the now-deceased Andrew Wyeth of CHRISTINA’S WORLD, Wyeth’s most famous painting, which was also made the same year as the trailer. The image of a woman lying on the side of a field overlooking a distant horizon somehow seemed so apropos to the lonely reservation setting. The appliances included an off-white Marvel fridge that had not worked in decades. The dining room consisted of a linoleum white table whose veneer had been partially peeled away. The table’s sitting bench’s cushions were covered in their original paisley fabric. The worn coverings had become so hard that sitting on them caused a cracking sound, as if sitting on an old Twister game mat. The overhead lights were two long exposed florescent bulbs that took a minute before an illumination would occur, always preceded by a loud humming sound that never quite went away.
What made the trailer livable was Rachael’s artwork. She had taken the one good wall that somehow was missing a poster and turned it into a mural of reservation life. Charles assumed it depicted her life’s journey. One small middle panel was black except for a single little star, most likely representing the death of her brother. Rachael saw Bloom’s reaction to the mural as she helped him move into his new humble abode. Like any good art dealer, he stopped and engaged when he saw an image that resonated with him; in this case, the mural. Rachael could tell he was moved by the way his eyes shifted rapidly back and forth, and his eyebrows rose up at different points. Nothing needed to be said. The mural bonded them emotionally at that moment.
Bloom’s timing was excellent. Rachael Yellowhorse would be on spring break in two weeks in late March. She had offered her services as a guide if he wanted to see reservation life. Back in Santa Fe, Brad Shriver had been able to place the Yellowhorse drawing as promised, so Bloom had enough money to survive at least through April 15th, tax day. No luck on either his Cannon or Scholder paintings, though. The spring art season in Santa Fe was looking bleak, one of the worst on record, just like the snowfall. Brad congratulated Charles on finding a free place to live and the potential for adding a new artist to the gallery.
Bloom’s occupation as an art dealer was all about design and decorating other people’s homes. The fact was, however, that he didn’t have anything for the trailer except his clothes and one small painting he’d brought with him: the gift from Willard. The painting was the most valuable possession Charles owned. He felt more comfortable having it near, even if he only viewed it in his suitcase. It was a bonus that now he would get to hang the piece in Willard’s dad’s trailer. He figured at some time Willard had been in this trailer. In fact he may have helped with its placement back when the rims still had intact rubber on them.
The thought of Willard having once had an intimate connection to the old weather-beaten ’48 Sportsman made Bloom feel there was a reason, some power, which had led him to this place. He just had to be patient and let that force reveal itself, whatever it might be. At least he was getting closer to understanding the truth of Willard’s life. Hanging the painting was the first order of business.
Preston Yellowhorse had the same facial features and long straight black hair as his deceased father. His face had started to change from a child’s to a man’s. He was a ninth grader, a tough time for any kid. Without a father, puberty was even more brutal, both for Preston and Rachael.
Many kids Preston’s age were already doing drugs. This went against the Diné philosophy, which is to walk in beauty or hozho. This could be health, happiness, or even good versus evil. The Navajo way was at all times to maintain a balance or harmony in life. The reservation, even with all its natural environmental beauty and Navajo sensibilities, still had to deal with poverty, drugs, alcohol abuse, and recently, gang activities. A quarter of all the students lived with only a single female as their guardian and half of the families in the school district were under the poverty line.
Rachael Yellowhorse and her grandfather Hastiin Sherman were the only close living relatives Preston had. She had become his de facto mother after the unexpected death of his mother and father. One of the reasons Rachael had decided to take a job in the Newcomb school system was so she would have a steady income and Preston could stay in his ancestral home. She had always hoped to make a living as an artist and had for a short period of time, but the burden of unexpected motherhood was too demanding. One day she hoped to return to her first love, creating art, not just teaching art classes at the local high school.
Daily life at the Yellowhorse house embodied the rhythms of the rez. Up at 5 am. Stoke the fire, the only form of heat. Check on the sheep, and let them out to pasture. Get ready for school. The sheep belonged to Rachael’s late grandmother and her mother, both of who had been known for their great rugs. Her grandfather asked Rachael to keep the animals until his death, then she could do as she liked. He had felt Rachael had the potential to be a great weaver, which she had demonstrated by the rugs she had produced as a young girl. He had hoped she would follow in the footsteps of the other Navajo women and become a weaving artist, that she’d stop making sculptures and paintings. Rachael had been blessed by Spiderwoman at birth by Hastiin Sherman who was known even then as a great medicine man. The Navajo believe that Spiderwoman instills the art of weaving in all the Diné women; it is her gift to the people. Traditional Navajo girl infants are blessed the first day of their life by the power of the spider. A medicine man finds a spider web and takes its web and stores it. When the first sun comes up in the infant’s life, he builds a fire. The spider web is placed on each of the child’s fingers to bless them with the rising sun so they can continue the tradition of weaving rugs. Rachael had received Spiderwoman’s blessing but up to this point had not really done much with her inherent weaving skills.
Hastiin Sherman would tell her, “Remember what the coyote did to your brother. If you are not careful, he could get you too. Your art is the weaving, not the little figures or paint. Paint killed your brother. Follow in the steps of your ancestors. Walk in beauty and make rugs.”
The sheep were a daily reminder of where she came from and what had happened to Willard. She made a promise to her grandfather she would take care of them. When he passed, a decision would have to be made. She felt life would show her the way and if she were to be a weaver she would know it. Until then, herding the sheep kept Preston busy after school and away from the Goth kids and alcohol.
Like Rachael and Preston, Charles slowly got into the rhythms of the rez. He now understood what Indian time meant. After 8 am he was alone for the rest of the day and had time to kill, if there was such a thing as time. It was the first period in his life he could remember not worrying about work, money, or if tourism was up or down in Santa Fe. His only concern was what to eat and when.
Lying around the trailer quickly became boring and he wasn’t much of a reader. He had only dial-up Internet, which was too painful to attempt after years of broadband. He did check emails every day, but it was as if he had fallen off a cliff. Nobody seemed to care. His only real concern was whether one of his two remaining paintings with Shriver would sell so he could spend more time with Rachael, for whom he was falling. Charles didn’t like being so intensely smitten. He knew it would be an untenable situation. He lived in Santa Fe with a weak business and no extra money. Her home was on the reservation four hours away with a teenage boy to look after.
The facts were clear. It was a relationship doomed to failure. But he couldn’t help how he felt. Seeing her black hair caress her back in the evening was the greatest aphrodisiac on earth. He was aroused constantly, even herding sheep, looking at the way she ran after them, her unfettered breasts bouncing with each step, the cold wind making her nipples erect.
He was convinced she had feelings for him too, as he had watched her watching him. He had even caught her smiling once as he had bent over to pick up a ketchup bottle that had missed the trash. The way her smile bent to one side was less about being tickled as it was about how she appreciated the view of his exposed backside. How to approach Rachael was another story. He was a guest, and up until this point nothing sexual had occurred. But it felt like it would soon, very soon.