He took another sip of coffee, then he said, “Elena, do you remember when Macon Walking Bear moved his family to Oklahoma?”
Elena took her time swishing dishes back and forth in the sink, stacking them in the drainer. Of course she remembered. She remembered everything.
Finally she turned around. “Good riddance, I’d say. Never fit in on the rez, those Walking Bears. Pushy, trying to get more than everybody else.”
“Where in Oklahoma did they go?”
“Concho, that’s where Arapahos go. Knowing that bunch, they liked to be different, so they might’ve gone to El Reno or Geary. Why are you asking?”
“I met his son, Cutter. There are a few questions I’d like to ask his father.”
Elena nodded, as if it made sense. The son shows up on the rez. Only natural folks wanting to know about him, make sure he didn’t come here to hide out from trouble.
Father John thanked her for another delicious breakfast and, leaving Walks-On snoring on his rug in the corner, walked back down the hall and out the front door. Most of the pickups had left, but a few were still righting themselves on Circle Drive before heading into the cottonwood tunnel and out onto Seventeen-Mile Road. The bishop was coming along the path. “An amazing morning.” The old man lifted both hands into a sky that had settled into a crystalline blue with billowy white clouds blowing across. The bishop stopped and faced him. “Trouble last night?”
“Vicky had some trouble.” Lord, the old man was prescient; nothing eluded him. “She spent the night in the guesthouse.”
“I trust she will be safe and well.”
“I hope so,” Father John said. He assured the bishop that the oatmeal was as tasty as ever and hurried on. He took the steps in front of the administration building two at a time, unlocked the oak door, and stepped into the corridor, dim and cool with the faint musty odor of a building that had settled into a stately old age. He flipped on the light as he entered his office, sat down at his desk, and opened the laptop. It took a moment for the old computer to blink into life, but eventually icons scattered about the monitor. Another moment he was in the telephone white pages, typing in the name Macon Walking Bear. A number of Walking Bears appeared in a number of cities, including Arapahoe and Ethete on the rez. At least ten people by the last name in Oklahoma, but no one named Macon. He maneuvered to another site and eventually found his way to cities in Oklahoma. When he tapped on Concho, a new Walking Bear listing appeared. Still no Macon. Next he tried El Reno. Finally, Geary, and there was the name, followed by the number.
Father John grabbed the phone and dialed the number. Voice mail. Can’t take your call at the moment. Call back later. No directions about leaving your number, but the beep sounded and Father John gave the inert plastic phone his name and said he was calling about Macon’s son. He left his cell number.
He hung up and dialed Vicky’s number. Voice mail again, but this time followed by instructions to leave his name and number. She would get back as soon as possible. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay and everything was all right.” He hesitated, then plunged on: “Call me. I want to hear your voice; I want to know you are safe.”
Why wouldn’t she be safe? Cutter would have cooled off by morning. But what if he hadn’t? What if being left in the mountains had fired his anger? Father John could feel his muscles tense. “Call me, call me,” he said out loud.
It was midmorning when the phone finally rang. Father John was refilling his coffee mug over at the metal table in the corner, and he nearly tripped lunging back to his desk. “Father John,” he said, every muscle taut with expectation.
“Charlotte Hanson, Julia’s daughter. Remember me?”
“Yes, of course.” Another call buzzed. He could hear the bishop answering in the back office.
“Thought you might like to know Mom is having her most lucid day in months. That film director showed up a couple of days ago and wanted to talk to her, but she couldn’t remember anything. You ask me, something about him being a film director got through to her and she brightened up yesterday and said she wanted to do an interview. She’s always been crazy about the movies. I think that somewhere deep inside she saw this as her last chance to be in the movies. Well, Todd Paxton is bringing his crew over this morning, and I thought you might like to hear what she has to say.”
Father John walked down the corridor and stuck his head into the office. The bishop was bent over a book that lay open on his desk. “Mind holding down the fort for a while?”
“It can be managed.” The bishop lifted his eyes and gave him a thumbs-up. “By the way, Maris Reynolds called. Wanted to thank you for recommending her to that film director. She said she was able to tell her family stories and set the record straight.”
Father John thanked the old man and was about to start back down the corridor when the bishop said, “Something else. She said to tell you she expects you to use the Central City Opera tickets this summer. She called them a special gift for you. Not to use them would be pertinacious, which she said is a very useful word that she hopes you will pass on.”
Father John laughed. “Pertinacious! We should all pass it on.”
“Go to the opera, John,” the bishop said. “Even pastors deserve a few days off. I will hold down the fort.”
* * *
“HOW DID YOU get in?” Vicky stood in the doorway to her apartment, the door open, one hand on the knob.
Not five feet away, Cutter lounged against the counter that divided the small space into the kitchen and the living room. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” he said, a settled look in his expression, as if he had come to a new understanding and reached a reluctant decision. “Shut the door!”
Vicky flung herself around and started running all out down the corridor, the sound of her own screams filling the space around her. In an instant he had hold of her, the strength in his arms hauling her backward, one hand clamped over her mouth. A door at the end of the corridor opened, and the elderly Mrs. Williams in flannel nightgown and fuzzy slippers, gray hair rolled into curlers, looked out. “You all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Cutter called, but by then he had pushed Vicky back into her apartment. “Lovers’ quarrel is all. You know how that goes.”
“Oh my.” Vicky could hear the uncertainty in the old woman’s voice. “Is that nice Indian lawyer okay?”
“She’s fine.” Cutter’s most soothing and reassuring voice. A man in control. “Please don’t worry. I’m her fiancé, and I’ll take care of her.”
“Fiancé? My goodness, I hadn’t heard.”
“Thank you for your concern.” Cutter slammed the door and turned toward Vicky. All the time, she realized, he had not taken his eyes off her. “We should have a heart-to-heart.” The hard pressure of his hand propelled her across the living room and down onto the sofa. “Don’t you agree?”
“What do you want?” Vicky struggled to keep her voice steady, to camouflage the terror rising inside her.
Cutter straddled a stool at the counter and observed her for a long moment, as if she were a wild animal that had wandered too close to his campsite. Her cell had started ringing in her bag. “Leave it,” he said. “I want to know what lies your client told you.”
“Client? I don’t know who you’re talking about, and it doesn’t matter. Anything a client tells me is confidential. You know that.”
“Your client’s dead. So your precious attorney-client relationship doesn’t mean squat. Besides . . .” His voice took on a low, soothing quality. “Don’t be alarmed. Nobody else will ever know. I need to know what lies he told about me. I’m a stranger in these parts, and I have to know what people think.”
“If you’re talking about Dallas Spotted Deer . . .” She stopped herself from saying that Dallas wasn’t her client. What excuse would she have not to tell Cutter what he wanted to know? “Anything he may have told
me is none of your business.”
“You told Gianelli.” Cutter got up and strolled over to the window, and Vicky glimpsed the grip of the small pistol tucked in the back of his belt. She thought about bolting through the door again, screaming down the corridor. He would be on her before she could throw back the bolt. “Which sent him all over the rez causing a lot of problems. Keeping the investigation open when it makes sense to call it an accident. End of story.” He looked sideways at her. “Ruth can’t bury her husband and get on with her life, thanks to you. None of us can move forward. Never know when the fed will show up with more questions.” He went quiet, his gaze fastened on something outside the window. “That old bat! She called the police. We have to get out of here.”
Vicky got to her feet. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” The police were here. This was her chance. All she had to do was stall.
“We’re leaving now.” The pistol was in his hand, nearly hidden by the large fingers, the popping white knuckles. The muzzle pointed at her, urging her to the door.
Stall, she told herself. Keep stalling, but the muzzle came closer until she was staring down a black hole that went on forever. Slowly she fastened her bag on her shoulder, turned, and walked to the door. As she passed the counter, she made a point of reaching for the keys in a bowl, praying he wouldn’t remember she hadn’t dropped any keys in the bowl. These were extras she kept in case—in case she couldn’t locate her keys in her purse and was in a hurry.
She felt the sharp edge scrape her fingers as Cutter yanked the keys out of her hand. “I’m in charge of the keys this time.”
31
THE RED VAN with Cable TV emblazoned on the side stood in front of the retirement home. The rear doors hung open and two crew members in dark shirts and red vests were lifting out cameras and tripods. Like a relay team, others in identical vests carried the equipment down the sidewalk and through the front door. Father John pulled in next to the van and followed the second team inside. The reception desk was vacant. It looked as though everyone had migrated into the community room, where residents, leaning on walkers and sitting in wheelchairs, bunched around the wide doorway. The crew dodged past them.
Charlotte came through the opening the crew had made, hands in front as if she were bearing a gift. “Father John! Mother will be so pleased. She is having the time of her life.” A wide smile creased the woman’s face. “It’s like she’s gone back to when she was young. It’s wonderful, but . . .” He felt her fingertips digging past his shirtsleeve into his arm. “We know it won’t last. Todd Paxton’s here.” She tossed her head toward the community room. “I’ve explained that she should tell the most important stories first because, well, you never know how long she can stay in the past. Come with me.” She propelled him forward. “Mother’s waiting for you.”
The room was packed. At least fifty people, mostly residents, seated in rows of folding chairs or on the sofas and chairs pushed in a U shape against the walls. Aides in green scrubs moved among them, leaning down and patting arms, placing walkers and canes in a vacant corner. In the aisle between the folding chairs, Todd Paxton and two crew members were aiming large, rectangular lights toward the front of the room, where Julia Marks sat in a cushioned, wing-backed chair, shoulders straight, head high. She lifted her face into the light and surveyed the audience—her audience. All the folks in the nursing home were her neighbors, whose names she probably couldn’t remember. But this morning, Charlotte said, she remembered the past.
Father John realized the old woman was waving at him. A royal wave, hand barely moving. Beside him, Charlotte was nodding him forward. He waited for a crew member to set up a large tripod, then walked over. Julia’s eyes were so bright that for a moment he thought she had been crying. She reached out and took one of his hands, then the other. “Oh, isn’t this lovely? All these film people wanting to hear about my grandmother and George Cassidy. She always called him George, you know.” She twisted around and stared up at him for a long moment. “My, it’s been such a long time since you’ve stopped by. You must come more often.”
He smiled. He was here a couple of days ago. Memory was a strange thing, the way it focused on different events at different times. So many times with the grandmothers and elders, he had seen the way past memories washed over those of the present. He promised her he would come again soon and told her he was looking forward to hearing her family stories. Her hands were like cool leaves wrapped around his. After a moment she let go and started dabbing at her hair. “Oh my, I do hope I look presentable for the camera,” she said.
“You look fine,” Charlotte said.
“Good to see you, Father.” Father John turned around. Todd Paxton, a little frazzled-looking, long, black curly hair springing about his ears, and the faintest stubble on his cheeks, stood behind him. “We’re ready to start filming. Charlotte’s mentioned that we should get right on it, if you know what I mean,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. He nodded toward chairs that had been pulled into the aisle. “What I would like is for you and Charlotte to sit next to the camera and prompt Julia with questions. Keep her on track.”
With that, the director stepped past Father John and leaned over Julia. “Are you ready, Mrs. Marks?”
“Certainly.” Julia lifted her face and gave him the coquettish smile she had probably given suitors a half century ago. “You want to know about my grandmother and George. Well, I can tell you everything.”
“What I want is for you to look at either Father John or your daughter when you speak. Don’t worry about looking into the camera. The camera will find you.” He nodded in emphasis, stepped back, and clapped. “We’re going to need your cooperation. Silence your cell phones and please, no talking, coughing, or laughing.”
Heads bobbed, and several people started shuffling through bags in search of cell phones. Father John took his own phone out of his shirt pocket and put the ringer on vibrate. Then he walked over and sat down in the chair Paxton had indicated. Charlotte had already taken the other chair. The cameraman hunched next to the camera, and Todd Paxton stationed himself right behind. As if on cue, the ceiling lights dimmed, and Julia pulled herself up even straighter, gripped the armrests, and smiled and blinked into the bright light.
Then Julia began speaking, her voice strong and energetic. “My grandmother, Mary Boyd, was a very tough woman. If she hadn’t been tough, she wouldn’t have survived. I remember her well, although I was still a kid when she died. She lived in Riverton, and we went to her house every Sunday for dinner. Mom and Dad and me, but I have to say that Dad would’ve just as soon stayed home. Every Sunday the same fried chicken, potatoes, and gravy, but every time Dad tried to make an excuse about not coming back next Sunday, Mary reared up—oh my, she didn’t take to excuses—and told him she would expect us as usual . . .”
Out of the corner of his eye, Father John saw Charlotte glance back at the director. Then she interrupted: “Mom, tell us about Mary and Butch Cassidy. How did they meet?”
Julia’s gaze seemed to go inward for a moment. Finally she said, “George. George Cassidy was his name then. Oh yes, my grandmother was in love with the man. Didn’t matter to her what he might’ve done in the past, rustling horses or robbing banks. None of that mattered because he was ranching on the border of the reservation. Living a good, straight life when they met. George came to the barn dances and carry-in suppers, made himself real popular the way he danced with all the ladies. Wasn’t a lady in the area, Indian or white, that didn’t fancy George Cassidy with his big smile and gentlemanly way. But George took a fancy to Mary. She was a half-breed. I heard stories she was part Shoshone, other stories she was Arapaho. She had their good looks. She was tall and straight as a cottonwood with black hair and eyes that shone like black diamonds. Even when she got old, she stayed pretty.”
“What happened between her and George?” Charlotte said.
“Oh, lots happened. Th
ey fell in love when Mary was nineteen years old, and George promised to marry her. It was plain bad luck that he got sent to the state prison. Mary said she knew he’d taken to rustling again, and he got away with a lot of horses, but he never stole the horse he went to prison for. Ranching bored him. She understood George couldn’t stay in one place long. Always had plans and dreams and schemes. Didn’t matter to Mary. She would’ve gone anywhere with him, but she couldn’t follow him to the state prison. He’d come for her, he promised, soon as he got out. But when he got out, he disappeared. So he never knew . . .”
The room went quiet with expectancy; the words hung in the air. “What didn’t he know?” Charlotte said.
“She had a little girl that she gave to an Arapaho family to raise because she was alone and she had no way to bring up the child. Little Mary, they called her. My grandmother worked on different ranches, cooking and scrubbing, and lots of times tending to the horses and killing rattlesnakes. She could shoot a snake between the eyes. When she knew George wasn’t coming back for her, she married Jesse Lyons. They ran a spread south of Lander.”
Charlotte broke in again: “Tell us about when George stayed at the ranch.”
“He never forgot Mary. When he needed a safe place to stay, he headed back here where he had friends. Arapahos, whites, all kinds of friends. Worst time was after his gang held up the train down near Wilcox and made off with a lot of money. Posses and sheriffs and all kinds of do-gooders came after him, so George and one of the gang called the Sundance Kid headed to Mary’s place. Sure enough Jesse welcomed them, just like they figured. They hid out on the ranch for some weeks and helped with the work. They were sure welcome because the work was hard for just Mary and Jesse and the one hired hand they could afford. Barely afforded him. Matter of fact, they were having a hard time making it, and the bank was threatening to foreclose. George wasn’t about to see Mary thrown off the place she and Jesse had worked so hard to keep, so he gave them the money to pay off a loan. That’s the kind of man he was, always helping out people. Would’ve kept on helping out folks, except the railroad sicced the Pinkertons on him and Sundance, and they had to light out again. George was always leaving, my grandmother told me. The way she put is was, ‘He didn’t like good-byes, so he just left.’”
The Man Who Fell from the Sky Page 22