“I do. And you’re going to make the judge and jurors believe it too.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to trial. And remember, I don’t want the cops to blame our grandfather, either.” She paused. “Miranda, did your grandmother become demented before she died?”
“No, but she was a Holocaust survivor and that made her a little meshuganah. She hoarded food and hated doctors and medicines. After my grandfather died, she imagined that he was still alive and sleeping with other women and she’d berate him for it in public and in detail at the top of her lungs.” Miranda glowered at the memory. “And when she got really old, she had to use a walker but she hated it, so she wouldn’t, and then she’d fall and break an arm or a hip or a wrist. Someone had to be with her all the time.” Miranda paused. “I understand now that she probably had PTSD most of her life.” Her brow creased. “Michael told me your grandfather also suffers from PTSD. That’s not exactly dementia, you know.”
“A rose by any other name…. Look!”
Miranda turned and scanned the suddenly-flat expanse of fields on either side of the car. Looming in the distance was a huge white mountain. “I guess that’s Mount Adams. Wow! I’ve got to tell my guests about this ride. Every view is a picture postcard.” She hesitated. “Where are we going? Michael said Indians wintered in these parts for centuries and he had an idea about where your grandfather might be. Are we going to an Indian village?”
Colestah’s response was arch, acidic. “You mean a rehab facility? Or a shelter? That’s where half the Indians on the rez, including my grandfather, ought to be living.”
Miranda didn’t reply, didn’t know how to.
“Sorry. No. We can’t go to an Indian village because they’ve all been destroyed.”
Bitterness infused Colestah’s voice with an ominous undertone that gave Miranda the shivers again. “So where are we going?”
“We’re headed for a kind of tribal ghost village. Back in the day the tribes gathered berries up in the Cascades in the fall and then wintered in the Ahtanum and Kittitas Creek areas where they hunted. But we’re going to where they spent the summers, to the Columbia River.”
“But it’s not summer anymore. The salmon aren’t there now.” Miranda had studied the life cycle of the salmon in almost every grade until she left school.
“It’s complicated, Miranda. The U.S. government finally allowed as how the treaties mandate that we be permitted to fish in our usual places. But then they built dams up and down the Columbia and those dams destroyed tribal fishing villages, fishing platforms, even our burial grounds and screwed up the salmon runs too.”
Miranda flashed on the mural in Toppenish titled Celilo Falls.
“Now thanks to the efforts of the tribes as well as the government, some salmon are returning and there are thirty-one designated fishing sites along the river. But there’s no affordable housing for us anywhere near these sites.”
Miranda’s stomach tightened as, for a second, Colestah took her hands off the wheel to throw them up in consternation.
“The government built new homes for the whites displaced by the dams, but not for us. What a surprise.”
“I hear you,” was all Miranda could think to say in response. When this assurance provoked no reply, she took her turn at rerouting the conversation. “So you think Michael and Joseph are camping at one of these fishing sites?”
Colestah made a sharp turn into a dirt road before she spoke. “Maybe.”
They rode in silence until Colestah directed, “Look! Look at the river!” She stopped the car near a wide swath of white-capped dark water rushing furiously by a decrepit trailer planted in what looked like dried mud. A patchwork of faded blankets held down by a tire covered most of the trailer’s roof. Miranda couldn’t tell if the blankets were blocking leaks or drying in the sun. A torn tarp partially protected some equipment beside the trailer and a vintage wooden picnic table covered with dishes was positioned nearby. There were two rickety-looking canvas chairs between the trailer and the table. As Colestah and Miranda got out of the car, a woman seated in one of these chairs struggled to stand. Was she drunk or just old and arthritic? Or all three? Miranda couldn’t tell.
Wearing a bright red-and-black plaid blanket as a cape covering her from head to midway down her gray ankle-length skirt, their hostess blinked at the silver car glittering in the sun. A scowl contorted her weathered face until she recognized Colestah. Then the scowl reversed itself to become a grin, and tears threatened to spill from her still-bright eyes. Colestah walked into an opening in the front of the blanket and the two women embraced.
When she emerged, Colestah made introductions. “MaryFrances, this is Miranda. She’s Michael’s and my friend.” Miranda nodded and smiled. “Miranda, meet my friend MaryFrances. She was my mother’s friend first. They went to boarding school together, right MaryFrances?” The old woman’s nod was brief.
Having observed protocol, Colestah returned to the car and began unloading cartons from the back seat.
Miranda moved to help her and saw that these cartons, which she’d paid no attention to before, were packed with bags of pasta and rice as well as canned goods and coffee. One of them contained a first aid kit. Looking around, she noticed a few other dwellings as ramshackle as MaryFrances’s trailer rising from the mud of the river bank.
As she worked, Colestah talked brusquely to MaryFrances. “We’re looking for Michael and grandfather. The police are after them and we need to find them first. Michael’s not taking my calls. Are they staying with you?”
“No.” MaryFrances’s voice was low and her eyes down.
“MaryFrances, this was Michael’s blanket.” Colestah pinched a corner of her old family friend’s makeshift poncho. “I sent it to him for his birthday a few weeks ago. Looks like he gave it to you. Are you sure he and Joseph aren’t here?” She glanced at the trailer as she spoke.
“Yes. They came but they left late last night.” She shrugged. “Joseph is ready. He wants to die on Rattlesnake Mountain so his spirit can rise to the sky.” The old woman looked up and smiled as if this grim message were good news. “Michael is driving him there. I didn’t tell the police. They came here looking for them this morning.”
“The tribal police?” Miranda heard herself ask before she realized that it was not her place to do so.
MaryFrances didn’t reply until Colestah said, “It’s okay. Miranda wants to help.”
“Yes. Tall. Long hair. Long nose, too.” She traced in the air a long nose extending from her own modest one. “The other one with him you know.” She leered at Colestah. “They’re driving a blue Toyota. Four doors.”
“Right. Thanks, MaryFrances.”
“Joseph says it’s his time. He says Michael will come alone to fish with us next summer.” She glanced at the cartons. “Thank you, Colestah. Take care of yourself.” Just then a child, a little boy, emerged from the trailer rubbing his eyes and crying. MaryFrances faced him and held out her arms. As Colestah and Miranda turned to leave, the woman and the boy were bent over one of the cartons.
“That’s the fishing site.” Colestah pointed to some low wooden buildings a hundred yards away. “Let’s pee there. I had a lot of your good coffee.”
Appalled by the wretchedness of MaryFrances’s encampment, Miranda had to ask, “If there are no salmon now and no villages, why is MaryFrances staying way out here with her grandchild?”
Colestah sighed and pointed at the other trailers and a shack. “She’s not the only one. Some Indians came back to the river after the dams went up even though their homes were flooded. They and their descendants squat here all year round. They were born and raised near the Columbia and they see proximity to it as their birthright. It’s their tribal home. They fish in the summer but in the winter they barely subsist, freezing in these beat-up trailers, shacks, and sometimes even tents. I suppose you could call it a village.” Her snort was audible.
They walke
d along the river to three wooden buildings, the largest of which Colestah said was a drying shed. The next biggest may have been a smokehouse. The smallest housed toilets. “It ain’t fancy, but it’ll have to do. Here.” Colestah produced a roll of toilet paper from her tote, ripped off some, and handed the roll to Miranda. “Leave it for MaryFrances and her grandson and the others. Don’t sit and don’t bother trying to flush.”
Miranda followed orders. After each of them emerged from her stall Col-estah turned on one of the taps in the sink, producing a trickle of undoubtedly frigid water. She turned it off again and handed Miranda a small bottle of hand sanitizer from her tote. When she spoke, her voice was sharp with outrage. “The State closes off the water here on October first, so the Indian “squatters” tap into the plumbing. This crummy sink is where MaryFrances and the others get their cooking and drinking water too. It’s not exactly Board of Health certified.” She paused. Then, right there in the bathroom, she placed a newly sanitized hand over her heart and in a low voice made what sounded to Miranda like a vow. “Come back in a few years, and we’ll have decent housing here for Indians like MaryFrances and her family…”
Shivering in an off-season outhouse that made Honey Buckets look inviting, Miranda realized that Colestah probably represented the Yakama Nation in their ongoing negotiations with the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service. No wonder she left the rez to become a lawyer. She hadn’t been driven by personal ambition so much as by her determination to help her people. She must have felt she could do more for her family by leaving than by staying.
Colestah didn’t speak again until they had almost reached the car. “Here’s the thing, Miranda. I’d like to say goodbye to my grandfather.” Her voice was at once low, urgent, and imploring, the way it had been that morning when she entreated Miranda to join her on her search. “But we might be a little late getting back. Can you handle that?”
Eager to be a supportive friend and to see this quest through, Miranda nodded. “I’ll call and ask my dog sitter to turn receptionist and check in the guests due later today.”
“Thanks. You better try to call now. There’s probably not much cell access on Rattlesnake Mountain.” Before they reached the car, Miranda had arranged for Darlene to spend the afternoon with Rusty at the B & B.
“Hey, would you like to drive?”
Colsestah’s question took Miranda by surprise. “Would I?” Flattered by this seemingly impulsive offer and relieved by Darlene’s willingness to remain at the B & B for a few more hours, Miranda slid into the already open door on the driver’s side of the car. Her new friend’s spontaneity was contagious. As she studied the dashboard and then pushed the start button, she felt free and excited. “Wow! This car takes driving to a whole new level!”
“I’m not sure about that, but it will take us to Rattlesnake Mountain. To go to a higher level there, we’ll have to hike. There are no roads up that part of the mountain out of deference to its place in tribal history and culture, and we’re always going to court to keep it that way. Yakama Nation boys have been doing their vision quests on that mountain forever. Michael did his there. Our grandfather too. That’s why he wants to die there.”
Behind the wheel of the powerful car, Miranda proposed a different agenda. “Don’t give up, Colestah. If we get to your grandfather fast enough, we can take him to the nearest ER and get him medical attention. Then maybe you won’t have to say goodbye. How far is it?” Miranda’s efforts to keep her beloved mother’s heart beating had tested the patience of even the kindest of the kind hospice nurses who came to the house to help Mona Weintraub die peacefully and painlessly.
“It’s not the distance. We Indians believe it’s natural for the old to die, and my grandfather is old now and not well. Michael and I understand that he’s been getting ready to leave us since Michael started college. We don’t see dying as a bad thing when one is old, sick, and ready. And it is good that his spirit begins its journey in a place he chooses. Michael was right to bring him to Rattlesnake Mountain.”
Miranda was marveling at Colestah’s ability to reconcile the values of her ancestors with those of modernity when a vehicle appearing and reappearing in the rearview mirror distracted her. “There’s a blue sedan two cars behind us. It might be following us.” For a second she wished she were back at her B & B doing laundry or making her one guest’s bed.
Colestah turned to check out the cars behind them. “Damn. That’s the tribal police. They were probably parked out of sight near MaryFrances’s place waiting for Michael and Grandfather to surface. When we showed up and left so soon, they figured we’d lead them straight to their quarry. They’ll bring them both in and grill them and then turn them over to the sheriff who’ll grill them all over again and then lock one of them up for murder.”
At the thought of an innocent and dying old man being subjected to police interrogation and possibly imprisonment, cop-phobic Miranda heard herself say, “I’m gonna speed up just a little. If they speed up, we’ll know you’re right. Then we can turn off this road and lose them.” Miranda had braved a lot of tricky traffic while chauffeuring her grandmother and then her mother to and from various Seattle-area doctors and hospitals. Bolstered by that experience, her faith in the Audi S5, and a lot of adrenaline, she didn’t wait for Colestah’s permission. “Here we go! Hang on!” She gave the car a little gas and began weaving between the trucks and cars ahead of her until the Audi was in the right lane. Sure enough the blue Toyota followed their sinuous path the way the tail of a serpent follows its head. Miranda had seen enough car chases on NCIS to recognize such a tail. She was certain that in the Audi she could lose them. “Should I take a sharp right at the next road leading off this one?”
“No, let them get right behind us. Then signal that you’re going to pull over, but don’t actually stop. After that, when I say ‘Go’ pull out and really drive.”
Miranda would always remember the next few seconds as if they happened to somebody else. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed Colestah deftly unbuckle her seat belt. “What the…” Miranda’s voice was shrill and grew louder as her newly-unfettered passenger clambered nimbly into the back of the car. “Get back here! What the hell are you doing?” It was all Miranda could do to holler and keep the car on the road. Her shrieked protests provoked no response except for a rush of air as a back window opened and the sharp cracks of three gunshots in rapid succession. The tribal cops were shooting at them! Her heart clenched like a fist in her chest. Had Colestah been hit? Miranda only stopped praying when she heard her out-of-control passenger’s imperative “Go.” Colestah was alive─crazy, but alive.
Miranda glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the blue Toyota behind them spin and stop. No longer taking orders from Colestah, she stayed in the right lane. If her friend was wounded, Miranda would pull over and call 911.
With her heart still constricted, she heard Colestah close the rear window and scramble, apparently uninjured, back into the front seat. Miranda’s peripheral vision afforded her a glimpse of her passenger sliding a black handgun into a holster strapped to her ankle. Only then did she grasp that the three gunshots she’d heard were fired by her new best friend who had been shooting at the Yakama Nation Tribal Police from a car she herself was driving! Had Colestah killed one of the cops? Praying once more, she pictured a man slumped in the driver’s seat of the motionless blue car. Miranda felt her left foot begin to twitch and saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to steady her hands.
Colestah buckled herself into the passenger seat and addressed Miranda calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired. “Nice driving. Thanks. I really didn’t want those asshole cops to stop me from saying goodbye to my grandfather or make him spend his final hours in an interrogation room. You okay?”
“Colestah, did you kill the cop driving that car?” Miranda’s voice was low, because she still wasn’t breathing right.
“Of course
not. I just shot up one of their front tires to slow them down a little.”
Miranda made herself suck in air. At least she had not unwittingly aided and abetted this wild wack job in murdering a cop. But she had aided and abetted her in obstructing justice and shooting at a moving police vehicle occupied by not one but two officers. And, she, Miranda Breitner, was driving the getaway car. This time it was not the cops who were out to get her. Instead it was she herself who, albeit unwittingly, had taken part in an illegal and dangerous attack on them. This shift undermined Miranda’s sense of moral superiority, but it also undermined her fear of cops. With these two facets of her worldview shaken, Miranda felt scared and off balance, the way she’d felt when, as a small child, by mistake she put her shoes on the wrong feet, took a step, teetered, and fell hard on her face.
Aware of her own mental state, as she drove she tried to get into her passenger’s head or, in this case, heads. Miranda knew that changing one’s name can be a catalyst for other changes. C. S. Nikaimak was as rational as she was beautiful. But Colestah Kamiakin Wright was nuts. Perhaps her loss-filled childhood and the impending death of her grandfather along with the arrest of her only other relative had turned C.S., law-abiding lawyer, into Colestah, sharp-shooting outlaw. C.S. could be disbarred and imprisoned for what Colestah had just done.
And Colestah’s craziness could be Miranda’s undoing too, could destroy her own carefully-constructed new persona. Hanging out with Colestah was not how one kept a low profile, kept people from looking into one’s past. Under the spell of this witchy woman, the lonesome Miranda had completely forgotten the heavy burden that was her own history. She could pay a high price for a morning’s illusion of freedom and friendship.
Apparently Colestah was a mind reader too. “Not to worry, Miranda. You have my word. This incident will not come back to bite either of us.”
Murder in the Melting Pot Page 14