by Susan Slater
“It’ll be nice to have company tonight.”
“There’s no way I’m going back to my room.”
“I’m beginning to think head wounds come in handy.”
Julie gave him her best withering look and pulled up the quilt.
+ + +
Ben picked up a handful of patient folders. The first day back after a long weekend and the cases seemed to pile up. He hoped he would have time to call around Albuquerque and find out more about .22 as a child.
“You look like lukewarm death. Something happen to your head?” Rose asked.
“Had a little tussle with a car part.”
“I don’t think you were the winner. Want one of the docs to take a look?”
“I’ll do it later.”
“The videos are on your desk. I made two copies. I thought you might need an extra.”
“Thanks.” First thing he’d do would be lock the original in a file cabinet. And the others? He wasn’t sure how he’d use them. He’d toyed with sending a copy to the board of examiners. He could find out who was performing the tests easily enough. He could probably just ask Hannah without arousing suspicion, use some pretext of sending them his findings, which wasn’t a lie. Only his ‘findings’ wouldn’t be what she thought they were. He had a break at nine after his first patient.
Ben hoped his eagerness to finish the session wasn’t apparent. But he found his mind wandering. Not that a husband’s beating up on a boyfriend in a bar wasn’t interesting, he simply couldn’t concentrate. At ten ’til the hour, he fibbed that he was expecting a call and rescheduled the woman with her husband for a continuation on Friday at four and promised himself he’d be more attentive.
He’d checked into hospitals or homes that would have taken children on a boarding basis—treating any mental as well as physical problems, and, he had come up with three possibilities. At least the three had been in operation for fifteen years or more. Didn’t Dr. Lee say Hannah had taken .22 out of the school or hospital over some sexual misconduct when he was fifteen? Maybe someone would remember what that was all about. And wouldn’t it prove that .22 could have more normal moments? That maybe the tape wasn’t an aberration after all? He dialed the first number on his list.
The receptionist in records at the children’s hospital said they had only had boarding facilities for five years and didn’t accept teens, only children birth to twelve. Probably smart, Ben thought as he dialed the second number on his list, Woods Memorial Children’s Home and Psychiatric Hospital. He was kept on hold and listened to elevator music for what seemed like five minutes.
“How can I help you?” The older woman’s voice was brusque, businesslike, and sounded like she had more to do than chat with Ben.
“I’m Dr. Benson Pecos, Hawikuh Clinic. I recently completed an exam on a young man who may have been a resident at Woods. If he was, I’d like to speak with the supervising physician. His name is Harold Rawlings. He would have been fifteen when he left and that was about six years ago.”
“Rawlings?”
Ben wasn’t sure but he thought he detected a note of curiosity.
“Yes. His father, Edward Rawlings, first placed him in the home. His mother visited once a year or so. Hannah Rawlings.”
“Tell me again why you need this information.”
Ben reiterated his part in the testing. He was requesting a history that would help him build a case for the boy’s trainability. He added that the young man needed to be able to enter a vocational school in the fall and would not receive the money to do so unless his success was assured.
“The board of examiners has requested a profile of his teen years, a history of setbacks, behavioral regression, as well as successes, that sort of thing. A review of previous testing might be enough.” It wasn’t that much of a fib. He expected the examiners to do just that.
Ben couldn’t read the silence that followed.
“I’m afraid you’re a little late. Those records have been released to the current consulting physician, closing the file here. You would have to direct any questions to him.”
“And his name?”
“Dr. Leland Marcos, Indian Health Service, Hawikuh, New Mexico.” There was a pause. “Isn’t that where you said you worked?”
“Yes.” Ben noted her suspicious tone and hoped he hadn’t sounded too curt before hanging up.
Dr. Lee. A player unaccounted for. Ben leaned back in his chair. What was the good doctor’s part in all this? Was he just trying to help out, unaware of the possibility of duplicity on Hannah’s part? Or was he an instigator, a mastermind who knew how to work the system and could grease the wheels of the medical community to get .22 through? His urging had certainly helped Ben make up his mind to test. Dr. Lee could be persuasive.
But hadn’t he seen them together, .22 and Dr. Lee? Certainly at Hannah’s dinners Ben had never suspected Dr. Lee was anything other than what he seemed to be—a concerned friend. If Ben remembered correctly, on the tape .22 sat on the floor when Dr. Lee entered the waiting room and kept his back to the camera. Was there anything that indicated .22 was reacting differently with him? It was difficult to tell. .22’s face was blocked by Dr. Lee’s back.
Ben could always give a copy of the tape to Dr. Lee. And then what? If he’s innocent, he’ll investigate, be thankful for Ben’s concern. If not? Ben didn’t have a good feeling about what that might mean. He couldn’t help but feel Hannah was desperate enough to try to get the inheritance any way she could. If .22 had died, foul play or not, she’d have to come up with a plan like this or lose out on everything she’d worked to protect. And didn’t it come down to what business was it of his anyway? Even after Thursday, why would he get involved at all? But there was an issue of ethics and his reputation—if .22 were ever proved to be an imposter. There was probably no way around it. Even based upon the flimsiest of suspicions, he needed to seek the truth. How to reach the truth was the only real issue.
+ + +
There were six children around the kitchen table ranging in age from ten to eighteen. The noise was deafening—yells, laughter, screams when an older child took something away from a younger—all this in a room no larger than twelve by twenty. Two of the younger children grabbed a bag of potato chips at the same time pulling until it burst amid squeals of accusations. Tommy’s mother, a short woman with long black hair caught in back of her head by two beaded barrettes worked at her kitchen counter fixing yet another sandwich—this time for her oldest, Tommy—totally oblivious to the cacophony of sound around her. Ben and Julie declined a sandwich. There was no way they would add to this person’s lunchtime craziness.
“This was a terrible time to drop by,” Julie apologized.
“They’ll all go back to the summer recreation program down at the Mission school in another fifteen minutes. Except for this one.” His mother playfully punched Tommy on the arm as she put the sandwich in front of him. “Then we’ll have peace and quiet. Besides, he promised to bring you over. I was beginning to think he’d forgotten.”
“I bet she’s asked me every other day since you got here.” Tommy ducked another playful blow from his mother before she picked up an empty pitcher that had held Kool-Aid and carried it to the sink to mix a refill.
Against Ben and Julie’s protests, Tommy made two of his brothers take their sandwiches into the living room to make room at the table.
“At least have a cup of coffee.” Tommy’s mother put two bright blue ceramic cups down next to a thermos, both had the insignia of the Hawikuh Wildcats on the side. “It keeps fresh this way. I fixed a thermos of coffee every morning when Tommy’s father was alive. He worked road construction for the state. I guess habits are hard to break.” She smiled and pulled up a chair next to Tommy.
Julie found herself murmuring something supportive.
“Don’t get her going. Next she’ll tell you it’s been easy raising this mob by herself.” Tommy indicated the kids at the table, most of which were leaving, some
with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, chips in the other. The screen door banged after each exit.
“Peace and quiet. Finally.” Tommy’s mother got up to clear the table. Julie offered to help but was waved away.
“Julie and Ben would like to ask you some questions about when you worked for Hannah Rawlings,” Tommy said.
Julie saw his mother pause before she resumed wiping the counter.
“And here I thought she was going to ask me to star in her show.” His mother turned from the sink and smiled.
“I’m going to ask you to help me,” Julie said. That wasn’t a lie. She needed someone from the village to show her what could be photographed and what couldn’t, what could be said without offending. “I don’t want to overstep boundaries. I’d like to show you what I’m planning and get your opinion.”
“I could do that.” She sat back down at the table and poured herself a glass of grape Kool-Aid. “Why do you want to know about Hannah Rawlings?”
“Ben is doing a profile—testing .22’s proficiency—has to in order for him to continue at school.” Tommy went on to tell his mother what Ben had shared with him, about the inheritance, about why Ben was involved. Ben had indicated that he would be making the decision about .22’s future. He hadn’t mentioned the board of examiners in Albuquerque. And nothing had been said to Tommy about their suspicions—that .22 might be an imposter. Ben didn’t feel that they had enough to go on yet. Julie knew he didn’t want to make it a police matter when it wasn’t one, or influence whatever Tommy’s mother might be able to add.
“I don’t think it’s my place to get involved,” Tommy’s mother said.
“I think you can be helpful. Fill me in on what he was like as a child. His shortcomings—I need to know how much he’s improved—if he has, or whether he’s regressed.”
The silence stretched so long Julie was afraid Tommy’s mother wouldn’t say anything. Wasn’t going to help them at all, then without raising her eyes from the table, she said, “All this about inheritance? It shouldn’t even make a difference. .22 wasn’t Ed Rawlings’ son.”
“How do you know that?” Ben asked.
“Hannah. She came to me about aborting the child. She really didn’t want the pregnancy. This was before Ed knew. She was far enough along to be sure—maybe two months. She wanted the name of a woman in Ramah who performed such operations. The marriage had turned sour. She would have left if she could have. Some said there was already a boyfriend.”
“The father of the baby?” Tommy asked.
“Maybe. I never knew. Wasn’t my business.”
“Did she decide against the abortion?” Julie asked.
“No. She had one. It didn’t work; something went wrong. The woman in Ramah told someone the baby was a problem, impossible to dislodge. After the baby was born, and it was apparent that the child was not normal, Hannah went a little crazy. She wasn’t religious, but she blamed herself. And Ed was so attached. That baby meant everything to him. It favored Hannah, light skin, eyes—he worshipped that child. It didn’t take long for Hannah to realize the baby chained her to Ed, made the bad marriage even worse.”
“Then what happened?” Ben gently encouraged her.
“I was offered a job more or less full time at the trading post. I could bring my own babies as long as I gave adequate time to .22 and Hannah.”
“How long did this go on?” Ben asked.
“Three and a half, four years.”
“Until the accident,” Tommy added. “Everyone here knows about that?” Ben and Julie nodded.
“I had wanted to quit before the ‘accident’, as you call it. I couldn’t take it any more. She was mean to the baby. Any little thing was an excuse for a spanking or locking him in the closet. Hannah was devious. She’d ‘lose’ the baby. Put .22 somewhere and then pretend, I think, that she couldn’t remember where. We would find him in the cellar, the walk-in freezer, under the porch—it was too much. She put him in the root cellar under the pantry so many times, Ed had the place boarded up. Finally, he took the child away. It was the best thing for all of us. I couldn’t promise that I could protect him anymore. And the asthma attacks were terrible.”
“It’s surprising he survived,” Julie said.
“And got so big,” Tommy’s mother added.
“Have you seen him recently?” Ben asked.
“Hannah brought him over to the house when he first came home in June. I thought she was trying to show me he had grown up in spite of her, somehow prove to me, or just make amends, I don’t know. I had to admit that he had done well, looked healthy, better able ...” Julie thought she looked pensive and seemed to be choosing her words before she continued. “I wouldn’t have believed it was .22 if he hadn’t crawled over to the closet looking for the toy box. Sometimes I would bring him home with me for the night—when things got bad with the asthma and all.” She paused. “He called me ‘Ne-Ma.’ Don’t ask me what that means, it was just his name for me. He remembered.”
“If he hadn’t remembered those things, you said you might not have believed that it was .22?” Julie asked and felt Ben’s silent approval. Tommy’s mother seemed to have doubts—or were they too eager to find something that would support their theory?
“He was born with a double caul,” she said. “I was the midwife.”
“A double what?” The term seemed familiar. Julie tried to remember what it meant.
“The caul is a part of the amnion that can cover the child’s head at birth. Correct me if I’m wrong.” Ben turned to Tommy’s mother. “It brings good luck and is supposed to be an infallible preservative against drowning. Guess we know that part worked. But a double caul? I’m not sure.”
“It promises that the child will have special sight. Inward sight but more than just intuition. The child will be gifted as a … a ... what do you call it when they can see things that happen in someone else’s mind?”
“Mind reader? Perhaps, a clairvoyant?” Julie offered.
“Something like that. It’s a special gift. .22 couldn’t speak—but he could read my mind. It happened lots. I’d be thinking of something and he’d show me he could see what was here.” She paused to touch her forehead. “It became our game. I’d think of Cheerios and he’d crawl to the table and bring me the box.”
“And the grownup .22?” Ben asked.
“Nothing. I tried, but there was nothing. I don’t think he even had a hint of what I wanted him to do. When Hannah was in the kitchen getting a drink of water, I asked him to tell me what I was thinking. I swear he didn’t know what I was talking about, just looked confused, stuck his thumb in his mouth and started to rock back and forth on his heels. That part reminded me of the old .22, all right. It used to be exasperating. When he didn’t want to do something, he’d just close everybody out. He could suck his thumb and rock for hours.”
“Could he lose his special power as he grew up? Would that be common?” Tommy asked.
“It should get stronger. That’s why I was surprised. But I believe that it was .22—if anything, he looked even more like his mother than he did as a child. And his head always needed medicating because of the itching even then. We could never keep him from scratching, even if we tied his hands at his side. One winter I kept them bandaged. He wore big gauze mittens and still found a way to scratch the sores. It was awful.”
“Do you remember what you used to keep the itching down?” Julie asked.
“Bag balm.” She looked up. “You know, udder cream. Same stuff I put on Tommy’s goat after milking. Hannah asked me the same thing—if I remembered what we used to apply to his head when he was young. Maybe that’s the reason she stopped by.”
Julie felt elated. She hadn’t realized she had had her hopes up, wanted .22 to be who he appeared to be, no more, no less. For Ben’s sake. And now it looked like Ben had been exonerated—his first diagnosis was correct. Even Ben would have to agree it would be difficult to fool someone who had been so close to .22. Professiona
l reputation was intact. But he didn’t look happy.
On the way out, Julie asked Tommy if there was any word on Sal. But there had been nothing, not even a false lead from someone thinking he could identify Sal from the posters. What was even stranger, Tommy hadn’t been able to prove that Sal had had any kind of local ceremony—“a demon-chaser” in Tommy’s words—at least, no one was admitting to knowing anything about one. Sal appeared to have vanished.
“I need to talk to Daisy again,” Tommy said.
“Daisy?” Julie had no idea who he was talking about.
“Sal’s sister, Daisy Sandoval. Not a particularly pleasant woman—especially when she’s upset—but she’s close to her brother and, of anyone, should know where Sal might have gone. He’d get in touch with her first, probably. Maybe if I keep after her—in school they taught us that perseverance could be everything. But that’s going to be harder on me than on Daisy.” He grinned, then waved good-bye to his mother.
Julie dropped Ben off at the clinic. If she had hoped he would be feeling better now that Tommy’s mother had strengthened the case that .22 was in fact who he said he was, she was disappointed. Ben seemed morose. And she wasn’t any good at reversing his mood.
+ + +
The drug hadn’t taken effect immediately. Sal remembered that much. He’d felt sleepy—was having difficulty standing, keeping his legs from crumbling underneath him until finally he’d slumped to the floor by the cot, unable to even crawl under the covers. He rested against the cot’s metal rail side wondering what time it was. He didn’t have the energy to check his watch.
He couldn’t with the lead weights that seemed tied to each wrist mooring them to the floor. And his head hurt if he tried to think too much—like wondering who had turned on the lights that now blazed above his workbench.
It was then that the trapdoor had opened. Hannah. Hannah came down the steps first with ... with Atoshle behind her. Atoshle in his grand mask and white robes, tall, towering above him in his majesty, just like all the times he had visited before, had stood beside Sal’s bed looking down at him or peeked in the windows of the trailer, or followed him to the river to leave the amber rabbit on the hood of his truck after taking the body ...