Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “We need to get some sleep. Let’s go back to the house now.”

  “Take?”

  “We need to leave these here.” Ben wrapped the mask in the sheet and placed it back in its hiding place. Tommy Spottedhorse needed to find it where they had found it. Not that the hiding place wasn’t disturbed now. Harold’s furious digging had probably erased any clues. But Ben felt uncomfortable removing evidence.

  “You tell?”

  Ben nodded. “I have to tell. Tomorrow, I’ll call Tommy Spottedhorse.”

  Harold hesitated. He seemed uncertain about giving up his find.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Ben said.

  Reluctantly, with Ben’s hand at his elbow, Harold started back toward the house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The flat roofed, pale green cement block building housed both the clinic and the hospital, taking up a good quarter block on the corner of Third and Riverbed. Recently, a covered walkway had been added to connect it with the senior center and civic auditorium. In the back and to the side, a four-car garage housed an ambulance, a fire truck and a snowplow. The last space contained a pickup with the tribal seal on its doors.

  Ben parked on the west in a space marked Staff and sat a moment contemplating his new place of work. It was more than a stop-gap but less than a full blown healthcare center. Indian Health Services strategically placed units like this at the edge of pueblos to fill immediate needs—broken bones, immunizations, prenatal care and short term inpatient care such as stabilizing someone’s diabetes—all problems that could be addressed in a twenty-bed hospital. Anyone needing sophisticated tests or long-term hospitalization would be sent to the modern, usually well-staffed research and medical complex in Gallup.

  Ben would be the first psychologist to be in residence in Hawikuh. He was joining six doctors, five nurses, a case worker, a lab technician, a pharmacist, secretary/receptionist, and three maintenance people. It wasn’t as if he’d be by himself, but he couldn’t help thinking that after five more years of school, he was back in the sticks.

  Dowa Yalanne or Corn Mountain loomed in his rearview mirror. Majestic, commanding, its white-striated sides and wind-whipped pinnacles gave it an air of mystery. He couldn’t fault the “sticks” for being ugly. The steep-sided mesas to the north and east warmed, as he watched, to a rich violet in the morning light. But the beauty of the countryside did little to assuage his feeling of aloneness.

  He thought he might be the first one in, but the woman behind the receptionist’s desk could have spent the night. Her rumpled short-sleeved cotton blouse looked slept-in. She was almost hidden by a stack of folders, and she was pulling more from a bank of file cabinets along the wall.

  “You’re Ben something-or-other, the new shrink.”

  “Pecos.”

  “Yeah. I remember now. Are you Indian?” She had stopped her frenzied digging in the files to look at him.

  “Supposed to be. How ’bout you?” Ben meant this as a joke since the woman’s pumpkin-round face and brown skin assured a pueblo heritage.

  “Humph. Full blood until my next period. You got enough blood to be registered somewhere?”

  “Tewa.”

  Now she was leaning on the counter, giving him her full attention. And after a once-over, she nodded her approval.

  “You got any idea what you’re in for?”

  Ben was smiling, “That good, huh?” He was finding himself starting to like this straight-forward, fortyish woman, graying black hair cut into a bob.

  “I’m the case worker. Only this week, I’m the case worker/receptionist/secretary ’cause Yellow Skin ran off another young girl who just accidentally cut him off in the middle of a phone conversation.”

  “Yellow Skin?”

  “Clinic Director, Dr. Lee. You must have met him last night. He did the prelim on that poor trader found out at the trading post.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to meet him.”

  “That figures. Amenities are not his strong suit. But you’ll get to love the rest of us.” This time the smile was sincere.

  “Any idea where my office is?”

  “They bumped maintenance and put you at the end of the hall, next to the back door. Here’s a box of odds and ends. Pencils, pens, stapler ... I’m Rose, holler if I can help.”

  Before he could say “thank you,” Rose had turned back to opening and banging shut the file cabinets behind her, adding to the stack of folders on the counter. He followed her directions and carried his box of supplies down the hall.

  The office was on the north—probably why there was a space heater in the corner. He looked around. A gunmetal gray desk, a matching battered file cabinet, which seemed empty but locked, two folding chairs, and a private phone were the room’s only occupants. Sparse. Maybe he could come up with some artwork.

  “Hope you weren’t expecting anything plush. Welcome, I’m Dr. Leland Marcos, Dr. Lee to you.” A smallish Filipino man stood in the door. So this was old “Yellow Skin.” Ben found himself looking closely at him.

  “The office is fine.”

  “Good. Young people expect too much nowadays. They want everything to be like television.” He stepped into the room, looked around as if he was taking inventory then turned back to Ben. “We tried mental health out here five years ago. It didn’t take, too much resistance. Don’t know why the tribe insisted we try again. ’Course, might be better with one of their own.” Dr. Lee looked up at him with squinted eyes. “Didn’t I read that you’re Pueblo? Tewa tribe?”

  “Yes. My mother’s people.”

  “I see. Well, you’ll need every break. It won’t be easy.” And he was gone, out the door, and down the hall in quick, hurried steps.

  Yellow Skin didn’t waste time. No handshakes, ‘see you later,’ help you settle in—in fact, he’d sounded skeptical about Ben’s even being accepted.

  “This program will be successful,” Ben said to four empty walls.

  “Gee, this isn’t a good sign. I thought you were supposed to cure people who talk to themselves not model the behavior yourself.” Rose laughed as she entered the room. “Don’t worry. He gets to everyone.” She placed a half-dozen patient folders on the desk. “Look these over. Maybe we can talk after lunch. This will give you some idea of what you’re up against.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Remember, you have friends.” She pulled her eyes into a slant and pursed her lips so that her two front teeth showed—a close likeness of Yellow Skin. And then she left.

  Ben picked up the phone and got a dial tone. That was promising. He’d called Tommy Spottedhorse from the house before he left. He told him what Harold had shown him last night and what he’d said about a masked person being the murderer. Ben promised him that Harold had agreed to take Tommy to where the mask was hidden. He’d check with Tommy later but now he needed to call Santa Fe—more accurately, call Julie at the La Fonda.

  Was he surprised, disappointed, or simply hurt, when the reservation desk clerk said she’d checked out? He’d gotten his hopes up. The clerk added that there was no message, and no forwarding address or phone number. Ben asked twice to make sure she had gone and wasn’t out working. He probably sounded foolish, making the man repeat himself. Ben couldn’t believe there didn’t seem to be any way to catch up with her. Maybe she’d try to get in touch with him again. That’s about all he could hope for. And, yes, he had been looking forward to seeing her—more than he’d realized.

  He settled back to look at the folders Rose had left. She could help him get started, suggest how it might be best to approach people, maybe even visit families with him. He wanted to build confidence. He wouldn’t rush in. He’d begin with those suspected of having chronic mental disorders, throw in a few alcoholics and then hope his practice would fill with the less pressing—those with errant teens or wayward spouses—the ones who could meet him here during office hours.

  By noon he was famished. When he suggested the Taco Tra
in, a railway caboose disguised as a restaurant a block from the hospital, Rose wrinkled her nose.

  “Ptomaine Trolley.”

  “Is that a joke or for real?”

  She shrugged and snapped the top off of a Tupperware container. “I usually bring my own lunch. I have to watch the phones this week. We’re going to try another sweet young thing for this job but not before the end of the month. Maybe the next one will last more than five days.”

  “I’d be glad to give you a break sometime.”

  “That’d be nice.” Rose smiled up at him, full cheeks pushing her eyes into sparkling dark slits in brown skin. He felt a camaraderie, more than just a friendly face—this woman wanted him to succeed.

  Ben walked out to the parking lot and the warmth of the day radiated around him. They hadn’t spared the expense on asphalt. Someone even kept it freshly striped though he doubted that the fifty or so marked spaces would ever be filled.

  He hadn’t planned to go back to the boarding house for lunch, but he wasn’t sure of his options. He’d take a chance that Hannah would have something on hand.

  + + +

  Sal had slept in. Not on purpose but because he’d tossed and turned, getting twisted in the sheets, finally throwing the top sheet on the floor about four a.m., and all this activity had kept him awake—wide awake for most of the night. But at least, Atoshle hadn’t returned to admonish him for his sins. But, then, why should he? He had already done something far worse. The kachina had scalped a man, probably killed him, too.

  He agreed with Hannah’s new boarder. Sal had been the one the kachina, the murderer, sought. Even now, the skin on his neck prickled as he thought about it. Why had Atoshle brought the body to him if not in warning? To show him a death that so easily could have been his own.

  But the padlock was broken off the shed’s door. That was sure evidence someone knew about the amber. Could this someone be the kachina? Could the kachina want to destroy his lab—keep him from making the amber and keep him from selling?

  He let the tap run a full minute before he filled a glass with water and drank. It was better that way—less sediment. Sometimes the wells could be a problem. He swirled the water around and around. It helped him think. He’d made some decisions that morning.

  Just before dawn he’d gone up to the boarding house. He knew Hannah would be starting breakfast. Her greeting was cool.

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “But it doesn’t make me seem so crazy finding a body by the river.” He gave her a sideways glance.

  There was no response. So he told her what he feared—about the trader being killed as a warning—about the dreams, about the Ancients cursing everyone who had anything to do with the false amber—how they had sinned against nature. How he’d seen the kachina dump the body behind his trailer.

  And still Hannah hadn’t said anything, just continued to roll out biscuit dough, cut the inch-thick pad into circles and fill the tin baking sheets. Then, she broke the silence.

  “Did you kill Ahmed?”

  Sal was startled. How could she think that?

  “No.” He couldn’t say more or the anger bubbling below the surface would spill over.

  “I’m sorry. I know I should trust you. But under the circumstances ... You understand, don’t you?” She walked to the table to stand in front of him, then impulsively touched his cheek with a floured hand. “I’m afraid for my life, too. Have you ever stopped to think of that? It’s true. I’m involved as much as you are. It could be my life next.”

  “I would never let that happen.”

  “But you aren’t taking precautions. The notebook, for example—”

  “I won’t talk about the notebook.”

  “Okay. Then, do this for me. Move your work. It’s too tempting where it is. The shed isn’t safe. I have a better idea, something I’ve been working on for awhile in case we needed it.”

  “Where can I go?” He thought the mischievous grin made her look impish, elfin, even. But he was intrigued. It was a good idea to move his things.

  “Now don’t ever think I don’t care about you.” Hannah tugged on his hand. “Follow me.”

  She led him to the pantry, switched on the light and showed him the trapdoor that lowered stairs to the floor below when she pulled a brass ring. The cellar was small, twelve by twenty feet, and smelled musty. Its walls were solid rock blasted out before the house was built over it. Generations had stored root vegetables, beets, turnips, potatoes in the tin bins along the wall. They would even have kept butter and milk down here, Sal thought, and pumpkins and squash.

  But the place wasn’t going to be used for vegetables anymore. Hannah had set up a lab. Three rows of florescent lights hung from the ceiling, and a new aluminum workbench was pushed against one wall. It was cool with a hint of clamminess. The limestone walls felt slightly damp to the touch. Hannah showed him where there had been containers for ice—deep rectangles chipped out of the rock floor and lined with metal. One block supposedly kept for three days without refrigeration seventy years ago.

  It wasn’t ideal but, all in all, Sal felt better. Especially when, after the biscuits were out of the oven, Hannah had helped him carry his lab from the shed to the cellar. Under the protection of the graying light of dawn, they walked back and forth across the wide yard carrying boxes, some requiring the two of them together to lift or push forward. And then when they were finished, Sal went back to the trailer and slept.

  So now at ten o’clock, he felt refreshed. He wouldn’t have to worry about the shed. He’d continue to do his carving there. Dust and shavings would be kept out of the cellar even though Hannah had outfitted the underground room with circulating fans that would draw in fresh air and expel the stale, replacing all the air in the room every three to four hours.

  He still had a few jars of live insects in the shed. Possibly, natural light was better for them, but he didn’t know. He would spend the rest of the morning weeding out the inferior specimens and transport the ones to be preserved to the cellar after dark.

  He’d saved his pride and joy until last—the Jumping Sumac beetle. He’d amassed quite a good collection of them. The three-leaf variety of the low sumac bush was abnormally susceptible this year. His little colony sat on shelves along one wall in quart Mason jars. He held each to the light and then twisted the caps off and stuffed fresh sumac leaves inside.

  He’d read about sumac—the anacardiaceous genus, Rhus, cousin to mango, pistachio, and cashew trees with its “pyramidal panicles of crimson drupes”—he’d had to have Hannah help him with that one. She said all it meant was the berries were red and hung down like cherries. He’d memorized the English words and sometimes, like now, would play them over again in his head and wonder at their strangeness. ‘Pyramidal panicles ...’ for all his growing up on the reservation, he’d only needed to know which type of sumac was poisonous and which leaves to gather for tanning hides.

  The larvae of the beetle were a different story. They had been a puzzle and difficult to work with. Sal had collected the tiny yellowish-green slimy worms and then had found them impossible to preserve. Any attempt to dry them did just the opposite—they’d turn to mush. One time he dehydrated several hundred in a solar convection tray only to find several hundred greasy spots when they were supposed to be done.

  They were peculiar for other reasons. To the naked eye it looked like they wore hats. He studied them under a microscope but still couldn’t figure out what they had on their heads. Some did, some didn’t; most of the time the majority of his catch had globs of something stuck right between their eyes. And then he ran across it in a book—they wore shit on their heads. Their own, the book presumed and went on to speculate that it was most likely a camouflage technique, some kind of protection from predators. And the only thing that kept running through his mind was the lecture by the forest ranger who said that everyone could learn from nature, that if we emulated nature, mankind would be
better off.

  It had become a private joke with Hannah. She’d say, “How you doing today, Salvador, you look a little peaked,” and he’d say, “Oh, you know how it is when you carry shit on your head.” He smiled. Maybe that was what was wrong with him now.

  “My cousin back in Oklahoma collected lightning bugs as a kid. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown man collect bugs.”

  Sal whirled around so fast the Mason jar slipped from his hands and landed with a thud on the dirt floor. But he had left the door to the shed wide open. He had nothing to hide and maybe Tommy Spottedhorse could see that.

  “You feed these things?” Tommy picked a jar off of the shelf and held it at eye level.

  “Yeah.” Sal had regained his composure.

  “I know there’s got to be a good reason, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. You want to help me with that, Sal?”

  “Bait. Fishing bait.” Sal handed Tommy a pickle jar crammed with the beetles preserved in an alcohol solution. “Crappie can’t resist. Bass and trout are about the same.”

  “You pulling my leg?” Tommy had stopped turning the jar back and forth and now peered at him. Since Tommy had been known to wet a line now and then, this was a good test.

  “No.” Sal busied himself with straightening several jars of live beetles on the shelf.

  “It seems like they’re kinda small.”

  “It takes up to a half dozen on a hook. Supposedly when you cast them out, the impact of hitting the water makes their wings fan out. I think that’s what the fish see.”

  “No shit?” Tommy looked at the pickled collection again, turning the jar so the beetles sloshed against each other. “Any money in this?”

  “Keep me in six-packs ’til Christmas.” Sal grinned. Since everyone knew Sal had been on the wagon for almost twenty-five years, it was just another way of saying no.

  “More like keep you off the streets and out of trouble— which isn’t too bad, either.” Tommy put the jar down. “You happen to see .22 around?”