Palmer sat at the table with the delegates. Chee noticed that he’d put his jacket on. The room seemed colder than when the session had started, despite the crowd of people and the abundance of hot air from the speakers. The hefty Anglo woman at the microphone was relating her frustrating experiences finding lodging at the South Rim in the summer, speaking in favor of an additional hotel. Even she wore a sweater.
The most exciting thing that had happened so far had to do with Cowboy Dashee.
Chee had been standing there for more than an hour when he heard the door open. The terrible squeak from yesterday had been fixed, but the door still made a racket. Dashee entered, spotted Chee, and motioned toward the hallway.
From the look on Dashee’s face, he expected a problem.
“I saw a neighbor of the Bitsoi lady when I was driving in this morning,” Dashee said. “The woman said Mrs. Bitsoi plans to take her sheep out to the highway tomorrow, down the hill toward Moenkopi, straight for US 89. The lady said Mrs. Bitsoi told her she plans to get all dressed up, too.”
“It looks like she’s moving her flock like you asked.”
His friend narrowed his eyes. “I’m not joking about this. She’ll reopen old wounds. She’ll make a statement in front of the TV cameras with the sheep and the dogs milling around, and her all decked out in a velvet blouse and squash blossom necklaces. She wants to time it for when your president shows up so he will have to say something in response or look like a coldhearted character.” Dashee shook his head. “Then our tribal leadership will have to respond. We’ll all be embarrassed. You know she’s breaking the law.” Dashee’s voice climbed to almost a shout. “You know all this. Don’t make us the bad guys.”
Chee said, “Calm down, friend. You’re right and I’m on your side.” How could any television newsperson resist the arrival of dozen of sheep, dogs, and a woman with fire in her eyes at the Justice Center? Mrs. Bitsoi knew that the Navajo Nation president planned to attend the meeting tomorrow. “I would talk to her about the animals, but I have to stay here to keep an eye on Palmer.”
“I know. I’m just giving you a heads-up. That’s one furious lady. I’m glad I couldn’t understand her when she gave me what for in Navajo.”
“Tell you what. I’ll ask Captain Ward if one of the other Navajo cops can go out and talk to her.”
Dashee smiled. “Tell him not to ask Redbone. Mrs. Bitsoi doesn’t like him. Long story.”
Back in the meeting room, the woman had finished speaking and the next person stood at the mic. He said his company had constructed other resorts and casinos in conjunction with various Indian communities in Arizona.
“But before I use up my five minutes, I want to complain that it’s cold in here. Mr. Palmer, could you get us some heat?”
Palmer looked up from his notes and said, “I’ll look into it. Thank you. Please proceed.” Then he motioned Chee to the stage. “See if someone can turn up the furnace.”
Chee found Silversmith, who knew whom to talk to. A young man in a maintenance uniform with the Navajo Nation seal embroidered on the pocket fiddled with the thermostat and disappeared. Another speaker went to the microphone, and then another. The meeting droned on.
Silversmith came up to him. “Bad news. Maintenance says there’s something wrong with the heating system, not just in here, but throughout the whole building. It’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“The system manager, the guy who knows everything, is on the way. We thought it might have something to do with the power outage yesterday, but . . .”
“But what?”
“The crew thinks somebody might have messed it up on purpose. You know. Vandalism.”
Sabotage was a better word, Chee thought.
“Are the two federal agents still around?”
“I’m sure they are.”
“Let them know about this.”
The current speaker kept to the time limit, more or less. Two more shared their opinions.
Chee had heard it before. The most irrefutable argument was that many different people held the area being considered for the resort sacred: tribes who had lived in the canyon before there was a national park, before John Wesley Powell, before the Spanish explorers. What if a developer made an offer to build a secular playground at Bethlehem, the Wailing Wall, or the Kaaba in Mecca?
The speakers continued to share opinions; the room grew colder.
Silversmith slipped him a sheet of paper, whispered For Palmer, and disappeared. The mediator had not scheduled a break, so Chee made his way to the stage. The man at the mic, talking about the possibility of uranium mining in the canyon and how a resort might fit with that scenario, didn’t miss a beat.
Palmer met him at the edge of the platform. Chee handed him the note and saw him read it and frown. Chee said, “I’ve got news about the heat, too.”
“Good news?”
“No. The maintenance crew can’t fix it, so the system manager is on the way. I’ll tell you more later.”
Palmer tapped the sheet of paper. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No. But here’s something else we need to talk about. An angry woman could be headed toward Tuba tomorrow with a bunch of sheep she wants to introduce to the president.”
“That’s what we need here. Another chute for the rodeo. Meet me in the back room in a few minutes.”
Palmer walked to the podium, surveyed the crowd, then clicked on the microphone as soon as Uranium Man finished. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a twenty-minute recess. When we return, I hope to have more information about the heating problem.”
A woman seated on the aisle grabbed Chee’s arm.
“Can you tell me where the restrooms are?”
He gave her simple directions and heard her opinion on why public buildings should all have more facilities, especially for large meetings like this one. Then his phone buzzed with Bernie, the car-key thief. He’d call her back after he talked to Palmer.
Most of the delegates stayed onstage, some chatting with one another, some checking messages, all of them looking tired and cold. He went to the back room but didn’t find Palmer. They had traveled this road before, so Chee stayed calm. He walked out the big exit doors and saw Palmer leaning against the wall, phone in hand. Chee heard him say, “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll try . . .”
He acknowledged Chee with a glance and pressed the phone against his arm. “Can you make a call and see how Robert’s doing?”
“No problem.”
“And find out what’s up with the heat? And get me a Coke and a candy bar. I’m fading. I know you don’t want me to die on your watch.”
Chee called the hospital, learned that the nursing supervisor was with a patient, and left a message with his number and Palmer’s. He went inside and spotted Silversmith, who agreed to keep an eye on Palmer until Chee returned from the candy machine and had an update on the furnace crisis. But Silversmith wasn’t interested in talking to the Bitsois.
“Captain Ward asked me about that already, but I know the family. They’ve been angry about the relocation settlement for years and let me know about it. I told the captain you could handle it better than me, and I’d babysit Palmer.” Silversmith raised his eyebrows. “Why not leave it to the Hopis?”
“They say they don’t have a guy who speaks enough Navajo.”
Silversmith made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Navajo, Chinese, Russian? It don’t matter what language you use. I know; I’ve talked to them. Those folks just want to raise a ruckus.”
“What’s new with the heat?”
“Nothing yet. The system manager and team just got here.”
At the candy machine, Chee spotted the M&M’s that inspired the silly TV commercials he liked. When he reached in his pocket for the candy money, he felt the envelope for Blankenship. Another errand-boy assignment, but this one self-imposed. He’d wrap it up today. He inserted some coins and pushed the button, then extracted a Coke from the next mac
hine. By the time he returned, the delegates had settled back at their table and Palmer again stood at the podium. Chee told him about the heat guru’s recent arrival, gave him the Coke, and put the candy on the podium next to the microphone.
Palmer tore open the bag, sprinkled several into his hand. “What about Robert?”
“The nurse wasn’t available, but I left a message for her.”
“Let me know.” He slid the candy discs into his mouth.
Chee moved to his spot at the edge of the stage and noticed Silversmith heading toward him. The officer kept his voice low. “The big guy found a big problem with the furnace. You want the details, or shall I just brief Palmer?”
Chee felt his phone buzz and ignored it. “What’s the bottom line?”
“No heat today. The experts who might know what makes it tick have to come from Flagstaff, and they won’t make any promises that they can fix it. Even if they can, the building will take a while to warm up again.”
“Go ahead and tell Palmer.”
He watched the conversation. Palmer went to the microphone and asked the person in the audience who planned to speak next to wait. The mediator moved to the middle of the stage and huddled with the delegates for several minutes. Then he walked to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will resume public commentary in a moment. The heating system won’t be repaired today. I will recess the session when I determine that the room has grown too uncomfortable. Tomorrow’s public input and the scheduled visit by the Navajo Nation president will be postponed.”
Chee heard grumbling in the crowd, but he liked the change of plan. Fewer opportunities for Palmer to come to harm. He looked for Dashee, relieved that his friend could tell Mrs. Bitsoi to postpone the presidential sheep walk, but didn’t see him. If the captain agreed that Silverman could watch Palmer, Chee would meet with Mrs. Bitsoi, maybe even tomorrow.
Audience testimony resumed: a thin, suntanned man with the Silvery Minnow Protection Association who brought big photographs of the tiny fish. The next speaker, an advocate of expanding air quality controls at the canyon to reduce haze, sounded hazy himself.
Instead of taking a lunch break, which would have provided Chee an opportunity to give Blankenship the envelope, the delegates ordered sandwiches to eat at the conference tables.
Chee remembered his phone buzzing earlier and reached to check it.
It was a text from Bernie: Doing a favor for Cowboy. He says hi. Sorry about the keys.
He shoved his cold hands into his pants pockets and leaned against the wall.
23
Bernie had been raised to treat others with respect, especially her elders, but the cantankerous woman Dashee had persuaded her to talk to had worn her patience thin. It didn’t seem to matter what she said; Mrs. Bitsoi remained determined to take her sheep into Tuba City during the meeting tomorrow, to make a statement about an issue that had been decided long ago. Decided in a way that Mrs. Bitsoi, her family, and many others saw as unfair, but decided nonetheless. Bernie knew that sometimes letting people talk, and listening to them, helped diffuse an emotionally charged situation. But that approach hadn’t worked here. At least, not yet. But Mrs. Bitsoi talked on.
They stood at the sheep pen. The story had unfolded gradually in the familiar rhythms of Navajo. Listening to Mrs. Bitsoi was the verbal equivalent of watching her mother weave a rug. Word by word, carefully moving forward. Mrs. Bitsoi started with her sheep, descendants of sheep her grandmother had raised.
Bernie considered words precious, not to be used in excess, and Mrs. Bitsoi already had said the equivalent of the giant Navajo rug on display at the museum in Window Rock. And she talked on.
Bernie understood the anger and sadness. Her hiking clothes did a good job of keeping out the November cold, but other ladies she knew would have asked her in and offered her something to drink.
Cowboy Dashee, after explaining the situation over the phone, met her outside the Justice Center, led her to the Bitsoi place, and made the introductions. He told Mrs. Bitsoi, politely, that the Navajo president would delay his visit to the meeting in Tuba City because the Justice Center had no heat. He stayed long enough to hear Bernie tell the woman, in both Navajo and English, that her livestock were trespassing on land that belonged to the Hopi, and by law her family had to remove the animals or the Hopi tribe would be forced to take action. Dashee did his best to look stern and official, nodding in agreement. Mrs. Bitsoi had said nothing.
Bernie gave Dashee credit for trying to make things easier on this lady and her family. But he was a police officer sworn to uphold the law. He’d driven away an hour ago, leaving it to Bernie to dissuade Mrs. Bitsoi from introducing her flock to the Navajo Nation president and persuade her to relocate the trespassers instead.
Mrs. Bitsoi’s dog watched from a distance. Its muzzle was white with age, in contrast to the black of its winter coat. In another winter or so, Bernie thought, the dog would be too old to work the sheep. Mrs. Bitsoi hadn’t mentioned any relatives who lived nearby, but Dashee had indicated that there were some. Even difficult women had people who looked after them. That was the way it had always worked in Navajoland. But now, raising sheep and cattle wasn’t enough. Young people needed a paycheck, and moved to Flagstaff or Phoenix or Albuquerque. Most did their best to stay in touch, but work, school, and children complicated things. She was lucky to have a job that enabled her to stay close to Mama.
The sky had grown heavy with the promise of the season’s first snowfall. A time of possibilities, she thought, including the possibility that she could persuade this intractable woman to act reasonably.
“Come inside now, girl.” Mrs. Bitsoi finally led the way. She sounded tired. “We will make some tea.”
Bernie found a strainer and a glass jar of tea leaves near some canned tomatoes. She saw a metal pot on the top of the stove. It wasn’t as cold in Mrs. Bitsoi’s hogan as it was outside, but the house was far from warm. The woman stoked the fire.
It took a while for the stove to heat up enough to boil the water, so she sat with Mrs. Bitsoi, who seemed to be done talking. Bernie enjoyed the quiet broken occasionally by the roar of a truck as it made its way up the highway.
When the water was ready, Mrs. Bitsoi made a cup of tea for herself and one for Bernie. The warm drink smelled like sage and autumn, like the tea Mama made. Bernie breathed in its nostalgic aroma with gratitude and wondered what she could say to change the sheep lady’s mind.
When Mrs. Bitsoi put her cup on her lap and wrapped her strong hands around it for warmth, Bernie talked about why moving the sheep to Tuba City was a bad idea, both for the sheep and for the Bitsoi family. She explained that, while the Navajo president might be sympathetic, he lacked the power to change the law that clearly said her dibé, the dear Navajo sheep, were trespassers.
Mrs. Bitsoi set her cup on the table. “The dibé and my grandmother’s mother lived here before the law said we could not stay. Our president, he will be down there.” She pointed with a nod of her head toward Tuba City. “I didn’t vote for that man, but he needs to know what’s going on. That’s why we will walk to Tó Naneesdizí.”
Bernie said, “This summer, I saw someone moving her sheep. The dogs tried to keep the flock together, keep them off the highway, but there were too many cars and the road was narrow. Her son was in his truck and he had his flashing lights on to warn drivers, but someone came on the other side, driving too fast, and she couldn’t stop in time to avoid hitting one of the sheep. By the time I got there, the sheep was dead.” The road where she’d seen the disaster was Highway 87, the way to Hopiland from Winslow. But the road Mrs. Bitsoi planned to take her sheep along carried just as much traffic or even more.
Mrs. Bitsoi kept her gaze on her cup.
Bernie said, “I have read about other Diné in the same situation as you. Some of these also resist, but the law has not changed despite their wish that it would.” The Navajo Nation had argued against the land settlement back i
n the 1970s and lost. When the appeals were exhausted, it was time to move on. “The Hopi policeman who has been talking to you about this. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you or the sheep, but he has to do his job. You told me your job is to take care of the wooly ones out there.”
Mrs. Bitsoi raised her cup to her mouth, took a swallow, then spoke. “My grandmother’s mother, she raised the ancestors of my sheep. She saved a few she loved most from the bad time when so many were killed.”
Bernie knew that many elderlies had experienced firsthand what history books called “livestock reduction.” They remembered watching government agents herd the animals into side canyons and kill them. The meat, which could have fed many families, and the wool, which could have been spun and woven, was left to rot. The old ones probably still saw dead sheep in their nightmares.
When Mrs. Bitsoi spoke again, Bernie heard the determination in her voice. “My grandmother and my mother taught me about the sheep. Sheep are my life, my family. We will stay here. If that Hopi policeman needs to take me to jail, well, what can I do about that?”
Bernie drove back to Tuba City in the dark, feeling like a failure. She thought of another elder of strong opinions, Lieutenant Leaphorn. She’d tried to call him before she left for Mrs. Bitsoi’s place and missed him again. When she got back to the hotel, she’d check her e-mail and see if he’d sent her anything about Rick Horseman’s death.
She had passed Coal Mine Canyon when her phone buzzed. Chee. Finally!
“Honey, where are you?”
“Driving back from Mrs. Bitsoi’s place.”
“So Dashee sweet-talked you, eh?”
“Oh, he knows I have a soft spot for the dibé. But Mrs. Bitsoi didn’t listen to anything I said.”
Song of the Lion Page 22