Seldom Disappointed: A Memoir

by Tony Hillerman

  They don’t leave the island?

  There’s no way to get off, said the warden, and the official statistics backed him up. No escapes listed, ever.

  Did they launch manhunts for those listed as absent?

  Why do I ask this? They get hungry. They come back.

  I ask this, of course, because my plot require an escape from this place. I need to know the details.

  Having covered prisons in two states I was impressed. There were no walls; if the guards were armed I saw no sign of it. The sharecropper convicts cut bamboo to make their own houses, brought in their wives and children after six months of good behavior (a bus took their kids into town for their education), and they shared in the profits of their rice crops after deductions for water buffalo rental. In the dirt-floored prison workshop, convicts were making hardwood canes and other salable items, shooing away the pigs (convict-owned) that shared the place.

  Before leaving Puerto Princesa I visited the port for a close look at the two-master. Painted in precise gilt on its bow was its name: The Glory of the Sea. It will carry my hero, whom I have now named Mathias in memory of the late Sergeant Carl Mathias, a very brave man, across eight hundred miles of South China Sea to the muddy mouth of the Mekong River, from whence I’ll get him to Cambodia. At the market I buy an efficient-looking bamboo blowgun with a quiver of bamboo arrows and head back for Manila.

  There I hire a cab with a driver old enough to remember what the city was like in 1975 and we find a low-rent office for the questionable lawyer I’ll need to create a sleazy bar for a meeting. Another long cab ride takes me to the Luzon village I’ll have to describe, and to a cockfight where I pass the wager money around the arena but do not partake of the fresh-cooked rooster (a loser) sold at the ticket booth.

  The evening before flying home I take a long walk along the waterfront, collecting sounds, smells, and images, including that of a cockroach migration that flows down the sidewalk toward my feet like a flood of black water. I spend an hour in a casino, with soldiers armed with automatic rifles guarding the door and an all-male mix of Japanese and locals, silent and grim, playing blackjack and roulette. Then more of my good luck. Rain drives me into the empty cathedral, and while I wait in the darkness for the squall to pass, the candles, the smell of incense, lead me to imagine the scene that was the key to making Finding Moon work. Moon becomes a lapsed Catholic. I have him waiting out the rain in the cathedral, ducking into an empty confessional booth where he hasn’t been since boyhood, remembering the prescribed introductory prayer for forgiveness. Reciting it, he finds a young priest has been sitting behind the screen, quietly waiting for penitents. It’s been about fifteen years since I wrote that chapter, and I still remember it as one of those rare and joyful moments when you know you’re writing well.

  Nothing to be done in Manila now except get through customs with my new passport. Things are calmer now and the official has time to inspect the entry page and find it lacks any official evidence of my arrival. He asks me the date. I tell him. He looks at the page again. It is still blank, but the official’s expression is now skeptical. Am I sure of the arrival date? he asks, and before I can answer motions to a policeman. A lady in the next line waves at me—one of the travel writers I’d met on the flight in. I ask her the date we arrived. She shouts back the answer.

  “Is that your lady?” asked customs.

  I nod, ask her if we can look at her passport. She brings it over. Customs checks the date, writes it into the back of my passport. The problem is solved. I’m even allowed to tote my blowgun and arrows aboard.

  30

  El Fin

  When I interrupted my next Navajo police book to begin this memoir the lawn outside my window was ablaze with April dandelions and Lieutenant Leaphorn (retired) was sipping his inevitable coffee in the Navajo Inn awaiting a friend to learn more about a motiveless murder. Today the yellow on our lawn is autumn’s crop—leaves shed by our cottonwoods—and Leaphorn still waits to do his thing. Bits and pieces of Next Book have built in my mind for months. It has that familiar feeling books cause in their formative state of finally being the really good one. I want to get on with it. Aside from that, wringing useful memories from one’s subconscious produces unpleasant self-absorption. It puts you in contact with long-dead friends, good buddies, people you have loved, who have been kind to you, whose death left a vacuum, playmates, men of Charlie Company whom I hadn’t thought of in years. There’s sadness in that.

  But when I try to sum up my seventy-five years I must admit the happy times were the overwhelming majority. And how does one quit writing an autobiography when he still has hundreds of happy memories left unreported?

  I asked the fellows with whom I’ve been playing poker for almost forty years how one can end the account of one’s life.

  How about suicide? says one. That would end it.

  Wouldn’t work, says another, you’d have to do it with a suicide note.

  It seems to me that Stendhal had a better idea when he tired of writing his very autobiographical Promenades dans Rome. The scholars tell us he was considering suicide. And they tell us that while writing this highly personal journal, he got the idea for The Red and the Black and wanted to get going on it. And so he finished Promenades by writing:

  “Tomorrow we leave Rome, to our great regret. [The “we” being the fictional companions Stendhal used to beef out his tale.] We are going to Venice; we shall spend two weeks at the baths of Lucca this summer and a month at the delightful baths of la Battaglia.”

  That said, Stendhal wrote The Red and the Black, his classic. If the Frenchman can get away with it, why can’t I?

  Therefore, the next time I turn on this computer I will be with Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn (retired) awaiting a luncheon guest at the Navajo Inn. He will be casually eavesdropping on two elderly teachers recalling an odd Halloween incident of fifteen years ago. Truant students cutting across the long abandoned grounds of old Fort Wingate had been terrified by a prankster—someone imitating the screams of a woman pleading for help. And that reminding Leaphorn of an odd Halloween homicide, also fifteen years ago, and suddenly wondering if . . . But that’s for tomorrow. First a final summary look at my seventy-five years is required.

  They’ve been far better than anyone deserves, two thirds of them brightened with Marie, who rarely saw a disaster in which she couldn’t find something funny, and a lot of them made tense, nerve-racking, interesting, and joyful by the bringing up of six children. My three fourths of a century has been notable for fortunate outcomes and rare disappointments.

  There are two primary reason for this. First, Mama and Papa sent us out into life knowing it was just a short run toward that Last Great Adventure, and understanding that the Gospels Jesus used to teach us were the road map to make getting there a happy trip. That covers the first years. The last fifty-two years have been filled with love, joy, and laughter by a wonderful wife, partner, and helpmate named Marie.

  Photo Insert

  The author, sitting at left in the wagon, with big brother Barney holding handle and big sister Margaret Mary hiding eyes. Other participants are cousins Joe, Elizabeth, Emma, and Monica Grove at Uncle Arthur’s farm.

  Family picnic at Sacred Heart, with author (crying because he didn’t get to sit on the tricycle) showing talent at getting the front-and-center spot when pictures are taken.

  The author displaying skill at holding fish closer to camera to augment size. Left to right: cousin Joe Grove, the author, Barney, and cousins Monica and Johnnie Grove.

  What was left, in 1990, of the Sacred Heart store Gus Hillerman operated during the Great Depression.

  The entire senior class of Konawa High School, with the author seventh from left in the front row.

  Konawa High owned twelve baseball uniforms, which went to nine starters, two relief pitchers, and a utility infielder. The author (top row, sixth from left) was substitute right fielder, where the damage done by his inability to judge fly balls wa
s minimized. World War II took a heavy toll on the team.

  Part of Fourth Platoon, C Company, 410th Infantry, looking uncharacteristically tidy, in a French village during its conquest of the Third Reich. The author (grenade in lapel) is on the jeep hood at the center.

  A rainy February 9, 1945. Hillerman receiving Silver Star from Gen. Anthony McAuliffe. The general had just become famous for his one-word (“Nuts!”) response to German demands that he surrender his forces in Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. Unknown to the general, the soldier he was decorating was Absent Without Leave, having slipped away from the army hospital at Saverne the previous day to rejoin his platoon.

  By BEATRICE STAHL

  This article gave Hillerman a wonderful display of the magical, mystical powers of the journalist (and the Army citation writer) to convert grubby reality into high drama and it led him right to the University of Oklahoma Department of Journalism. However, his own account of featherbed and silk bedspread (see paragraph 16 and following) remind him that he himself was already adept at gilding lilies.

  It is interesting to note that the author’s mortar was not in fact disabled; Smith and he dashed off and left it to the oncoming foe (minus the sights). Also left behind were their shovels, his helmet, his field jacket containing a money order ready to be mailed off to Mama, and some emergency food he’d been saving in the likely event rations didn’t arrive. And the multiple grenades the author is credited with fearlessly hurling at the enemy were actually one grenade borrowed from Pfc. A. J. Shakeshaft. Military public relations are a wonder.

  Tony in role of caddy in photojournalism class at the University of Oklahoma after the war.The golfer is Dick Wharton, who accompanied the author to Mexico. The guy improving his lay is Bill Shelton, later a noted journalist.

  August 16, 1948: The author marries Marie Unzer, the greatest coup of his life.

  Summer 1951: On the night shift in the United Press bureau in Oklahoma City.

  Winter 1954: The author in uncharacteristically double-breasted attire, photographed by the governor’s press secretary while covering politics for the New Mexican.

  The author looking guilty while trying to explain to reporters why he was ignorant of any funny business in the university basketball scandal.

  Deer season in the Brazos high country. The author never actually shot at a deer, but the rifle gave him an excuse to be out there after fishing season ended.

  With Barney and Cousin Joe Grove, who kept the Hillerman horses for them in World War II.

  The author showing grandson Brandon Strel the art of holding a fish closer to the camera to augment its size.

  The author, center as usual, with Scott Turow and Studs Terkel, laughing at their own witticisms at a library fund-raising event.

  Tony Hillerman (as prison warden) and Lou Diamond Phillips (as Jim Chee) during the filming of The Dark Wind. The facial expressions of both men are explained by Hillerman’s forgetting his lines for the third time. The author’s role ended up on the “cutting-room floor.”

  Tony amid students at a seminar for English teachers in California.

  Hillerman on the TV show Politically Incorrect with, from left, Al Franken, Bill Maher, Graham Nash, and Betsy Hart.

  Marie and Tony with Carl “Moon” Mathias, Betty Mathias, and Mickie Brock, with Tom Brock, another C Company survivor, as photographer.Yes, Mathias is the Moon of the novel.

  “If Ya Kain’t Run With the Big Dogs, Stay on the Poarch!” Tony and the Shiprock “Dog Pack” of the Navajo Tribal Police in 1994.

  Hillerman country. Photo by Marie, who understands the hamburger’s attraction to the author.

  The Navajo Tribal Police headquarters at Window Rock, where Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee have offices in more recent books.

  Some of the secondhand buildings of St. Bonaventure School, scene of a fictional murder in Sacred Clowns.

  Tony and Marie at the 2000 Mystery Writers of America convention. Hillerman was the presenter of the Grand Master of Mystery award to his old friend Mary Higgins Clark. Hillerman suffered a “senior moment” at the microphone, forgot Mrs. Clark’s name, and floundered around until she rushed up and rescued him.

  Actually catching one in the San Juan river.

  Addendum

  In various ways the foregoing has explained the genesis of six of my books from the first (The Blessing Way) to the most recent (Hunting Badger). Each of the others presented its peculiar problem and had a lesson about plotting to teach.

  Examples, in chronological order:

  The Blessing Way (1970). It was easy enough to make the Enemy Way ceremonial germane to the plot. It is used to cure illness caused by exposure to witchcraft and my villain was trying to keep the Navajo away from his territory by spreading witchcraft fears. The problem was devising a way for Joe Leaphorn to connect the ceremony and the killer. The solution came to me when I noticed the peculiar pattern of sweat stains on a felt hat caused by a silver concho hatband. With that in mind, I skiped back to an early chapter, write in Leaphorn at a trading post seeing the villain buying a hat to replace one stolen and wondering why someone would steal an old hat and not the expensive silver. That done, I then skiped forward to the “scalp shooting” phase of the ceremony, have Leaphorn notice the “scalp” is a sweat-stained hat, find the “scalp shooter” who has delivered the hat to the ceremony, learn from him where (and why) he stole the hat and thereby solve the mystery.

  The Fly on the Wall (1971). Motivating my unheroic hero to pursue a news story after a death threat was the problem. I hit on having him flee to New Mexico, go fishing at my favorite little stream in isolated Brazos Meadows, and realize the death threat was merely a ruse to get him away from the state capital to somewhere he could be murdered quietly. Thus he knows his only hope is to solve the crime.

  The Boy Who Made Dragonfly (1972). While doing the research on the complex Zuni religion to write Dance Hall of the Dead I ran into versions of the Dragonfly story told to children to teach ethics, morals, hospitality, and the evils of selfishness. It’s a beautiful story of the power of love and the only problem was simplifying it for non-Zuni readers.

  The Dance Hall of the Dead (1973). The problem here was how to have Leaphorn understand what was motivating the behavior of George Bowlegs, a fugitive Navajo boy. To do this I had Joe gradually understand Zuni theology as a Navajo (or a white mystery writer) would, and realize the boy was trying to make contact with the Zuni Council of the Gods. Thus the boy (and Leaphorn) would come to the Shalako ceremony, at which these spirits make their annual return to the pueblo, and thus I would have my excuse to describe this incredibly beautiful ceremony.

  The Great Taos Bank Robbery (1973). Most of the essays in this book were written to meet requirements for a master’s degree in English. As required, they displayed whatever command I had of dealing with a variety of subjects—ranging from the zaniness of Taos, to the nature of an ultramilitant Chicano leader, to the detective work done to locate the source of bubonic plague.

  New Mexico (1974), Rio Grande (1975), and Indian Country (1977) were the texts of books done in collaboration with photographers.

  Listening Woman (1978). This book taught me that inability to outline a plot has advantages. The plan was to use Monster Slayer and Born for Water, the hero twins of the Navajo Genesis story, in a mystery involving orphaned brothers (a “spoiled priest” and a militant radical) who collide in their campaigns to help their people. I would use a shaman, the last person to talk to my murder victim before he is killed, as a source for religious information meaningless to the FBI but revealing to Leaphorn. After a series of first chapters that led nowhere, I wrote a second chapter in which Leaphorn stops the villain for speeding and, more or less out of whimsy, I have him see a big ugly dog in the backseat of the car, intending to use the delete key on my new (and first) computer to delete said dog later. That unoutlined dog became crucial to the plot. No more trying to outline.

  People of Darkness (1980). Older,
wiser, urbane Leaphorn refused to fit into my plan to set a plot on the Checkerboard Reservation, in which the goverment gave alternate square miles of land to the railroads and in which Navajo was intermixed with a plethora of whites, Zunis, Jemez, Lagunas, etc., and a dozen or so missionary outposts of different religions. Since Joe wouldn’t be surprised by any of this I created younger, less culturally assimilated, Jim Chee.

  The Dark Wind (1982). One of the many facets of Navajo culture that appeals to me is the lack of value attached to vengeance. This “eye for an eye” notion pervading white culture is looked upon by the Dineh as a mental illness. I planned to illuminate this with a vengeance-motivated crime—the problem being how to have Joe, who doesn’t believe in vengeance, catch on. The answer came to me in the memory of a long interview I once did with a private detective about his profession. I never used any of that, but a card trick he showed me proved to be just what I needed. My villain, a trading post operator, showed the same trick to Leaphorn, and when he solved it he knew how the crime was done.

  The Ghostway (1984). The trigger for this book was a roofless stone hogan with adjoining shed in a little spring-fed pocket on Mesa Gigante, which dominates the Canoncito Navajo Reservation. I happened across it one autumn afternoon, noticed a hole had been knocked in its north wall, the traditional exit route for the body when death has infected the hogan. But why had the dying person not been moved outside before he died, so the chindi could escape?