Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “Isn’t it wonderful? We never thought we’d find just exactly what we’ve been looking for so fast.” The woman gushed on, “Albert just sold our six McDonald’s in Oklahoma City. If I never see another pair of golden arches, it’ll be too soon.”

  Polite laughter, then the agent broke in, “Miss Conlin, it’s my understanding that Good Morning America might like to do some filming from here?”

  My God. Had she used that to help make a sale? “A tentative filming date has been set for mid-August. Will that be a problem?” Julie anticipated the answer.

  “Oh, my goodness, no.” The new owner could barely contain herself. “Albert and I both feel so fortunate to get that kind of publicity. And we just want you to know that we’ll honor all the arrangements that you’ve made with Mrs. Rawlings.”

  “Harold and I will be gone by August first.”

  “That’s just a month.” Julie looked at Hannah.

  There was a smugness about Hannah, Julie thought. Maybe she should look for canary feathers hanging out of her mouth. This had to be a coup to sell the place that fast—and leave so quickly.

  “Albert and I won’t be back until then. Albert may come on ahead without me. It will take me the next two months to dig my way out of that house of ours. We’ve been there twenty-three years. Do you have any sense of what you can accumulate in that time?”

  Julie wasn’t certain whom she was addressing, but guessed the woman didn’t expect an answer. Then she turned to Julie.

  “If you need to plan any shots ahead of time, you’ll be pleased to know that almost everything will remain the same.”

  “Everything?” Julie had no idea what the woman was talking about.

  “Pictures stay, the ones in the parlor, and the grand piano—Mrs. Rawlings is selling all the original artifacts that came from her husband’s family. All the old four-poster beds will stay, oak commodes, dressers, the grandfather clock in the hall. If you need to know the layout, it will be pretty much the same.”

  How odd. They were just walking away. That explained how they could be ready to leave in a month. But how could someone just walk away from a lifetime of memories—and not just Hannah’s. This was .22’s heritage. Julie glanced at Hannah and got a sweet smile in affirmation.

  “That’s very helpful to know. I will be planning some of the shots in advance.” In fact, she’d planned on putting the entire twelve member crew up at Hannah’s, use the boarding house as headquarters, as well as a backdrop. She probably couldn’t fault the agent for using already booked rooms as a sales tool.

  “That’s wonderful. We have so much to look forward to.”

  Julie looked at the husband. Hadn’t someone called him Albert? Hopefully, he had a mind of his own. Surely, you couldn’t own six McDonald’s if you didn’t talk, but maybe it was easier this way—let the little woman take center stage. He seemed to be from that “little woman” era—funny how men’s reactions to women could be defined by eras. If a woman’s hairstyle could place her within five years of her high school graduation, then how a man reacted to women was just as accurate an indicator of age. Albert had probably graduated in the early fifties.

  “If you have any questions in the meantime, give me a call. I’ll be acting as representative for the Scotts until they take possession of the property.” The real estate agent seemed anxious to herd her newest profits back to the car. Hannah and Julie watched them leave.

  “Where’s .22?”

  “Harold is in his room. This is all too hard on him. It’s the only real home he’s ever known.”

  Then why not take some of the reminders of his father and grandfather, Julie wondered.

  “What will you do?” Julie hadn’t meant to come out with it like that. But she was curious.

  “Me?” Hannah had swung sharply toward her then turned back to gaze at the trading post. “I’ve thought I might go back to school. Do you think that’s stupid? At my age?”

  “No, not at all. You have a background in—archeology, isn’t it?”

  “Anthropology.”

  “It would make perfect sense. Your years out here. It would give you an advantage, I’d think.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Will you stay in New Mexico?”

  “Never.”

  Julie was surprised at the vehemence. Why would you stay somewhere for twenty-odd years if you didn’t like it?

  “I’ve promised myself greener pastures,” Hannah added. “Literally. I want to go where the woods are filled with pines that shoot up into the sky—not like those scrubby, ten foot tall make-believe trees. That isn’t a forest. That’s a joke.” Julie followed the sweep of Hannah’s arm as it took in the wooded area behind the deli-mart and Sal’s trailer. “I was born in Maine.”

  Julie waited, but that seemed to sum up Hannah’s feelings, her reasons for wanting to leave.

  “Will .22, ah, Harold, go back to school?”

  “I’m hoping he can get some vocational training wherever we end up. Don’t you think he could work in a restaurant? Salad maker? Dishwasher?”

  Julie had never thought about it but couldn’t see someone with that little motor-control handle knives or slippery plates.

  “He seems so good with wildlife; maybe he could work with animals somewhere.”

  “How do you know he’s good with animals?” Hannah stared at Julie.

  “The toads. He showed me the toads that he keeps in his room.”

  “You were in his room?” Hannah blanched. The absolute whiteness of her face matched the fury in her voice. “He’s retarded but that doesn’t mean he isn’t old enough to want what he can’t have.” She took a breath and lowered her voice. “You’re a tease. I’ve watched you with men. Tommy, Ben, Sal. You just can’t get enough of them panting all over you, undressing you with their eyes, their thoughts. Little Miss High and Mighty, plays awhile and then moves on. I know your type.”

  Julie watched Hannah’s chest work to fill with air. “I can’t protect him from everything. God knows, I’ve tried. You’re evil, taking advantage of someone so helpless. Do you know that?” Then Hannah stopped. A snide smile played around the corners of her mouth. “Did you keep your clothes on? Or show him what he couldn’t have?”

  “How can you say—” Julie started, but broke off when she heard someone coming down the walk to the side of the steps. Hannah leaned over the rail, then straightened and turned to Julie. Her voice suddenly level, cool, without any hint of malice.

  “Perhaps, I’ve miscalculated. I’ll take your word that nothing happened. But I’m warning you,” Hannah lowered her voice and leaned close enough to spray Julie with spittle, “I better not have a reason to suspect you. Stay away from my son.” This last was said with aspirated force and clipped enunciation. Then she was gone, up the steps, with the soft flap of her sandals as the insoles struck her heels.

  “Would you have time to talk now?” Sal asked from the bottom of the steps.

  “Sure. Now would be fine.” But Julie must have appeared ruffled because Sal followed up by saying, “Don’t be too hard on Hannah. She doesn’t mean what she says. She just flies off, doesn’t stop to think. She’ll be okay later.”

  “Does she know what a champion she has in you?” Julie asked as she followed Sal toward his shed. At least there would be some privacy there.

  “I don’t know. Is that how you see me?” Sal didn’t look over at her, just continued to walk, but he was smiling, a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.

  “I see you as one of her only friends,” Julie said. On impulse she glanced toward the house and thought she saw a lace curtain at the dining room window flutter into place. Had Hannah added spying to her repertoire? Wasn’t this exactly what Hannah had accused her of—being chummy with men? Here she was trotting across the lawn with Hannah’s boyfriend. But, was he? Boyfriend seemed a little strong.

  “Can you blame her for wanting to protect her son?” Sal asked.

  Sal must have heard more of the
ir conversation than she’d thought.

  “Probably not. But I didn’t do anything suspect.”

  “Maybe you don’t see it that way. But a few years back there was a problem at his school. Someone got pregnant. It isn’t like he doesn’t have feelings, needs.” Sal unlocked the shed and went in first to open the series of narrow windows on the east wall. “.22 has been a burden. He was sickly as a child. She’s lucky he’s alive.”

  “You like her, don’t you? I mean, it seems like the two of you are close.” If he was bothered by her nosiness, Sal didn’t show it. He simply pulled a chair up to the workbench for her and one for him.

  “Maybe.”

  Maybe he liked her? Maybe they were close? Julie couldn’t tell. And it appeared Sal wasn’t going to add anything.

  “What will you do now that this place is sold?” Perhaps, that would shake some answers loose about the money.

  “Go back to the village.”

  “Would you ever think of leaving—of going with Hannah and .22?”

  “My life is here.”

  “Wouldn’t it be possible to earn more money off the reservation?”

  “Money?” Sal studied a box of antlers in front of him setting one small branched pair on the table. “I have clothes on my back, food, a livelihood, a home, family ... ancestors. What more should I want?”

  “I realize I’m risking sounding like a raving capitalist, but haven’t you ever wanted to get rich?”

  “Is that what you want in life?” Sal had leaned back in his chair.

  “No.” Julie smiled. He was worming away from her again. “But couldn’t you make more money with your carvings if you—oh, I don’t know, got more exposure?”

  “Thought you were going to help me with that, put me on TV and make me famous.”

  He was teasing. She was getting absolutely nowhere questioning him about money. She had no reason not to believe him—he was an Indian artist with simple needs, and Julie was finding it difficult to believe that the twelve thousand had belonged to him.

  “I could pay you for these interviews. The program usually pays reasonable expenses—time lost from work—that sort of thing.”

  Sal waved her off and seemed almost offended by her offer, then he said, “You could do me a favor, though.”

  Julie watched as he went to the chest along the back wall.

  “Would you put this in a safe place, a locker at the Greyhound terminal in Gallup? I’d appreciate it if you could rent a space in your name and bring me the key. The clutch is out in my truck.” He placed a jar on the workbench. A pottery jar whose mouth was sealed with cork waxed securely around its edges for an airtight closure. Another hole, somewhat larger than a fifty cent piece, halfway down the side had been treated in the same way. The sides were rough with speckles of ground turquoise and shell, and leather thongs held beads and feathers around its neck.

  “It’s a fetish jar.” Julie was pleased that she could sound knowledgeable.

  Sal nodded. “It belonged to my great-grandfather. I want it to be safe.” He added after a pause, “I trust you.”

  “Of course I can help. I’m flattered.” And she was. This was obviously something that meant a lot to him and he had asked her instead of going to Hannah. “I’ll do it this afternoon.” She watched as he wrapped it in newspaper and placed it in a box, then wrapped that in plain brown pieces of grocery bags and used reinforced tape at the seams.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Don’t you think men who live alone get weird?” Rose snapped the lid off of the round Tupperware container of biscochitos and held it out to Ben.

  “Did Sal ever marry?” Ben asked.

  “Actually, he’s still married. My aunt’s husband’s sister. But they haven’t lived together for maybe ten, fifteen years.”

  “They never divorced?”

  “No need to. He’d still have to support her.”

  “There were no children?”

  “No.”

  “Would you say that Sal has a lot of money? By tribal standards, maybe, from his carvings?”

  Rose helped herself to a biscochito and chewed one of the soft flat cookies filled with anise seeds. “Not rich. He gave his sister a new van first of the year. What would that set him back? Twenty-five, twenty-eight thousand, maybe thirty?”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  Rose shrugged. “He’s one of the best carvers. He doesn’t pay rent or buy groceries. He trades out work and maybe some other things for most of what he needs.” Rose was looking at the floor, but Ben could see the smile.

  “Those other things being sexual favors for the landlady?”

  “So the story goes.”

  “I wonder what he’ll do when the trading post sells? That will certainly impact his current way of life.”

  “He’ll move in with his sister; her husband died a few years back. Sal helps them out, mostly big stuff like the van. The kids are gone now. He’ll get his meals cooked and laundry done.”

  Was there a hint of sarcasm? Rose seemed to be more liberated than most of the Indian women in her age group.

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to cause Sal harm—put a spell on him?” Ben asked. “Or just plain steal from him?”

  “No, but I could do some checking.” Rose stood and picked up the cookie container.

  “I’d appreciate that.” Ben looked at his calendar. “Am I double-booked at eleven?”

  “Not really. Sylvester won’t take long.”

  “Sylvester? I don’t remember seeing him before.”

  “He usually sees Dr. Lee, but he’s turning him over to you.”

  “Is his problem physical or mental?”

  “Mental, but Sylvester thinks it’s physical.”

  “Just what is the problem?”

  “He comes in once a month to have the air let out of his balls.”

  “Rose, you’re pulling my leg.”

  “Nope. He thinks he has ovaries, too.”

  “So what does Dr. Lee usually do?”

  “He puts a blood-pressure cuff around his arm, pumps it up and then lets the air out.”

  “And that’s worked on his ... problem?”

  “Seems to.”

  “Then why doesn’t he continue to see Dr. Lee?”

  “Yellow Skin say we have head doctor now. You crazy, you see booga booga man, not medicine man.” Rose ended her exaggeration by tapping her temple. “You smart. You think of something.” Ben could hear her laughter as she walked back to her desk.

  Ben hadn’t been looking forward to eleven o’clock but he was intrigued by Sylvester. His granddaughter brought him to the door of Ben’s office at exactly five ’til and promised to be back in fifteen minutes. Not much time, but everyone seemed to treat these visits as routine.

  Sylvester took a chair facing Ben’s desk and didn’t say anything, just stared at Ben. He had that disheveled look of someone challenged by dressing himself. His sweater was one button off; the Fruit Of The Loom tag stuck out the front of his T-shirt. But he was clean and his hair was combed. Someone took good care of him, probably the granddaughter, Ben thought.

  “What seems to be the problem, Sylvester?” Ben scooted his chair around the edge of the desk to appear less formidable.

  “Got the pains again, Doc.”

  “Where are these pains?”

  Sylvester waved his hand below his waist in the general direction of lower intestine and genitals.

  “Can you describe the pains?” Ben reached for a yellow pad and pencil.

  “It’s my ovaries. They make my balls swole up.” Sylvester puffed out his cheeks and held his breath finally exhaling in a swoosh.

  “I’m not sure it’s your ovaries, Sylvester. You see, you’re not supposed—”

  “I know. I’m not supposed to have any. Dr. Lee said that. But ...” Sylvester leaned to within two feet of Ben and whispered, “They came in the mail.” Then he sat back.

  “How did they come in the mail?”r />
  “Cardboard box.” His hands formed an imaginary square about five inches across.

  That was a literal answer and not what Ben had hoped for. He guessed he’d have to try again. “Did you order them?” God, Ben hoped his room wasn’t bugged and watched as Sylvester shook his head.

  “Every time there’s going to be a round moon, I need to let the air out of ’em though. Think they’re defective?”

  Now it was Ben’s turn to look thoughtful. Once a month. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been warned. But he had an idea ...

  “You got a machine like Dr. Lee?” Sylvester was glancing around the still bare office.

  “No. We’re not going to use the machine today. I’m going to teach you to do it yourself.” This was either an unbelievable inspiration or just plain dumb. Nothing in between, Ben thought.

  “Wouldn’t you like to save your granddaughter the trip to the clinic once a month?” Sylvester nodded. Ben had his attention. Now, if this would only work.

  “Sylvester, I want you to watch closely.”

  Ben pulled his chair closer to sit squarely facing Sylvester. Then Ben opened his mouth wide, inserted an index finger and pulled it quickly forward along his cheek and made a loud popping noise. With his eyes still on Sylvester, Ben did the same thing on the left side of his face. Sylvester began to smile.

  “Let me try.”

  With Ben’s guidance, Sylvester put his index finger in his mouth and on the third try made a respectable pop. After the second try on the left side of his mouth the pop resounded in the small office.

  “That’s great. How do you feel?”

  Sylvester held up his hand, palm outward and looked pensive. Then he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Ben waited. Afraid he had dozed, Ben gently tapped Sylvester’s knee.

  Sylvester smiled showing brown incisors and a missing first molar. “No pressure. That was real good, Doc. Better than Dr. Lee.”

  Ben grinned. This wouldn’t exactly go down in the annals of psychology, but he felt good. It sure beat a blood pressure cuff once a month. And it was always good to get a patient to take responsibility for his own health.

  Sylvester was so taken with his cure that he demonstrated for Rose and the granddaughter in the waiting room. Rose gave Ben a thumbs up and large wink when they had turned to go.