by C C Daniels
“Make sure to get the corners good,” she said.
“I am.” I looked up to see MawMaw twisting my bedroom doorknob. “Oh, I’ll get my sheets.” I dropped the cloth on the floor, then darted past her into my room.
“Okay.” She frowned and looked at me sideways.
I leaned on the bed, my hands wrapped around the brass footboard and listened for MawMaw’s footsteps to move down the hall to her room. Only then did I pull the blanket back to expose the skull. There I was, face to face with its gleaming weirdness again. Its vibe had been mute since I got back from Gertie’s, which I appreciated.
I got a fresh pair of socks from my dresser and stuck my hands in them. It wasn’t the first time I had used socks like mittens. Touching strange stuff—especially old things—with my bare hands was iffy. Most objects were fine. Others weren’t fine, at all.
The first time I remember getting a vision was at a spring powwow. I was very young, before kindergarten. The elders had gathered Amaya, Kanaan, me, and other children our age. We were to learn drum beating.
Even at that young of an age, I had understood how sacred drums were to the tribe. Drums symbolized the Earth’s heartbeat and called the spirits to our celebrations. We kids had knelt around what, to me, was a big awesome drum. Much later, I learned that To-Wee, wife of Buckskin Charley, had blessed that particular drum and was its keeper.
I can still recall how excited I was—until someone put a drum beater in my hand. Just like the drum, it wasn’t just any old drumstick. It was also a cherished ceremonial Ute artifact—a small double-headed version stuffed with wool that had been combed from a wild mountain goat, wrapped with soft deer leather, and decorated with fringe repurposed from a robe worn by an eighteenth-century elder.
The instant the beater touched my skin, the bright light blinded me for the first time. My head split open and was on fire. Of course it wasn’t really, but that’s what it felt like. Scared, I flung the stick as far as I could—which was into the center of the circle—where the campfire had already been lit. Some of the adults had tried, and failed, to fish it out of the flames.
The entire tribe had watched it burn.
The sudden silence. The angry glares. The horrified faces—especially MawMaw’s and my parents—still bring tears of shame to my eyes.
Good old Pavlovian conditioning works well on young children. From that day on, I bore the pain of the visions silently. I’d soon figured out methods to protect my hands without others noticing, such as pulling my sleeves down or using my shirts and dresses as makeshift pouches. The truth was, even without that particular quirk, touching the skull just didn’t seem like a good idea.
Socks on, I picked up the skull and took it to my desk. I opened the deep file drawer with my foot and dropped the pearly thing inside. “There. See. I’m not afraid of you,” I whispered.
“Wray.” MawMaw looked into my room. “What is taking you so long?”
“Sorry.” My back to her, I quickly removed the socks and closed the file drawer with a knee. Her eyebrows pulled together, MawMaw shook her head and went on down the hall. I stripped the bed in record speed, balled up the sheets and took them to the laundry room. “I’ll put it in and start the washer, MawMaw.”
“Okay.” She picked up the long runner in the hall and walked toward the stairs. It was time to beat the rugs.
I stuffed my sheets in with MawMaw’s, pressed start on the washer, and hurried to follow her out the back door to the clothesline tucked around the side of the house.
“I’m going to Mary’s for my knitting group this evening,” she said.
“Do you want me to walk with you?” I worried every time MawMaw left the house. That morning’s events amplified that fear.
“It’s just around the block.” She got the ancient rug beaters from the shed while I hung the rugs on the line.
“I know, but it’s hard for you to carry your knitting bag now that you have the cane,” I said.
She handed me a beater. “You can come with me, and knit with us, but I won’t have a babysitter.”
Normally, I avoided her knitting group like the plague. While I liked to knit, I didn’t care for the geriatric discussions about arthritis and bodily malfunctions. Yuck.
I swung the beater at a rug and produced a surprisingly satisfying puff of dust. I glanced past it to the house and my bedroom window. I knew I was avoiding the skull, but it wasn’t going anywhere, unless it generated a thumb to pull itself out of the drawer and grew legs to walk away. And if it did, how bad would that be? I wouldn’t have to figure out what to do with it.
“Okay.” I decided to go to MawMaw’s knitting group.
We beat the rest of the rugs in happy silence. Ella’s occasional neigh from her corral added to our rhythmic beats.
After the rugs were put back, I changed into the fancy dress again, then got our knitting bags from the living room. We took sweaters for later and left through the front door. MawMaw’s smile stretched from ear to ear as she crooked her arm through mine and we walked in the warm afternoon sunshine. We went right in when we got to Mary’s house. No knocking was necessary for knitting group.
Uncle Jun’s wife, Rachela, was there. We didn’t see her very often. She and Uncle Jun lived in Black Forest. Not the Black Forest in Germany, obviously, but a community just north of Colorado Springs. I was also surprised to see more younger people than before, mostly women, but a couple of men too. Three girls I recognized from school sat together in a corner.
“Welcome, welcome.” Mary stood quickly setting aside her project.
A longtime friend of MawMaw’s and a self-proclaimed Ute witch, Mary insisted everyone call her by her first name. No Mrs. Gilmore for her. She never failed to pinch my cheek like I was still three. That time, though, she paused.
“You wore it.” Mary and MawMaw exchanged huge smiles.
“I did. Thank you for the gift. It’s beautiful,” I said.
And, instead of pinching, Mary gently caressed my cheek. “Your aura has changed.” She looked intently into my eyes like she was trying to see to the very bottom of my soul.
Behind her, MawMaw raised her eyebrows.
“I’m the same old me.” I laughed nervously and pulled away to take a seat on the floor near the girls. They smiled and made room for me. While I admired their projects, I opened my knitting bag and took out my project: a pair of fingerless mitts.
In New York, I had been working on a cabled scarf for Dad’s birthday. I had hibernated that project, permanently stashed in MawMaw’s attic so neither of us would have to look at it.
Normally, knitting was fun, the motions of stitching so meditative and relaxing that cares just melted away. Mary’s comments, though, kept me from getting into that pleasant zone. It didn’t help that she and MawMaw whispered between themselves and darted glances at me every now and then.
First Gertie, then Kanaan, followed by Mary? All of them said similar things—that I was different that morning. I didn’t feel different. I didn’t look different either. At least I didn’t think so. Not that what I thought mattered. What mattered was my history of developing quirks. A sinking feeling started in my core. The last thing I needed or wanted was another annoying quirk.
“Are you okay?” one of the girls asked me.
“Oh, yeah.” I smiled and reminded myself to keep my loud sighs to myself.
I shook off the worry—like I could do anything about it anyway—and focused on my stitches.
Finished binding off the finger section of the mitt, I put the thumb stitches from the stitch holder back onto my needle to work them.
“Can I watch you do that part?” the younger of the girls said.
“Sure.” I leaned over so she could see better. “It’s pretty easy.”
That’s when the medicinal properties of knitting finally kicked in. It’s hard to explain to people who don’t work with yarn. It’s like another way to connect yourself with ancient people who created fabric in the
exact same way. Sometimes, I imagined them in my mind’s eye.
While dozens of needles clacked in Mary’s living room, the girls happily talked about an upcoming dance at school.
“You didn’t tell me about the dance,” MawMaw chastised me on the way home.
The sun had already sunk behind the mountains. While rays still shone on the prairie out east, dusk always came early in the shadows of the great mountains.
“It’s not really my thing, MawMaw.” I shrugged moving our two knitting bags to my other hand so my arm was free for her to grab.
She nodded knowingly. “You have an old soul, like me.” She looped her free arm through mine. “Still, you should participate in those youthful activities. It’ll help you understand social behavior later on.”
I laughed. “Point taken, Dr. MawMaw.”
She elbowed me, laughing.
It wasn’t a bad suggestion. I had chosen psychology as my major. I lightly squeezed MawMaw arm, worried again about leaving her alone next year. When we came around the corner of our street, Kanaan was leaning on the barn.
MawMaw smiled. “Kanaan.” She took her arm from mine to give him a hug. “What brings you to my home?” She raised an eyebrow in my direction.
She always showed much love for Kanaan. His heritage was Tabeguache. The same band of Utes that MawMaw claimed as her own. In her eyes, we were all descendants of Ouray.
The Ute believed children were sacred and eagerly adopted abandoned ones brought to them by the Great Spirit, Manitou. Each adoptee had full member status in the tribe. Even I, who looked like the white men who cruelly stole their land, was accepted as one of the Tabeguache.
Kanaan showed the same love right back to MawMaw. He leaned down to her height but was careful not to hug too hard. “I’m here to look at Ella,” he replied, smiling at me over MawMaw’s shoulder.
“Oh, yeah.” The panic must have shown in my eyes, because it registered with Kanaan.
He wrinkled his brow at me. I shook my head covertly. Breaking the embrace, he stood upright. “I hadn’t seen her in a while and thought I’d check in with her.”
MawMaw scoffed at the both of us. “You’re both terrible liars. Why don’t you just admit you’ve come to court my granddaughter?”
“MawMaw!” I couldn’t believe she said that.
Kanaan laughed deeply and looked at me with his tongue in his cheek. “Maybe I should just admit it.”
MawMaw took the knitting bags from me and started for the house. “Honesty is always the best policy, Kanaan.”
Mortified with embarrassment, I felt hot blood in my cheeks and knew my pale face was getting redder by the second—all the while Kanaan’s chest nearly exploded from him holding his laughter.
When MawMaw was safely inside, I popped him in the gut just like I used to do when we were kids. That was all he needed to let go a snorting laugh.
“God, I love MawMaw.” He clutched his gut and laughed deep through his belly. “She always did cut right to the chase.”
“You’re here to see Ella, not me.” I swung the barn door open.
“Sure.” He went inside still smiling. “If that’s your story.”
Taken aback by that remark, I hesitated slightly before I followed him in. He switched on the light just inside the door and responded to Ella’s nuzzled greeting.
“Hiya, girl.” He spoke softly to her. He stroked her neck and moved her back so he could get in the stall with her.
I leaned against the stall door to watch him. He wasn’t skinny anymore. His upper arms had gotten thicker, almost overnight. The muscles on his forearms, too, were more pronounced. They kind of rippled as he moved his hands over Ella. And I was jealous of Ella. I laughed out loud at that revelation.
Kanaan cocked his head toward me and smiled. “What?”
I shook my head as much to remove the disturbing thought from my brain as for an answer to him. “Nothing.”
Ella loved being touched. She preened for Kanaan as he ran his hands over her back, shanks, and then examined each leg individually feeling for anything unusual. He lifted each hoof to inspect her shoes. Finally, when he was done, he stood and looked at her as he backed up to the other side of the stall door.
“I don’t see anything physically wrong with her.” He turned around and casually leaned on his side of the door, inches away from my face. It was then that the scent of his cologne teased my nose. It was nice, but when did he start wearing fragrance? “Are you sure there wasn’t a snake or something on the trail?” he asked quietly.
The light hit Kanaan’s face and highlighted his eyes. In the orangey light, his irises weren’t a solid gray at all. They were more like a polished chunk of moonstone with flecks of glossy white, pure black, and an incandescent aquamarine blue.
I stood straight and walked into the stall to pet Ella. “No.” I tried really hard not to think of the skull hidden in my desk drawer.
Kanaan turned around and leaned backward on the gate. “I don’t believe you.” When I didn’t reply, he walked toward me. “MawMaw’s right. You’re a terrible liar.”
“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “You don’t know me as well as you think.” No one did, really. “Maybe I’m a terrific liar.” I tried to lighten the mood.
Taking two steps toward me, he slowly took my arm, exposing my damaged skin. With a tilted head, he squinted at me and caressed my arm, eliciting goose bumps just like before. It was unnerving how his moonstone eyes studied my entire face. “Something is very different about you today.”
I was absolutely sick of hearing that. I yanked my arm out of his hand. “I am not different.” I stomped out of the stall and out of the barn.
Pacing just outside, I heard him close Ella’s stall, much to her dismay. He switched off the light on his way out. I closed the barn behind him.
“You’re hiding something, Wray. What’s going on with you?” His soft tone just made me madder.
“Nothing.” I walked away to the house leaving him to stare after me. I marched inside and closed the back door a bit too hard.
MawMaw was scooping the ribs out of the slow cooker. “Trouble in paradise?”
I hung up my sweater. “Oh, MawMaw.” I slumped into a kitchen chair, exhausted.
Slotted spoon paused, she looked down at me. “Are you ready to talk about it?”
It’d be so wonderful to confide in her. I wouldn’t risk it, though. Afraid of bringing out woo-woo MawMaw, I just shook my head no.
With a frown, she went back to dishing up dinner. “Then set the table.”
I did.
We ate in complete silence. One of the many things I loved about MawMaw was her respect for silence. She didn’t need to talk every minute. That meal wasn’t our typical communal silence, though.
When we finished, she stood and took our plates. “I’ll get the dishes tonight. Why don’t you go meditate and clear your head?”
MawMaw often advocated meditation. I preferred mindfulness, focusing on a specific task or object rather than pinching my fingers and mumbling “om” to myself. One of my favorite mindfulness activities was taking long hot showers. That’s what soothed my nerves best.
“Thanks, MawMaw.” I kissed her cheek before going upstairs.
In the bathroom, I turned on the shower to get the water nice and hot. I hung Mary’s pretty dress on the hook mounted to the back of the door. Then, I leaned into the mirror to really study myself. I turned my head side to side, then lifted my chin. Nothing. I didn’t see anything different. My dreaded paleness was still the same.
I unclasped my mom’s necklace and laid it in a dish on the far side of the counter, safely away from the sink. On the delicate chain was a dainty silver star that my father made for her in a high school shop class. Mom wore it every day—since the day he gave it to her until the day she died.
A package from the New York City police department arrived about a month after the shooting. In it was Dad’s wallet, their wedding rings, and the neckl
ace. With MawMaw’s blessing, I slipped it on right away. And, just like Mom, I only took it off to bathe.
Once the steam rose from the shower stall, I stepped in and put my head directly under the water and stood there for several long minutes. The heat and pressure of the water felt amazing…until the water cut through the ointment on my arm. Thoughts of the skull invaded my shower zen.
I hated when I allowed myself to be intimidated, and that skull seriously intimidated me. That was going to stop. Immediately. As soon as I finished showering, I’d—well, I didn’t know what I was going to do. One thing I needed to prove to myself was that it wasn’t magic. I pumped my favorite body wash onto a shower puff and scrubbed fast.
Just minutes later, my skin smelling like lavender and a towel wrapped around me, I stepped into the hall. The lights were off downstairs and light peeked out from under MawMaw’s bedroom door.
I psyched myself into a self-righteous tizzy that logic would prevail. It always prevailed. Quietly, I went into my room and shut the door. The skull’s aura was still muted, or maybe it was blocked by the desk drawer. I tugged on some pajamas, took a seat at my desk, and with the same socks I used earlier on my hands, opened the file drawer. But just an inch or so. There was no vibe. At least none that I could detect.
So, I pulled the drawer open all the way and, gripping the skull firmly, took it out. I turned it around and upside down. I looked for a hidden battery compartment or well-placed solar panel, some sort of circuitry that would help explain the sparkles.
Not finding anything obvious, I set the thing on top of my desk. I fished around in the pencil drawer for a magnifying glass. With it, I inspected the surface up close. I was still fairly certain that the material wasn’t human bone.
At certain angles, the opalescent abalone had a definite metallic-like sheen. It covered the skull completely and smoothly. Even the edges of the eye sockets were of the same material. So engrossed with studying it, I suppressed my fear and scratched it with the pointy handle of the magnifying glass.
Through the lens, I could better see the chalklike substance just beneath the thin layer of sheen.