25

I was lucky. That’s what Carrie’s father said as he put the needle to my arm. My skin resisted, retreating, denting in deeper and deeper, fighting the point, losing the battle, giving up. Dr. Price gently extracted the needle, laid it aside, and reached for another.

For the pain, he told me.

This time my skin did not resist.

Doesn’t look too bad, he said, prodding the darkened skin around the wound on my calf. Typically you’ll see this blackening, but more extensive. And we can still bend your knee a bit. See? That’s good … must not have injected too much venom when it struck. Very lucky, he said again.

From across the empty ward a sudden, tremendous snort echoed. The Methodist-Minister-Without-a-Flock rolled over on his back in the farthest bed. His right hand fell off his chest to hang limply from the bed. His chest slowly expanded with air, stopped at its apex, held for a moment. He gargled, snorted, and exhaled noisily to begin the process anew. Dr. Price smiled.

Tied one on last night in Parker. He comes here to sleep it off. Lost everything at craps … again.

He always loses, I informed the doctor. He’s not very good.

The doctor said, Oh, I don’t know about that. Miss Amelia will be here later on to pick him up. She takes him home, cleans him up, feeds him. I think our Methodist Minister has a convert.

The Methodist-Minister-Without-a-Flock choked and sputtered, unaware that he was lucky, even luckier than I.

Anyway, Carrie’s father sighed, he shouldn’t bother you too much. The shot will help. Get some rest.

Still he stood, forgetting me, and watched the drunken minister, jealously almost, until he shook himself, shrugged his bent shoulders, and left the room.

I wasn’t allowed to sleep. Word had spread. Since the pickup truck, driven by the silent woman in her red apron, had arrived at the clinic with its burden of two dusty white people, word had spread. Carrie escorted the truck to Mrs. Miniverri’s to drop off Johnny and the blanket, then she pointed the way to Gram’s house, where Carrie and my suitcase disembarked. The pickup truck sped off. On her way home, Carrie passed the word along Sixth Street, dropped in at the shoe shop, the barbershop, and the Taylor Club and spread the word along Main through clusters of women.

They came in two and threes, in small groups of bristling black wool and matching black shoes, or in faded summer dresses with light sweaters. No one came empty-handed. Down on Sixth Street, the sick and the sad needed only two things to recover: company and a little gift.

Aunts Mimi and Kiki were the first. They came scurrying in, to perch on the bed next to me, their shoulders and hips touching, black shiny purses in laps, twin hairdos trembling. They brought a slice of white cake with frosting the warm yellow color of a baby chick.

Mala, we’re so glad you’re back. Aren’t we, Mimi?

Yes, Kiki. So glad!

Just as glad as can be!

Yes!

Yes … well …

They exchanged nervous peeks at one another, blinking.

And she brought Johnny back with her! That was good, don’t you think, Kiki?

Oh yes, Mimi. Bringing Johnny back was good. That was a good thing to do, Mala. They smiled at me proudly, as if they have heard an entirely different story of my night’s work.

But …, I begin.

Twin hairdos shook vigorously.

You just lay there and rest, Mala.

Yes, Kiki you’re right. Mala, you rest. We’ll just sit here, quietly.

Quietly as a mouse … two mice. Won’t we, Mimi?

Sometimes, Kiki, mice can be pretty noisy.

Kiki looked at her sister, shocked. Mimi, when has a mouse been noisy?

Remember the nest of mice in Lubo Dundervich’s chicken coop when we were little? Those mice were noisy.

Mimi. That was fifty years ago.

They were noisy mice, Kiki.

They’re not noisy now, Mimi.

Mimi and Kiki stared at each other in impasse. Bright black eyes blinked. They were quiet.

Uncle Nick and Milan were standing hesitantly in the doorway to the ward. Mimi and Kiki fluttered their fingers. Uncle Nick and Milan shuffled in. Uncle Nick slid a thin white paper packet onto the nightstand by the bed, a new comb. Milan leaned over me, fashioned the air with thick, stained fingers.

I make shoes for you. I make ’em strong. Walk anywhere. You see. Good shoes. He nodded his head, smiled, sat down next to Kiki to catch his breath after so many words. Uncle Nick was still standing, his restless eyes traveling around the room.

I went to the cliff to look for you when Mrs. Miniverri called. I thought you might go there.

Too close, I shook my head.

Uncle Nick nodded, understanding. Never went that direction. Out on The Sands. What’s it like out there?

It’s empty, Uncle Nick, I told him. And wide. And so quiet you can hear—

Uncle Nick nodded, his eyes strayed east.

With a great eruption of movement and sound, Aunt Anna charged in, Sofie, Paul, Luke and Aunt Millie’s Mike, Tiny and Nicky in her wake. Mimi and Kiki fluttered nervously on their perch. Anna pushed past Uncle Nick and sat on my bed, caught me up, and hugged me tightly.

So thin! she accused harshly.

I’ve only been gone a few hours, Aunt Anna, I mumbled into her chest.

See!

She glared around the room at Nick, at the clump of gawking children, at Milan, at Mimi and Kiki, quivering on the opposite bed. How did you all get here so quick? she demanded.

Milan studied his shoes, Mimi and Kiki blinked rapidly, unable to answer.

Anna, honey, Uncle Nick soothed. We just came when we heard …

And we came with you, Ma, Paul explained on behalf of his pack of assembled siblings and cousins. Remember?

Aunt Anna snorted.

We brought cake, Mimi squeaked. Didn’t we, Kiki?

Cake, Kiki’s head bobbed, and she gathered Mimi’s hand into hers.

Cake! Cake! She doesn’t need cake! She needs to be under my roof! That what she needs!

In the wordless wake that always followed one of Aunt Anna’s pronouncements, Sofie slipped to my side. She leaned over and whispered.

I’m doing it too, Mala. Next week. Before school starts. I’m running away! She pulled back to give me a significant look, a deep nod. Aunt Anna reached out and smacked her across the head.

Jeez, Ma! Sofie complained, rubbing her head. What was that for?

Humph! Aunt Anna glared and pointed a finger at Sofie. Don’t think you can get away with anything under my roof!

Aw, Ma. You know I’m always good.

Sofie turned her head, winked at me, leaned forward again. I going to be a riverboat gambler, she whispered.

I could hear the smile in her voice.

People arrived, aunts and uncles, neighbors, widows tottering on Milan’s shoes. Children I had played with, who watched me shyly, asked to touch my leg. Neighbor women made excuses for absent men or presented their husbands, formally, as if I’d never seen them coming home dirty from work, or drunk.

This is my Stanley. Stanley, say hi.… Bob wanted to say how glad he was that you was back. Well, say it, Bob … Your Uncle Sam’s still out looking. But he’ll be here, if he knows what’s good for him …

The men shuffled, mumbled incoherently, backed off, relieved, and joined a growing, jovial group across the room, anchored to the now-awake and sermonizing Methodist Minister. Everyone brought something: soup, loaves of bread, cakes and pies, pre-owned sweaters and slippers in garish party colors, a corduroy robe with a Salt Lake department store’s price tag still on it, handmade hankies and doilies, fruit … Aunt Anna became Marshall of the Treasury. Soon, jugs of ice tea circulated, and though it was only noon, jugs of wine and bottles of beer. Dr. Price watched from the door, taking in the scene with his flickering, accepting gaze. Carrie laughed with a group of friends. The widows closed in around me, a solid, soft wall of black. Everyone else gave way. Chairs were dragged forward, a circle formed. They sat with their legs straining their black skirts, their shoes in sturdy, invincible twos, their gnarled fists holding tea or wine. They told me stories of children running away, among them Gram’s favorite, the story of my own father’s travels to Reno to box in the Golden Gloves. All the stories ended well. They chortled and misted over. Sobering, they recalled their own flights from far-off homes, distant green lands. An argument flared: Which was the hardest place to leave?

I want know something, Mrs. Popodopolous’ voice cut through the bristling air. Gesturing hands stilled and dropped. They quieted.

You go Sands, Mala. You tell me. Where all that sand, dust come from? Everyday, wind, dust, no good! I want know where.

I don’t know Mrs. Popodopolous. It’s empty, I told them, looking around the circle of wrinkled, anxious faces. It’s flat and hard, swept almost.

Not always like that, Mrs. Pastervich murmured.

The old women looked at her, some nodded.

True. Mister Sal tell story.

No.

Yes. I hear him tell, my kitchen table, long time now.

My kitchen table, too. I hear. Mees Amelia know story.

They turned as one and looked through the milling crowd. There was Miss Amelia, come at last, sitting next to The-Methodist-Minister-Without-a-Flock, holding his hand, listening to his holy tales of gambling. The widows called to her, beckoning her over. She came and sat and smiled shyly around the group.

Mees Amelia, tell story. Tell story of Sands, Mister Sal’s story.

Oh, Miss Amelia said, her eyes suddenly sad. Sal loved that story.

Tell story, Mrs. Pastervich ordered.

Mrs. Popodopolous nodded. Mala go there.

Miss Amelia sighed and thought and began.

It was a story Sal heard from the Indians on the reservation, one of their legends, about the people who settled here first. They called them ‘the ancestors’. The ancestors came from the west and traveled a long way searching for a home. When they came into this valley between the hills and the cliffs it was beautiful, green.

See, no always same as now, Mrs. Pastervich interrupted.

Shh …

Miss Amelia began again. The Indians told Sal there was a lake, deep and blue, and tall grass. In the hills the pinyons were thick with nuts, and there was plenty of game.

See!? Mrs. Pastervich burst out.

Shh! The widows roared. You quiet now. Listen!

Miss Amelia smiled. The ancestors had a good life, easy and peaceful. But after they had lived here a long time, a man came, a white man. They had heard stories about the white men, but he came alone, and so they welcomed him, fed him, helped him as he wandered the hills around the valley. He had no interest in the lake, the waving rich grass. He searched for rocks, examined them and placed them in sacks on the back of his mule. Gold, he told them, silver maybe, copper for sure. They didn’t know the words. They laughed at him, called him the rock eater. But when he left, they worried. They knew he would be back.

The widows nodded sadly in unison. Trouble always returned.

The ancestors held a great council. Should they let the rock eaters return? Should they fight? Should they run? For the first time they argued amongst themselves. Their voices became so loud, they made the tall grass bow down and sent ripples across the lake. Their words flew like packs of angry birds, back to the land they had come from. The west wind answered them. The wind blew so long and so hard that the grass dried and turned to dust, the lake disappeared, and the game began to leave. Some of the ancestors left, following the game and living off the pine nuts. Those that stayed prayed for a way to live in their land that was now nothing but a dry desert. The gods listened.

In unison, the widows crossed themselves, pointed to the heavens, then leaned in close, eager as children for the last, best part of the tale.

Just as they had known he would, the prospector returned and many people followed him. It took him a long time to find the valley, it was so changed. He passed through many times before deciding the shape of the dusty hills and cliffs were not lying to him. The lake was gone, the tall grass, too. The land was dry and cracked. And where the people had lived nothing remained but a grove of trees he had never noticed before. Cottonwoods, old and gnarled, desert trees with roots deep in the earth, searching for water.

The widows sighed, satisfied, and sat back.

Mees Amelia, that damn good story.

Sal’s story, the Indians’ story, she corrected them and stood to return to her Minister.

Still caught in the story, the old women shook their heads at the mystery of it, and sat in a sustained, clouded silence. At last, one of them jabbed a crooked finger toward God, turned the Holy Wheel in the charged air in front of her, and then crossed herself sadly. Soon they were all crossing themselves, nodding with new wisdom.

Sands nogoodgoddam place, one murmured.

Ghosts, agreed another. That damn wind still angry maybe, too.

They all nodded. So that was it, I thought. Taylor’s Holy Wheel was stuck in history, in sand. We were blasted by it. We were marooned. It explained a lot.

Mala, Mrs. Popodopolous said reverently, taking my hand. You good, brave girl go Sands. No do that no more.

I shook my head. I had traveled across The Sands and brought back nothing but the unanswered mystery of the storm and the opportunity for a story. For them it was enough. I was the oracle of the wind. In the future, the widows would weave a fable around me, the fabric of dust.

Josie was the last to come. Ten past three. She parted the crowd without a word, pointed Mario Tantorini out of a chair, and pulled it over to the side of my bed. In the noisy, packed room there was an island of quiet between her chair and my bed, a substantial, cool, uncharted ground. Josie put her purse on the floor and crossed her legs, then her arms.

What a stupid, stupid thing, she informed me tartly.

I looked away. She was right. Worse than a Family Crime.

Next time, don’t leave a note.

I was afraid Mrs. Miniverri would worry about Johnny.

She threw up her hands in exasperation, ran her long fingers through her hair, gestured impatiently.

Then why did you take him in the first place? Why didn’t you just run away? Just go, get out of here?

I wanted to save him, I said, but I knew that was only partly true. I wanted … I whispered. I just wanted … someone.

Josie looked down at the hands in her lap. The space between us widened, a continent formed, land masses rose in the silence, mountains, cliffs, impenetrable jungle. Still we moved apart. From a vast distance I watched as Josie finally leaned forward, rifled her purse. She sighed.

I put all your things back, she said into the depths of her purse. She raised her head and looked at me. In her hand were the brown government envelopes.

What are these?

Orphan money. The words felt like hard kernels I had chewed but could not swallow.

She inserted a pale fingernail in one envelope and slit it open, looked in. Her eyebrows rose.

How often do you get these?

Every month. They go into an account, but I didn’t know how. Gram always did it. So they just piled up over the summer.

Josie tapped the edge of the envelopes against the palm of her hand. Her eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. She looked over at me. Her smile was a sudden sun over distant hills.

Why did you need so many handkerchiefs? she asked.

I stared at her, couldn’t think of the answer, didn’t know it.

She laughed suddenly, That was a hell of a lot of handkerchiefs! She stood, still laughing, and looked down at me, reached across a world of distance and took my hand.

Look around you, her voice was low. You’re not an orphan.

They don’t understand what I did, Josie.

Of course they do.

She was gone in the crowd. I heard her voice near the door.

Enjoy your welcome home party, Mala!