Yellowcake

by Ann Cummins

  Harrison isn't here. It's after eight o'clock. She's almost relieved. It's bad enough having to get up and talk, but a thousand times worse is thinking of him in the audience. Grading her. She wishes she'd brought water.

  She regrets not writing her talk. It would be a whole lot easier just to get up there and read something, like Rose Mahoney did.

  Doo'ak"ahii. This morning she asked her father the Navajo word for No Fat Mesa. She wants to say something about running with him up there, and she wants to use the Navajo word. She wishes she could introduce herself with her clans. She wishes she knew her mother's clans. How many times in her life has she been in this position?

  Her parents have been fighting. It's so odd. They never fight. Their nerves are frayed. Today when she got home, her mother was crying, and her father said, "Tell her Jesus Christ forgot to learn my name." He wants no more prayer circles in the house.

  Terry Conrad is here. He came into the bank today and asked her to lunch, but she turned him down because she wanted to get her run in. He asked her to go out with him after this meeting, but she told him she had plans. He was pretty insistent, though. He has to go back to Dallas for a meeting tomorrow, and he wants to run an idea by her. She agreed to meet him for a quick cup of coffee after work. She drove to Denny's and, stopped at the light, she saw him sitting in the booth waiting for her. But she was wanting to run. When the light changed, she glided on by. She feels a little bad about that.

  He has been talking to the people at the front of the room. He seems to be watching her. Now he heads her way. Tonight he's wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt that matches his blue eyes, seeming to magnify them, and a straw cowboy hat—he wears it well, like he's used to it.

  "You stood me up," he says.

  "Sorry," she says. "I couldn't get away."

  "Anybody sitting there?"

  She'd put her purse on the chair next to her, half thinking she was saving it for Harrison. She picks the purse up, and he steps over her legs.

  "Good crowd," he says.

  "Yeah."

  He smells like cloves. A cologne-wearing businessman-cowboy. It's not unpleasant.

  "How long you think they'll go?"

  "It's supposed to be over at nine."

  "I'd still like to get together with you. Can I buy you a beer?" He smiles, leaning toward her, his shoulder brushing her. "You owe me."

  Overhead the ceiling fans turn, muted whirlybirds. She scans the back of the room. He is not here, and it's 8:20. It's a three-anda-half or four-hour drive to Albuquerque. He'll be on the road eight hours. What's in Albuquerque? Who's in Albuquerque?

  "Okay," she says.

  "Great."

  The microphone crackles. Bill Lowry has just said her father's name. He makes comments after each speaker. "People like Woodrow Atcitty, who labored for years breathing radioactive dust..." It's her turn. She tries to focus. Will there be water up there for her? She'll just say one or two things. That the new tumors are inoperable.

  People are clapping. She feels somebody's hand on her shoulder.

  Harrison is looking down at her. "I made it," he says. She smells coffee on his breath. He squeezes her shoulder, saying, "Bee'-ádíní."

  And whatever it was she planned to say swallows her.

  Standing at the podium, gripping it so her hands won't shake, she is clear about only one thing: there is no water.

  She says, "I am Becky Atcitty." She moistens her lips, swishes her tongue to generate saliva. She can't look toward the east side of the room where he stands, but she sees him on the edge of her vision. He's wearing a black shirt.

  She says, "This afternoon I went for a run."

  She stares over the heads of all the people—so many!

  "Up on the mesa near Fruitland, where I live." No Fat, no Fat. What's the Navajo word?

  She blinks and blinks again. "It was hot. No clouds." She licks her lips. "I have been running since I was five years old. My father used to take me up there with him. He taught me how to stretch my hamstrings so I wouldn't get injured. Before we had good running shoes, he taught me to wear double socks so the bottoms of my feet wouldn't get bruised by stones. He taught me how to run slowly at first so as not to get winded. He taught me how to bend and touch my toes if I got a side stitch and told me not to drink soda before running because it's too acidic. 'Water,' he told me, 'is the best thing to drink.' He taught me to swish my tongue to make saliva. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'saliva is all you have to drink if you forget water.' I used to run close to the river, thinking I'd always have water, but it's not safe to drink the river water because it could be contaminated." She swallows. Overhead the whirlybirds whirl. The only noise, children and the fans. The people are listening, leaning toward her. Bill Lowry, sitting at the end of the front row, is nodding and smiling. "It's better not to forget water. You've got to remember the important things, and I remember how he said if you go a little way one day, you can go a little more the next, and that's how you get places, but he will never run up there on the mesa with me again. He is too sick." She looks at the audience. They are very quiet. Bill Lowry smiles and nods. The black shirt near the wall is a speck in her eye. She says, "That's all."

  They clap as she walks away from the podium. She walks down the side aisle, forcing herself to meet Harrison's eyes. He stands with his arms folded, leaning against the wall. He doesn't say anything when she stops next to him. "So?" she says.

  "So?"

  She takes a breath, turns, and lets the wall hold her up, leaving several inches between them. "How'd I do?"

  "Good." She notices that he has a tiny bump on the bridge of his nose, and he doesn't look away and doesn't stop smiling. His sunglasses are in his shirt pocket. She takes them out, opens them, and puts them on his face. He laughs. Beautiful straight teeth.

  "Look who's here." He motions toward the other side of the room, where her cousin stands below the clock watching them. Delmar puts his fingers together in a cross, as if warding off devils.

  Outside, her truck gleams under the parking lot lights. He washed and waxed it. He's hoisting a bicycle out of the bed. Harrison stands next to her, his elbow touching her arm. "Nice bike," he says. In the weird light, she can't tell what color it is. It's got very skinny racing tires.

  "He probably stole it," she says. Delmar straddles the bike and rides over to them.

  "Yá'át'éhéii, Harrison."

  "'Aoo', yá'át'éhéii shiak'is."

  "Yeah, I called Aunt Delia. She told me you were here. I wanted to bring you back your truck. Good speech." He grins.

  She says nothing.

  "Yeah, I got the job up on Whitaker Mesa. Groundskeeper. You seen those houses up there?" he says to Harrison, who shakes his head. "I've been up there all week. Couldn't get back down until today, but I wanted to bring my cousin her truck."

  He hands her the keys. He swings his knapsack around, pulling out a little stuffed elephant, which he tries to hand her. She doesn't move. He nuzzles the thing against her neck, and says, "This guy likes you." He leaves it in the crook of her neck, but it falls to the ground.

  Harrison, laughing, scoops the elephant up. They watch Delmar zigzag through the parking lot. Harrison tucks the elephant under his arm, hiding its face and body, the trunk dangling over his forearm. He pinches the trunk with his other hand, wiggling it, nudging her, and says, "This guy's nasty."

  "Don't get any ideas," she says.

  "Like what?" The gray trunk flip-flops.

  People have begun streaming out of the building. Between the two of them, they know a lot of people, who stop to say hello or comment on the meeting on their way to their cars, and then Terry Conrad is standing in front of her, bending down toward her. He says, "Ready?"

  Harrison is talking to somebody from the college, but he stops midsentence, looking at her, his mouth half open.

  "I didn't think you were coming," she says to him. He closes his mouth. The playfulness is suddenly gone from his eyes. "It's some sort of b
usiness thing. It'll only take half an hour. Come with us."

  His jaw flexes as if he's grinding his teeth. His eyes look oily. Angry. Women probably don't tell this one no. It excites her a little, that he might see her as such a woman, but she definitely wants to see him tonight. Can she tell Terry to go away?

  She doesn't get the chance. Harrison leans over whispering, "Three's a crowd," kisses her behind the ear, and walks away.

  Terry Conrad sits across from her at a table in the Holiday Inn lounge. He orders a Budweiser, she water. The room is lit only by table candles and the lights behind the bar. A band is tuning up on the small platform on the other side of the room.

  He wants to make small talk. He asks her what she thought of the meeting and where she thinks they should have the next one. She answers in single sentences. Her mind is racing. She wonders if Harrison's in the phone book. What is she doing here?

  Terry doesn't have any sort of southern twang. He must be a transplanted Texan. His nails look manicured.

  He begins after the waitress brings their drinks. He gives her a history of his company, a geological survey and resource development group. He tells her about research they've done on in situ leaching of uranium, saying again that most of the danger lies in ore extraction. He tells her that in situ leaching is especially effective in porous rock, through which chemicals like sulfuric acid can pass easily. "The trick is to use underground water sources for countercurrent rinsing, but then to restore the sources to their natural condition. That's been expensive in the past, but our engineers have developed cost-effective procedures to absolutely ensure a hazard-free environment both above and below ground." They've got the technology, he says, and now they're doing feasibility studies about how to cultivate resources on American soil that will ensure America's independence from foreign energy. "Other countries like Australia are rich in the ore, richer than we, and they want to get into the game, and they are getting into the game, and they'll be selling to unstable markets, to China for one. It's time to start thinking about safely resurrecting the industry here in order not just to be competitive but to continue to exert a governing influence on this volatile energy source. The fact is, the sandstone on the Colorado Plateau is porous. It would ensure maximum yield with an in situ leaching process."

  He stops speaking, watching her in silence. He seems to be saying something more. There's something she's not getting.

  "The Colorado Plateau? Monument Valley?"

  "Well, for a start. And south. Southeast."

  She begins to get it. He watches her gravely, his lips a straight line.

  "You have got to be kidding me," she says quietly.

  He takes a drink. The guitar plays a riff, the rest of the band comes in, and a man at the mike begins singing "Sweet Home Chicago."

  "Were you ever going to tell us?" If she understands him right, he's talking about starting the mines up again.

  "It's no secret. I've talked openly with Lowry about this. And I've signed up some members of the tribe as consultants. That's why I wanted to talk with you." He holds his hand up as she starts to speak. "Just hear me out. First of all, it's going to happen. If it doesn't happen on Indian land, it's going to happen on the border of Indian land. That's where the ore is. We want to do it right. I'm telling you, we've got a thirty-year record showing we know how to do it safely. But that's just in extraction. We need to make sure that we hear from people like you, people with a historical memory. Especially somebody like you, Becky. An educated woman. A businesswoman. A woman who knows, intimately, the risks. We don't want to deceive anybody. We want real, honest feedback. Come down to our facilities, let us show you what we're doing. Don't judge without having all the facts.

  "If you like what we're doing and want to become a consultant, helping design educational strategies for your people, what we can do for you is something that the government cannot. I hope our efforts tonight are successful in prodding the legislature to take responsibility and to get some compensation for men like your father. But do you know how long it will take before you see any money? I wager ten years. And it will be pennies. That's a bad joke. An insult." He leans forward. "I don't mean to be cruel, but the dead are not going to wait for ten years—for pennies. We're in a position to put somebody like you on retainer as a consultant and to do it immediately. Anybody on permanent retainer, meaning more than a one-shot deal, will get a thousand dollars a month. The company's willing to engage in a long-term commitment. Somebody in your position—with your knowledge—would make twelve thousand dollars a year for, I'd say, at least five years, and all you'd have to do would be to come to a meeting now and again. Expenses paid, of course. And you'd be helping your tribe. Believe me, Becky, nuclear energy can be harvested safely. In the end, it will be safer and more reliable than fossil fuels. We will prove that to you. Your tribe stands to make a substantial profit. If the tribe doesn't come on board, McKinley County and the state of New Mexico will make that profit." He leans back. "It's going to happen."

  He sips his beer. Her head throbs. She has drained her water but still feels dry. At the bar people shout over the noise of the band, the band amps up to compete. The singer sings, "Love me in the east, love me in the west, love me in the place that you know best."

  Twelve thousand a year would go a long way toward paying off her parents' medical bills.

  Terry is watching her. He wears that cowboy hat like he was born to it. She wonders where he's really from.

  "Let me talk to my dad," she says finally.

  "You bet. Take your time." He nods and sips his beer.

  23

  FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH of September, 5:32 A.M. Delmar steps out of his little adobe cottage into the smell of sage, the mesa in front of him, shadowy in the blue predawn. Stars are out but dimming. He carries a hot cup of Folgers instant to the flatbed truck parked next to the electric cart. On Fridays he drives the flatbed around the estates, collecting garbage. He prefers the electric cart, which is as silent as a sailboat on water.

  Years ago, during his warrior days, Delmar used to spend weekend nights on Whitaker Mesa, which was just a mesa then, full of tumbleweeds. Now it's a forest in the desert: pinon, sage, prickly pear, yucca, all grown someplace else and brought in special. An orange adobe wall encloses the estates, with a guard in a glass booth at the gate. Little orange roads branch throughout the land. The street signs are metal animals on poles: lizard, quail, snake.

  In the warrior days, the only roads on the mesa were the ones made by four-wheelers. Delmar knew several guys who died up here, slain in battle. On party nights white guys from town would come up here looking for rez rats, and the rez rats would come looking for whites. They played tag in their trucks and cars, sitting in the dark, engines idling, headlights off. If you turned your lights on and were spotted, or even if you lit a cigarette or a joint, a horde of vehicles would zoom in like ants going for food, and then you had to gun it, and if you got on the wrong road, too close to the edge, the hordes could force you over it. You were a goner if you didn't bail out in time. You were a goner, too, if you got trapped on the mesa outside your car. Then the ants swarmed and pulverized you with baseball bats.

  The night was especially good if a town boy's tricked-out truck went over the edge and became booty during daylight hours. But the good days came to an end when the city started collecting the booty and forced him into banditry. The mesa changed, too. Everything changes, Delmar thinks. Except the ghosts. He sees them often when driving his little electric cart through the grounds, gray haze in the dawn and twilight, skulking along the quiet lanes, looking like coyotes. He wonders how the rich people up here would feel if they knew their houses were built on a graveyard.

  Now, he gets into the truck, wedges the coffee cup between his legs, and turns the key. The flatbed is a noisy thing. Last week a guy complained to management about Delmar's early Friday morning drives, but he has to fill the dumpsters outside the estate gates by nine A.M., when the city collectors c
ome to empty them. He figures the people up here can have either noise or garbage. Their choice.

  He heads south down Quail Lane toward the complainer's house. On his rounds he wears headphones and listens to happy morning music, this morning Nirvana. He could've started in the north and finished in the south, which would've put him at the complainer's place later, around eight, but where would be the fun in that? He thinks of the complainer as Mr. VD, short for vodka drinker. Last week their trash was full of empty Skyy bottles and meat bones. They drive BMWs—she a silver, he a black—and never look at him when they drive past.

  Last week he found cherry pie in the VD's trash. A smashed pie. Had just opened the lid and there it was, a dark goopy thing. A shame. He had had a piece of what was probably that same pie the day before. Elsie, the VDs' maid, gave it to him while he was trimming their hedge. The piece he'd had wasn't smashed. Who smashed the pie? he'd wondered. Why? These are the kinds of things he gets to think about these days. It's what makes him happy on the mesa. Such interesting things to think about and a lot of time to think, plus he gets to listen to Cobain:" I feel stupid and contagious, Here we are now, entertain us."

  He likes to think about Elsie, too. He wonders if he has a chance with her. She is very cute, though she wears funny clothes—long skirts and peasant blouses with rickrack on the pouched sleeves. She's a mother of three, married to a tow-truck driver. The tow truck shows up at the front gate every evening at five sharp. Elsie walks out to meet it. Delmar once snuck up behind her in his silent electric cart, and she about jumped out of her skin when he asked if she wanted a ride. Now she's always looking over her shoulder when she walks.

  On the day's agenda, after the garbage: Raid. It seems crickets have taken over Mr. Dildo's house. That's Delmar's nickname for the Delgados. Mr. Dildo has a young wife who goes jogging up and down Roadrunner Lane in nothing but a jogging bra and little shorts and always waves to Delmar, very friendly. He wonders how that old guy keeps her satisfied. Delmar plans to satisfy her later by getting rid of the wicked crickets, though it goes against his beliefs, wiping out a tribe of crickets just because they're noisy.