Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “What happened to the man who had it all figured out last night? How I’ll commute, tape a show, fly back home for a few months ...?”

  “I just want you to be sure.”

  “Is this the place where I say I’ll show you how sure I am?” Julie was teasing but had unbuttoned her flannel shirt, letting it slip to the ground. He watched as she propped a foot on a rock and unlaced first one boot and then the other kicking them to one side. Next came the bra and jeans.

  “Should I ask to see the ring before I let this go too far?” Her thumb was hooked under the elastic waist of her jockey briefs. The ribbon had slipped from her hair and she tried to keep the red-gold strands from drifting across her face, finally giving up and pushing them behind her ears. There was a smattering of dark rose freckles across her chest. And he liked the way she stood there—assured, confident of her body, inviting him to view it, knowing she could excite him. He laughed. “You’re so good at shedding clothing, why don’t you help me with mine?”

  “Great idea.” She paused in front of him. “I want you. I want to be with you. I wasn’t ready four years ago. The time wasn’t right. It is now.” She put her arms around his neck and started to say something else, but he kissed her—mouth, eyes, nose. With a little help, his boots and shirt and jeans slipped to a pile at his feet.

  The warmth of the granite slab felt good against his back. Her hair smelled like rain as she snuggled into him. There wasn’t any talking now. So much for wanting to go slow. Abstinence had fueled a hunger that surprised him in its intensity. And he heard each of them say “I love you” in their slippery frenzy, both breathless, moaning, pushing and thrusting until his body shattered into liquid pieces and he felt her slump against him.

  In the quiet that followed, he stroked her back, her hair, and listened to the wind whistle flute-notes around the base of their rock haven. Had he ever felt this good? Or knew that what he was doing was so right?

  “Does this qualify us for the mile-high club?” Julie rolled to the side then slipped to the ground.

  “Probably not.” He laughed, then stooped to fish the ring box from a jeans pocket. “But something tells me I better keep my promise. One ring in less than twenty-four hours.” He took it out and slipped it on her finger. “If you’d like something different—”

  “It’s perfect.” She sounded awed. “It looks like out here. Your landscape will never leave me.” She held her hand out from her body so that the sun gave the diamond dots of color and the raised band of inlaid stripes sparkled against the gold.

  “It looks good with what you’re wearing.” Ben had started to dress but hadn’t taken his eyes off of Julie’s nakedness. Julie suddenly looked self-conscious. “Hey, no complaints.” He pulled her to him. “You have a choice—seconds, or champagne.” He thought the decision had already been made as her arms went around his neck.

  + + +

  “Has anyone seen Salvador?” Hannah asked. “He didn’t show up for work this morning.” So that’s why there’s an assortment of dry cereals on the table and a note to help yourself, Ben thought as he watched Julie pick up the box of Special K. Hannah had to open the trading post.

  “He might have gone into Gallup,” Ben said.

  “I think he would have told me. He’s always dependable. Besides, his truck is here. You don’t think Tommy picked him up again? For more questioning, maybe?”

  “I’ll check when I get to the office. Tommy’s still in the temporary offices next door.”

  “I understand that congratulations are in order.” Hannah smiled at Julie. “Rose’s brother does the best inlay work in the village.” Hannah studied the ring on Julie’s finger.

  This is going well, Ben thought. Absolutely no animosity. He began to relax.

  “Is this an engagement or wedding ring?” Hannah asked.

  Odd question, Ben thought, as he watched Julie hesitate.

  “We’re engaged. We haven’t set a date yet. Maybe, at Christmas.” She glanced at Ben.

  “It’s my understanding that all Indians are married under the blanket. At least, that’s what Ed used to say. And since the two of you carried enough blankets out of here night before last—” Hannah was looking at Ben. There was a smile but he thought it was snide, meant to be hurtful.

  “Does it make any difference?” Ben cut her off. He didn’t know whether he was reacting to being lumped into the racist “all Indian” reference or he hated to see anyone make light of their happiness. Ben put his arm around Julie.

  Hannah shrugged and turned away. Her interest in them as sport seemed short-lived. “I’ll be at the trading post. If you see Salvador send him over.” She refilled a pitcher of milk, set it on the table then walked out the back door.

  “Every time I feel sorry for her, she ruins it.” Julie started to say something else but stopped as .22 pushed open the dining room door.

  “Me hungry,” .22 mumbled. He looked half asleep as he picked up two bowls from the stack at the end of the table and filled both with Cheerios, scattering a generous cup or so on the table.

  “Hey, pal, why don’t you eat one bowl at a time?” Ben leaned across the table but .22, apparently afraid that Ben would take one of the bowls, swept them toward him spilling still more of the little round oat O’s.

  “Me hungry.” This time it was pronounced clearly and a couple decibels louder.

  Ben decided upon a different tactic. “What are you going to do today?”

  “Go to river.”

  “Is Sal going with you?” Julie asked.

  “Maybe yes.”

  “Will the two of you fish?” Julie poured milk on one bowl of Cheerios for him.

  “Catch frogs.” At this point .22 slouched down in his chair, leaned over the table and began to snag Cheerios from the table top with the tip of his tongue, flicking them quickly into his mouth and stopping only to belch or emit a lifelike, “rrrri-bit.”

  “That’s pretty good.” Julie laughed.

  “I hate to leave all this wildlife, but I’m running late.” Ben pushed back from the table then bent down and kissed Julie.

  “Me, too. Me, too.” .22 leaned across the table toward Julie, eyes closed, lips puckered.

  “I don’t kiss frogs, remember? Unless it’s like this.” Julie kissed her fingers and pressed them to his forehead.

  + + +

  The watch was cheap, a Timex. The silver band with chunks of spider-web turquoise set on either side of the face had been won in a poker game—a long time ago from a Navajo. But the watch worked and its dial glowed in the dark. He never thought he’d be thankful for that. Sal looked at the watch’s face and felt a tongue of panic lick up his spine when he realized he didn’t know whether it was eight a.m. or eight p.m. He practiced slowing his pulse by taking deep breaths. It must be morning. And this would be the start of his third full day in the lab—locked in the lab. He was buried underground in a place no one knew existed. But he couldn’t think that way. This was only a test. Of wills? Or of winning? But weren’t they the same?

  He’d argued with Hannah on Friday. It had started out innocently enough. She had come down to check his progress, pick up what amber he’d finished. She’d had a port-a-potty put in.

  Said she thought he would be pleased. Now he wouldn’t have to leave, interrupt his work, just to take a leak. She seemed pleased with herself—almost manic in her effusive praise of his work, picking up nuggets, holding them under the bench lights, oohing and ahhing, saying this was some of the best color he’d ever produced.

  And then she had seen the boxes. He was in the process of dismantling the lab, taking apart the driers, the heating elements. He had enough inserts to finish the last twenty-five pounds. The liquids would be last. He’d take the resins outside to destroy, treat them as potential toxic waste, make certain they didn’t find their way into the river. He was being careful.

  “What are you doing?” She walked among the crates next to the bench. Her voice was flat, soft.

>   “Just getting a head start on shutting down. I imagine I’m going to have to be out of here soon, with the place sold.” He stood watching her back as she moved along the bench, picking up a nugget, putting it down, moving on. Her shoulders stiffened and her movements became jerky. She knew he was quitting. So, what was wrong? He braced himself.

  Then she came to the tortoise shell. He hadn’t meant for that to happen. He had forgotten the two test pieces he’d tossed on top of the convection dryer. At first she was quiet, turning them over and over in her hand, studying them before she said anything.

  “So this is why you can just quit making amber. You’ve found something you like to do better, something just as valuable, something that you care so much about that you’ve hidden it from me.” Her back was still to him. She held the tortoise shell under the bench light.

  Sal didn’t say anything. He simply had to let her anger run its course. Like always. Only maybe this time it was going to be worse. Her voice was so quiet. He almost wished she’d do something, turn around, confront him.

  “Who said you could waste time on this cheap shit? I think our bargain was for amber, only amber.” Then she seemed to reconsider, “Actually, this does make sense. It’s not so bad, good, really. It’ll pass and you’ll have something to make after you sell me the recipe for amber.”

  “I’m not selling, Hannah. Tortoise shell or no tortoise shell. I’m not making anything fake anymore. Can you understand that? We’ve made the money you needed. Harold completed school, the house renovations got you a buyer. I’ve been able to help my family. All and all I’d say we’ve been successful. I’m stopping while we’re ahead, before we’re found out.”

  “But tortoise shell—”

  “No.” Sal thought his voice boomed across the room. He thought it sounded unnatural. She ought to know the risk of selling tortoise. At least amber wasn’t on an endangered species list. He was sorry he had even experimented now. He’d never try to sell tortoise. He hadn’t made the pieces with sales in mind—it had been just one more challenge.

  “Is it because I never said that I love you? Never let you live in the big house? Or are you punishing me because I’m leaving?” Hannah now stood two feet in front of him. Her white skin was splotched, angry red smudges colored her cheeks and her eyes glittered. He could handle her anger better than this. Where was she leading?

  “Why are you tormenting me? Refusing me? You’re going to make me do something I don’t want to do,” she said.

  She had reached out to caress his face, letting her hand trail down the front of his shirt before dropping to her side. He willed himself not to flinch, to stand quietly, to wait. Her lips parted and small, even white teeth peeked out. He watched as she ran her tongue along their lower edge.

  “Do you love me?” Luckily, he didn’t have to answer because she went on. “Or was it just sex? All those years only meant a roll in the hay now and then, didn’t they? There was no commitment, just air that thing out every once in awhile, and everything would be all right. Harold meant nothing to you. All those years I struggled alone.”

  She let her fingers trace the bulge at his crotch. Still, he willed himself to stand without emotion. He knew he wouldn’t get a hard on. All his senses were on alert, on caution. His skin prickled. She’d never acted like this before. Maybe if he said something, explained ...

  “We were adults. There was never any talk of my getting a divorce. That wasn’t what we were all about,” Sal ventured.

  “What were we all about?” She tipped his head back to make eye contact, and her fingers were like ice.

  “About friendship and caring—helping one another.”

  “And good friends do this to one another? I’m not asking for you to give me the recipe. I’ve offered to buy it.”

  “No one will get the recipe. I won’t perpetuate a lie.”

  “Why don’t you just call the authorities and report what you’ve done if your conscience is bothering you so bad?”

  Sal had thought of it, but didn’t because he wasn’t the only one involved. He cared that much, and maybe lots more once upon a time. But that was gone now.

  “Harold loves me. Are you jealous?”

  “How can I be jealous of your son? You’ve been a good mother considering—”

  “Considering that I tried to kill him, is that what you were going to say?” She bristled.

  “Considering that you’ve been alone.”

  This seemed to appease her. She looked away, seemed calmer.

  “I’m going to miss you. But maybe you’ll be with me in spirit. Maybe I’ll be able to keep you with me always.” She looked up, her eyes begging for reassurance. Sal smiled. So all this was just due to jitters over moving, leaving behind everything she’d known for thirty years. He guessed he’d feel the same.

  “I’ll never be that far away from you.” He held his index finger and thumb one inch apart. “Think of me and I’ll be there.”

  She smiled back, a wan, nervous smile and then she leaned forward and hugged him.

  “Forgive me. I haven’t always been fair. But I do things that are the best for all of us. Do you believe me when I say that?” She pulled back and searched his face.

  “I do.” Then he started to add, “There was a time—”

  She put a finger to his lips to silence him then snuggled against his chest.

  Sal smoothed her hair, buried his nose in its woodsy fragrance. He held her like that. A minute. Two minutes. Then she stepped back and walked toward the stairs. She hadn’t said anything when she left. There were no more threats about the amber, no offers to buy his secret. She just left. He hadn’t suspected then that she would lock the trapdoor, bolt and secure it so that he couldn’t leave. And when he did discover it, he’d laughed. It was like her. A harmless threat. Like a kid who takes away the ladder to the tree house but brings it back later after the point has been made.

  By the next morning it wasn’t funny any longer. And she had turned the lights off, probably from the electrical box outside. Or maybe a fuse had blown. He could give her the benefit of the doubt. But that was becoming difficult. He had turned everything off—bench lights, overheads, fans—before going to sleep and when he woke up, the lights simply didn’t work. He was in the dark. The pitch blackness that smelled slightly of dampness and mold pushed in upon him. He had fits of sneezing and his eyes watered. Then the fans had come on—fans only—circulating the air, lifting his spirits until he had tried the lights and found he still had no power.

  And then he had heard the snap of an opening somewhere. A sliver of light played at the top of the stairs, but the wedge of a door closed before he reached the top step. There was a flashlight and a sack of food, a banana and two boxes of dry cereal.

  He didn’t need to dwell on the fact that there was a dumb-waiter opening to deliver food, a narrow slot built into the heavy insulated door. He had never noticed it before. He should have suspected something when she insisted on putting in a cot and table, let alone a port-a-potty. This was calculated, planned in detail. If he hadn’t seen it coming, it only magnified the fact that he didn’t have a clue as to how it would end.

  He couldn’t let himself think that she would kill him. Wasn’t this all because of the amber? Wouldn’t he be safe as long as he didn’t give up the recipe? Probably. He thought of his notebook and how he’d hidden it and not kept it with him. It would be safe, this one bargaining chip that might save his life. But people would look for him. He felt a flood of relief. Yes. He wasn’t thinking straight. He would be missed. He needed to meet with Julie about the show. It was a stroke of genius that he’d asked her to help him hide the fetish jar—she’d know he’d never leave it behind.

  And .22—he’d promised to help him catch frogs. They were going to the river this morning. .22 would whine until Hannah released him. And Tommy Spottedhorse. He knew that Sal wouldn’t skip out. Tommy hadn’t jailed him again, sent him to Gallup for lockup because he knew Sal was hone
st and wasn’t going to go anywhere. Tommy would try to find him. And his sister expected him for dinner. Yes. He’d almost forgotten a celebration dinner on the Fourth. They were going to see the fireworks. It would be all right. Hannah couldn’t get away with it. She couldn’t leave him there to die.

  + + +

  “Rose said you were coming in over the holiday weekend. I thought I’d make myself comfortable. If you call this comfort.” Tommy indicated the straight-backed metal chair next to Ben’s desk. “This is just one step above prison issue.”

  “Is there a difference between prison issue and regular government issue?” Ben laughed. “At least it matches the desk and filing cabinet.” He pointed to his coffee mug. “Can I get you some? It’ll be instant, but I just need to heat some water.”

  Tommy shook his head, “I don’t have long.”

  “What’s up?”

  “For starters, I’m kicking myself. I think I’ve been an ace idiot. Here take a look.” Tommy tossed two Polaroid snapshots on Ben’s desk. “Old camera but best I could come up with.”

  Ben picked up one, then the other. “Looks like a knife.”

  “Is a knife. I found it on my desk Friday wrapped in that morning’s newspaper, Albuquerque Tribune, and stuffed into a reinforced manila envelope.”

  “Something tells me I don’t have to ask what it is,” Ben said.

  “You’re right. It’s the murder weapon. That’s the stiletto that killed Ahmed. Lab guys confirmed it this morning.”

  “Why would someone leave it on your desk?”

  “Why would one person leave it, you mean. One good set of fingerprints on the handle belong to our pal.”

  “Sal?” Ben couldn’t believe it.

  “None other.”

  “Have you brought him in?”

  “I was out there a half hour ago, just missed you. Hannah says he’s disappeared. She hasn’t seen him since Friday. How ’bout you?”