Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  Sherwood Kensington was a commanding and simultaneously, loathed man. It became apparent that after months of difficult negotiations regarding water rights between his company and the tribal elders, that this was one white man who would do anything to undermine the health and welfare of the local Native American population. So it puzzled White Eagle the first time he saw Marked Wing’s beat-up old Dodge barreling up the canyon road that led to the Kensington estate.

  In spite of himself, White Eagle felt compelled to tail his childhood friend, recognizing that history often trumps logic. At the top of High Ridge, he parked his car behind some thick shrubs, got out and quietly took soft, Indian-style steps towards Kensington’s mansion. When a couple of voices suddenly resonated outside, he quickly hid behind an ostentatious Romanesque fountain, nestled between two cactus plants on the front lawn. After a couple of seconds he carefully raised his head towards the building, to see Marked Wings and Kensington in the midst of a major standoff.

  “So when do I get paid?” Marked Wings demanded.

  “Hold your horses, you know I’m good for it. I just have a little cash-flow problem this month. Next month will be different, so keep your shirt on!” Kensington’s voice reeked contempt. “So, did you get more of the stuff?”

  “When I get paid, you’ll get it,” Marked Wings hissed.

  “Listen, you sorry, son-of-a-bitch, I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Give it up now, or you’ll never get your money!”

  Looking as if he were ready to hit Kensington, instead, Marked Wings handed over two plastic bags of white powder.

  White Eagle watched in stunned silence as the two men finished their transaction. Then Kensington disappeared into another part of the house, and Marked Wings drove off, leaving clouds of pebbled dust and a contemplative ex-friend.

  Obviously, there was no talking to Marked Wings. At that point, their relationship was nonexistent and besides, who knew what the crazed Indian might do. So White Eagle bided his time, watching Marked Wings vanish about once a week for half a day, then stagger home, drunk out of his mind.

  It was then that he decided to go to Earthman for some advice. Instinctively, he knew the Kachina would be discreet and besides, he needed someone he could trust. When he arrived, he found the man-spirit amongst some Kachina dolls in the back of his house.

  “What can I do?” the young man cried, after blurting everything out.

  “That is a hard question, my young one. Perhaps you should go to the reservation police, see what they can do. But you do understand, I must check with the elders first, before you do anything Such a shame, such a shame!”

  The elders were unanimous. They overrode their shock at Marked Wings’ consorting with Kensington, and decided the most important thing was not to bring any shame on their village. So their answer was no, the police should not be involved. Earthman argued with them for two hours, but it was of no use; he was completely outnumbered. They had decided to keep their lips sealed.

  Two months later, on a crisp, January day, White Eagle noticed Marked Wings standing across the center of the village, sputtering with anger.

  “God damn him to hell! Who does he think he is? Well, he ain’t gonna cheat me anymore. If he don’t pay, he don’t live!” Shouldering a rifle, he leapt up into his truck and sped off, depositing a thick dust cloud behind him.

  White Eagle sprang into action. Gunning his own car, he followed his former playmate through the town and up into the surrounding hills, hoping to talk some sense into him. Sure enough, Marked Wings was headed straight for Kensington’s.

  On the way up to High Ridge, White Eagle noticed a family stationed on the side of the road. Two young girls and their mother, shaded only by a small, striped umbrella, were busy selling strawberries packed in pints. Unbeknownst to White Eagle, only seconds before, they had all gone behind a boulder together so that one of the girls could go to the bathroom. So, as Marked Wings drove by, he was totally missed, sealing White Eagle’s fate forever.

  As he raced up the hill to Kensington’s, he heard a shot. Slamming on the brakes, he jumped out of the car, and started to run the rest of the way towards the noise, but it took a full two minutes before he could reach the top of the hill. During that time, a tourist, Mike McCurdy, got a great video of two men on the ridge—an Indian grappling with a white man, with the Indian pulling out his rifle and shooting the white man. The video camera was then shut off, never to include White Eagle dashing up the ridge and coming onto the scene.

  The look Marked Wings gave White Eagle when his old friend approached was frightening. “You tell, you die, and your family dies with you, you understand?” White Eagle nodded, and gulped.

  “He did me wrong, White Eagle. He deserved to die.”

  White Eagle found his voice. “Now what are you going to do?”

  “I’m leaving Oraibi, I mean it. If you tell the police, I will take your family out!”

  Of course White Eagle only told Earthman, no one else. But Mike McCurdy talked plenty, as did the mother and daughters and by the next day, the local community was in an uproar, with the police scouring the area for White Eagle, ready to book him for Murder One.

  He didn’t wait. He kissed his mother, father, and Little Wind goodbye and took off, ignoring their puzzled, pleading faces. They didn’t understand what had happened until everything came out, but by then, he was gone, leaving them all in irreversible pain.

  Helen gently coaxed Earthman back to present time. “But with his good character, and the fact that Marked Wings was also missing, why didn’t the police ever side with White Eagle? What about the rifle? The shot must have come from Marked Wings and not White Eagle!”

  “Bad luck for White Eagle. He was given the same kind of rifle the year before. But it didn’t matter; the White Man wanted blood. When the mother and her girls saw the car that was that. And the elders, they wanted no more shame brought on their village, and so they refused to listen to White Eagle’s family. They hired a detective, but he was no good; he took their money and did nothing. I argued with the elders. I argued so much, they turned me away and put me out after so many years.” His tone saddened. “The funny thing is though, I read in the paper ‘bout five years later, Marked Wings died in a car accident, drunk as a skunk. So all these years he couldn’t have hurt White Eagle’s family anyway, even if he wanted to!”

  Helen stared at the surrounding circle of wood chips. Wow, she thought. This could be the best article I’ll ever write, but to Earthman, she simply acknowledged, “Now, maybe we can clear White Eagle’s name permanently. How can I ever thank you?”

  The old man looked spent. “The Gods have spoken through you.” He heaved a large sigh then smiled. “Besides, it just feels good to be heard!” Closing the door behind her, more rub-click-rub-click started up instantly.

  Back at the hotel, Clyde was surprisingly excited as he and Helen regaled Little Wind with their own individual stories that night. Clyde’s news involved forensic evidence, of skin under Kensington’s nails at the time of the incident that didn’t match White Eagle, of evidence that was buried deep behind the white man’s prejudice and a need for immediate justice. Washburn had even managed to locate the son of a local sheriff who, in a newly found fit of conscience, had been willing to talk and promised a reversal of all charges.

  But Helen’s info made the greatest impact on Little Wind. As she talked about Earthman and her brother’s childhood, Little Wind kept nodding and crying, and after four hours, all three of them eagerly opted for a good night’s sleep.

  Still, Helen couldn’t drift off that night; in the dark, she made her way to the bathroom, closed the door, switched on the light, and began writing. As shafts of blue-gray light filtered into the bathroom window, she was still scribbling, and it wasn’t until noon the next day, after an anxious-to-get-going Little Wind gently poked her awake, that she even thought of calling her husband.

  “Where the hell have you been for the last couple of
days? I was getting very worried about you. You promised you would call! And who is WE @www.aim.org? You have gotten three e-mails from this person, and I don’t even know who it is!”

  Helen’s chest was fluttering so fast, she couldn’t concentrate on his last few words. “Did you print the letters, or at least keep them?”

  “Of course. What’s it all about?” Bill sounded petulant.

  “I’ll tell you when I get back, which will be in a day or two. I love you Bill. Oh, and Bill, I’m writing the best article of my life!” Hanging up, she turned to tell Little Wind the news of White Eagle contacting them.

  Back in L.A., Little Wind literally dragged Helen over to the computer to begin their correspondence, and as the sound of “You’ve Got Mail” popped up, the two women squealed with delight. Little Wind’s hand was pressing so hard on Helen’s shoulder she had trouble moving the mouse over to the ‘read’ portion of the mail. Clicking on it, they read out loud:

  “The dove is fine. Tell news of family. WE@wwwaim.org.”

  Together they wrote back, “Family fine, very, very good news for you. No more MW. You will be cleared soon. Write H and LW @ HBLos Ang.com.”

  Mike McGruen whistled as he scanned her finished article. “I think you may have a winner here, Helen. Outstanding! What a great story. Let’s double check all sources, do some editing, and if all works out, probably run it, OK?”

  OK? Mike chuckled at her face.

  By the next day, Little Wind was in touch with her brother. He had been living under an assumed name out in South Dakota, praying for this day, and although the story later hit the newsstands quickly, the family waited until he was fully exonerated before rendezvousing back at the Oraibi; no chances would be taken this time.

  White Eagle wrote Helen separately—grateful letters that touched her more than anything else had for years. She even framed one of them on the wall above her newly built ‘writing desk,’ and whenever she sat down to compose a new-assigned article, she would glance up at the letter and grin.

  Ten months later, when an announcement arrived in the mail about her having won some local newspaper award for her Oraibi piece, Bill promised he would have the photo of her receiving the award inserted in a very expensive, leather-bound frame. Now, where did she want to hang it? To the right of her relatives, or to the left?

  No one could understand what was taking her so long to decide and after the framed photo had actually been delivered, she always seemed to find some excuse for not deciding where to place it.

  But again, Little Wind knew. As she was cleaning White Eagle’s framed letter one day, she thought of Helen’s newspaper award photo, stashed carelessly in a half-opened desk drawer collecting dust. Suddenly, she chuckled. She was dusting off Helen’s real prize.

  A HEARTY THANK YOU

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads. If you enjoyed it, I would certainly appreciate a short review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Alas, authors count on people like you!

  I would also love to hear from you personally.

  Website: www.srmallery.com

  Amazon Author’s Page: http://www.amazon.com/S.-R.-Mallery/e/B00CIUW3W8/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  Twitter: @SarahMallery1

  Facebook: http://facebook.com/pages/SR-Mallery-Sarah-Mallery/356495387768574

  Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/sarahmallery1/

  (I have some good history boards that are getting a lot of attention—history, vintage clothing, older films)

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7067421.S_R_Mallery

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Dorothy Gabai, who convinced me, oh, so long ago, to take these stories out of mothballs and rework them. To Dana Ryder, whose early enthusiasm was infectious, to Judith Kilcullen for always taking time out of her busy schedule to read my work, to Jaine Duber, for her wonderful editorial expertise in “Lyla’s Summer of Love,” to my father, Jerome Ross, for encouraging me to keep writing, to Nicola Kaftan for being my technology guru, and to my husband, Richard, for ignoring my less-than-perfect housekeeping so I could write these stories, I am grateful to you all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  S. R. Mallery has worn various hats in her life. Starting as a classical/pop singer/composer, she moved on to the professional world of production art and calligraphy. Next, came a long career as an award winning quilt artist/teacher and an ESL/Reading instructor. Her short stories have been published in descant 2008, Snowy Egret, Transcendent Visions, The Storyteller, and Down in the Dirt.

  Her other books are Unexpected Gifts and Tales To Count On, both available on Amazon and other outlets. The Dolan Girls, a historical fiction Wild West romance, is due out late 2015/early 2016.

  THE DOLAN GIRLS

  The Dolan Girls by S. R. Mallery has it all. Set in Nebraska during the 1800s, whorehouse madams, ladies of the night, a schoolmarm, a Pinkerton detective, a Shakespeare-quoting old coot, brutal outlaws, and a horse-wrangler fill out the cast of characters. Add to the mix are colorful descriptions of an 1856 land rush, Buffalo Bill and his Wild West Show, Annie Oakley, bank/train robberies, small town local politics, and of course, romance. It’s not only a taste of America’s past; it’s also about people overcoming insurmountable odds.

  EXCERPT

  S.R. Mallery’s Unexpected Gifts

  “FROM SONIA’S ANCESTORS’ JOURNALS/LETTERS

  SONIA’S paraplegic Father --CHAPTER 2: Sam––Living With Fear

  “First thing I killed was no kind of thing at all. It was an enemy

  soldier, which was a hell of a lot easier to say than the first thing I ever killed was a man.”

  --Steve Mason

  “Nearing the village, we passed women in their beige tunics, black pants, and Sampan hats, shouldering thick bamboo rods weighted down by buckets of water. Most kept their heads lowered as they walked, but the few who didn’t, stared up at us with dead, black-brown eyes and pressed lips. The afternoon was drawing to a close by the time we reached a village compound that reeked of nuoc maum rotten fish sauce and animal dung. An old, leathery woman, squatting by her hooch was our welcoming committee, but once she saw us shuffle by, she scurried back into her hut, clacking loudly in Vietnamese as chickens pecked at rice granules, bobbing their heads up and down in 2/4 time.

  Carbini cut to the chase. “First, pull every one of those gooks outta their hooches, then line them up here,” he barked.

  I watched my troop comb each thatched home, rounding up families of all ages and herding them out into the open like a cattle drive in Oklahoma. I, too, started the mission and stooping into one of the huts, saw a young woman sitting on a straw mat, eating some rice in a black bowl, a young child at her side.

  She was exquisite—the best possible combination of French and Chinese ancestry, with such delicate features, she made my heart ache. My immediate instincts were to protect her and her son from Carbini and this horrendous war, but she just gazed up at me, emotionless.

  I could hear Carbini yelling orders to get a move-on, and I signaled this girl, this treasure, to follow me. She shook her head vehemently, and curled her legs around her son. I motioned again, but still, she refused. I froze, unable to think, but when Carbini popped his head in the doorway and snarled, “Weylan!” she got the message and followed me out.

  Whimpering slightly, she joined her fellow villagers, gripping her child’s hand and wiping off a tear that had slid halfway down her cheek. I suddenly pictured slave owners in pre-Civil War days and felt my lunch rise up in my throat.

  “Now, get your Zippos ready, men.” As Carbini’s face flushed red, I sucked in my breath. He caught sight of my reaction and came over. “Weylan here doesn’t like my orders. Anyone else here who doesn’t like my orders?” Nobody spoke up.

  He opened up one of my backpack pockets, yanked out my Zippo lighter, and shoved it into my face. Immediately, you could hear the snap of pockets opening and boots shifting. We w
ere getting ready to Rock ‘n Roll.

  Carbini was first. He marched over to a hooch, flipped on his Zippo, and carefully lit the underbelly of its thatched roof. It smoldered for a few seconds, a thin, rising wisp of smoke twisting in the tropical air. From that, a flame grew, nibbling at the straw with a low, blue heat before suddenly bursting into a torch, arcing up towards the sky in a yellow-hot blaze.

  Carbini turned to us and nodded, his eyes glazed. This was our cue, yet I spun around to search for the girl, who was at the back of the pack, crying softly as she hugged her son. I glanced over at some of the other men, their hands jammed deep into their pockets, and decided to follow their lead. The fire was raging full force on each hooch now, the thatch and bamboo crackling like a 4th of July fireworks display, leaving its reflections in the villagers’ eyes and turning the sky dark with thick, bulbous smoke.

  “Weylan! You son-of-a-bitch coward! You’re no better than the rest of us, you hear me?” Carbini started to charge over, then stopped mid-stride.

  In the distance, a large formation of F4’s was headed our way, torpedoing fireballs of napalm every several hundred yards and scattering screaming villagers down the main road. We were ordered to take cover, but followed the fleeing Vietnamese instead, charging after them and trying desperately not to show our own fear.”