Diamonds at Dawn

by Catalina Claussen

  “They’re looking for him,” he says, matter of fact—the same way he talks to me when he knows there’s nothing we can do. Then he says, “We’re out of milk.”

  The cowbell on the front door of La Tienda clunks.

  “Frank!!!… Frank!!!!… Turn down that TV!!!” Della bellows across the store.

  “Yep,” Frank calls back from God knows where. The blare of the AM news mellows a bit, a background noise that breaks up the steady buzz of the fluorescent lights.

  Della turns and adjusts her beehive, poking at imaginary stray hairs with her zebra striped fingernails. As she pats her pink satin bow in place she says, “Mornin’, Johnny.”

  Sicheii nods back and gives her a half grin.

  “Ahzi,” she says.

  “Morning, Della.”

  She inspects her nails, one by one.

  “Say, Ahzi,” she says, brightening. “Could you do me a favor, hon?”

  “Sure.”

  She perches her reading glasses on the end of her nose and points out her current cosmetic tragedy. “I lost one of my gems,” she says, pointing to the tip of the nail on her index finger with her pinky. Apparently American zebras, as opposed to African zebras, have rhinestones embedded in their hides. Della is living proof of this natural wonder. She sets down her unlit cigarette in a clean ashtray to concentrate. The butt is stained magenta, or was it… Pinky Promise? At least that’s what she said it was last week.

  “Whole milk or two percent,” Sicheii calls from his place in front of the refrigerated case.

  “Whole,” I say.

  Della dabs “Maximum Speed” nail glue on the tip and lets the missing gem slide from her palm into mine. With a steady hand I place it, and she says, “There. Now, I’m complete.” If only it could be that easy.

  I turn to look for Sicheii. He’s bent over, head stuck in the refrigerated case. He looks like one of Grandma A’s hens, tail feathers in the air, searching for the juiciest grasshopper. Before I can ask him what the trouble is, my question is answered. Maverick’s photo flashes across the muted television screen with “Wanted” stamped across the image.

  I look at Frank sitting with his “fancy” cappuccino in a Styrofoam cup next to his mud-spattered black felt hat, drawing from the end of his unlit cigarette. He places the cigarette in the sparkling clean ashtray, steady as the plaid on his shirt and Wrangler jeans that somehow manage to contain him. He pulls his eyes from the screen, sucks on his teeth, and considers his cappuccino a little longer than necessary.

  “They don’t have whole milk,” Sicheii says over his shoulder.

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” I say.

  The chain on Sicheii’s wallet jingles some. I think I startled him. He turns away from the cold and lets the glass door shut. He doesn’t see the TV and I don’t tell him.

  We step outside onto the store porch. The metal awning overhead is peppered with fine sand pushed by gusts.

  “This must be the storm they were talking about,” Sicheii says.

  I pull my Carhartt closer around me and reach for the gallon jug from Sicheii’s hand. He is silently grateful, pulling his own coat closer. He bows his head, plucks his winter cowboy hat from its perch, and clutches it against him, knowing it is useless in weather like this. He pulls open the door on the driver’s side of the white Chevy Apache and works to start it. I slip around to the passenger side and place the jug on the floorboard, while the engine comes to life. The beaded medicine bag hanging from the rearview mirror swings as Sicheii puts the truck in reverse. I sit tall at first and lean back against the Pendelton blanket seat cover.

  With my eyes shut, feeling the weight of the clouds pressing in on us, I listen to the truck push through the icy sandstorm and carry us over potholes in the road.

  “Sicheii, how do you know everything turns out as it should?”

  I think about his life. “Johnny” Kee Toadlena and his wife Lorraine “Daisy” Toadlena, a woman gifted with the “sight of many voices” according to Navajo thinking. She lost the fight with one of these “voices” on a walk one day when it told her to jump. Daisy returned to Sicheii’s sight broken at the bottom of a cliff. In the wake of her death, bottle after bottle led him nowhere. Then there was Ama and the poison. The fire carried her home that day and left the rest of us.

  He doesn’t answer. I don’t think he hears me.

  The truck holds steady in the wind. We pass through San Lorenzo and ride out a dip in the road.

  Then Sicheii says, “Don’t let anyone dilute your prayers. Don’t let anyone convince you that you are praying for something that isn’t already on God’s heart.”

  The day after Ama died

  was the day I stopped.

  I did not believe

  she would go,

  I did not believe she would

  take the sparkle in her eyes,

  the words that wove my spirit

  to her

  to Sicheii

  one body

  one flesh.

  I did not believe.

  The day after Ama died,

  was the day I stopped

  Believing

  (found hanging from the corner of the

  spring box on Turtle Mountain)

  Chapter 22

  When Ama died, I did my best. I did my best to let her go. See, Ama was different. She believed the way Grandma Daisy believed, in the Plains Cree way. She said when we die, we become part of the night sky, not the underworld. One night, curled under the story blanket with the juniper log popping in the woodstove, she looked at me with ethereal eyes, eyes that only a person living between worlds could have. She said, “Ahzi, when I go, you have to let me.”

  I didn’t understand then. I was nine. I told her I would. But in my heart I knew I couldn’t keep the promise. I knew then that I would hold on to her as best as a nine-year-old could. I would hold on to her in words and images. After she passed, I was obsessed, rendering her in my sketchbook, so I would never forget the curve of her eyes when she smiled. Writing her words, the conversations we had, so I would never forget the sound of her love as it formed in her mouth.

  But that day, I decided I owed it to her to keep my promise. That day that I saddled up Yas, placed my journals and my sketchbooks in the saddlebag, and left at dawn. I rode as far as I could ride, the way Sicheii taught me, going the distance, but knowing time is short in the cold season. I rode halfway according to the clock, so I could return before Sicheii had time to worry. I rode along the ridgeline, high above where no one could see me. I rode until I crested Turtle Mountain, where all the living hot water flows downstream to fill the baths. And up there under the full weight of the sky, I tore the pages from their binding and let them go.

  I think Ama knew what I was doing because a wind, a fierce wind, broke through the stillness and the papers took flight. Tears filled my eyes, and I did not see. I did not see where they were going. What does it matter anyway?

  What I did see were her eyes.

  Náshdóítsoh

  Came silently

  to protect me

  to heal me

  to keep me safe

  from the great sadness

  to guide me through it.

  In her eyes I can see

  evil in the darkness.

  In her eyes she can show me

  the way home.

  (caught up in bear grass on the

  llano above the waterfall)

  Chapter 23

  “I’m going out, Sicheii,” I say, tightening the laces on my snow boots. I have no idea if he hears me. Only silence answers. I pull open the front door and step outside. As promised, the storm has arrived. Puddles seep through the first covering, but their defiance is useless. The brim of my black felt hat catches fresh flakes. I tuck my braids into my Carhartt and turn my collar up against the wind. My work gloves are stiff in the cold, but it’s better than nothing.

  Wanted. I want answers. Walking the land in the storm is the only w
ay to get them now. At the bottom of the driveway, I stop and look both ways. From the rise of the road I look down at Cassie’s house. There’s a warm glow coming through the lace curtains of Grandma Alice’s sewing room. The chimney puffs the sweet fragrance of juniper. There’s not much use in disturbing the peace. I turn and make tracks to Maverick’s. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’ll see it when I see it.

  The storm builds, and all I can hear is the sound of fine crystals streaming from the sky, blurring the horizon. I push on, following the downslope of the road. The snow changes to fat clusters, puffing, and bouncing off my coat front. Layer upon layer of flakes rapidly build silent drifts. I watch for Maverick’s drainage and follow the path, a narrow white ribbon among the scrub. The path turns into a gurgling creek. I make my way upstream, tracing a trail along the canyon wall. Just past the bottleneck, I realize I stand out. My black hat, tan coat, and Indian-blanket snow boots pop against the white.

  I leave the trail and hunker down among mountain mahogany. Maverick’s place is dead silent. What am I doing? Rising, my feet answer the question. I trace the base of the hill and drop down into an arroyo below. I cross the dry creek and rise onto the other side. I turn and look back considering the leafless cottonwoods and desert willows that mark intermittent water.

  I pick my way through scrub oak, bear grass, and cholla cactus, churning bits of black and burgundy gravel into the fresh white. Following the easy slope, I scan the contours of what lies ahead. The rippled snow is four inches deep now and getting deeper. Further downslope, the snow cover is punctured by an almost-perfect circle.

  Of course, I’m curious. Approaching the rim of the circle I hear it.

  “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary…”

  “Really?” I say, towering over Maverick who is basically yodeling at the bottom of a pit.

  “Ahzi?” he says, rising to his feet.

  “Yep.” Then I say, “Should I ask?”

  “Well, yeah, I mean no ’cause you won’t like the answer.”

  I look down at him twelve feet in the ground and can’t help thinking he belongs there.

  “Looks like whatever it is, is between you and Him,” I say, pointing to the heavens. I turn to go.

  “Wait, Ahzi,” he says. I am, at this point, completely amused. Just like Sicheii says, everything turns out as it should. And it looks like it’s best that I don’t intervene. “Wait, aren’t you gonna… do something?”

  “Nope. Looks like everything is taken care of.”

  “You’re really gonna leave me here?” he says, incredulous.

  “Yep,” I say. I turn to go again, and then I remember I have a just-in-case stash of jerky in my pocket. Not sure how old it is, but… you know what they say about beggars.

  “Here,” I say, tossing a stiff piece of Sicheii’s venison green chili jerky in the hole. Maverick reaches for it as it falls behind him.

  “She was the last link, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Náshdóítsoh.”

  “What does that mean? You know I don’t speak Navajo.”

  “You know what I mean,” I say. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this is where you trapped her.”

  The venom of my words seems to strike at some truth, and he looks away for a moment.

  “Funny thing is,” I say, catching his eyes once again, “she’s just as fierce as ever.”

  He clutches the jerky. The snow, falling fast, lights on his indecisive dark and light hair and threatens to take the shine out of his chocolate brown eyes. It’s a matter of time. I turn and go for real.

  “Ahzi, wait,” he says, fear rising in his voice.

  But I don’t.

  “Elk pot roast,” Grandma A says with pride, setting her Dutch oven in the center of the table. “So glad you could join us,” she says, beaming at Chad, Sicheii, and me. “You really outdid yourself this fall, Johnny,” she says. “We are surely blessed.” She lets her eyes rest on an empty chair. And then shakes her head. “Let’s take a moment on this special occasion to give thanks.”

  We bow our heads.

  “Father God, we come before you this evening truly awed by the beauty of this winter storm, the snow is a reminder of how you wash away our sins with your unfathomable love.”

  Sins…

  “We give thanks for your patience with us, Lord, that despite good teachings and being surrounded by good people, we fall, at times, from the good road.”

  Fall at times… There she goes convicting me with her words.

  “Even those of us who walk with your Son stumble… and…”

  Fall… There’s Maverick in my mind’s eye standing at the bottom of that pit, flake after flake falling on him.

  At this point Grandpa Norm opens an eye. Both of mine are already open. It’s as if she’s reading the inside of my heart.

  “So we pray to you, Father, that this food…”

  Grandpa closes his eyes again, confident that we’re getting back on track.

  “… nourishes us, body and soul. So that we may stay on that road.”

  Phew! It’s over.

  But then…

  “Oh yes, and Father while I have your ear. You can see one empty chair. And we pray, Father, that…”

  “Alright, alright…” I say.

  “Ahzi?”

  “Come on,” I say to Chad and Cass. “Come on.”

  “Um, okay,” Chad says, rising. That’s what I love about him. He just trusts me because I’m me. I could learn something from him.

  And Cass, she’s got my back no matter what. There she is on her feet.

  “I need you to help me with something.”

  “Right now? We just got settled and… and there’s pot roast,” Grandpa Norm argues, but something in my eyes makes him back off.

  Sicheii shrugs.

  “We’ll be back,” I say. “I need your keys, Sicheii.”

  He hands them over, as if he is powerless against unseen forces.

  “Where are we going?” Chad says, as we step outside.

  “Cass, can you grab the flashlights?”

  “I’m on it,” she says, brandishing two long-handled ones.

  “And we’re gonna need some rope,” I say, making my way to the barn. “And a blanket.”

  “I like the sound of this already,” Chad says.

  “Would you shut up!” I say.

  “Somebody’s got to keep a sense of humor.”

  “Grow up already and get in the cab.” I throw the rope in the truck bed along with a couple of saddle blankets. I’m a stupid, stupid girl to leave Maverick like that. The snow finally stopped, and from the inky black spaces between the clouds I know Ama can see me.

  I hop in the driver’s seat, and Chad, of course, is eating it up being in the middle seat. He settles an arm around each of us, but I’m in no mood. I detach his arm from my shoulder and drive the key into the ignition.

  Sicheii’s tires spin at first. We finally gain some traction, pull out from the driveway and wind up on the road. I try not to think of Maverick stuck in that hole under six inches of snow. I turn on the high beams in the hope of recognizing some landmarks. We pass my house on the left. After that, the road drops at that awkward angle where it’s wise to brake at some point to stop yourself from barreling off the cliff, but if you brake too hard, you fishtail.

  “Need help?” Chad asks.

  “No, I don’t. We’re in a fine mess as it is.”

  “Ouch,” he says.

  “What are we doing, Ahz?” Cassie asks.

  “Making things right,” I say. “If that’s possible.”

  “Why all the mystery?” she says.

  “Because you won’t like what I have to say. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you never speak to me again after this.”

  I park on the side of the road. “We’ll get out here.”

  I pull my school backpack out from behind the front seat and empty it, searching for any
thing else we might need. Then I stuff the blankets and rope in there. Cassie hands a light to Chad.

  I pull my cell from my pocket and light up the snow. I can see the soft indentations of my footprints from earlier.

  “This way,” I say. We follow the trail and navigate the creek bed, finally popping out of the narrowed canyon. Strangely, Maverick’s house is still dark. I wonder where his auntie and her boyfriend are. It doesn’t matter anyway.

  When I don’t turn toward the house, Chad says, “Ahzi, seriously, where are we going?”

  “It’s not much further. I can’t do it alone. I need you to help me. Just come.”

  We make our way to the edge of the arroyo and drop down, crossing the flowing stream and emerging on the other side. The moon’s not up yet, so it’s hard to see past the rings of light shining from our flashlights. The familiar rocky surface spreads out before us in patches, but I can’t find the hole in the snow blanket. I crest the top of a mound.

  “Cassie, let me see your light for a moment.”

  I hold the light above my head and scan the expanse. I catch what I think is the rim of the pit.

  “Let’s try over here.”

  “What are we looking for?” Chad says.

  “Maverick.”

  “Out here?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you knew?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you…”

  “Don’t say it…”

  “Come on,” Cassie says. “We have no time to lose.”

  “Remind me never to piss you off,” Chad says.

  “I found him this afternoon,” I begin. Cassie’s quiet, listening intently. “It was snowing. And I noticed a hole in the snow cover, so I went to check it out and…”