Double Blind

by Hannah Alexander

A warm hand rested gently on her arm. She looked up to find Doc watching her.

  He squeezed her arm and let go. “You going to tell me why you came all the way out here for a job?”

  “I thought you knew. I’m between jobs. I learned about the Hunts’ deaths and Canaan’s need for help in the clinic.”

  Doc watched her with a look she knew well. He was the eternal skeptic. “You can tell everyone else that story if you want. But tell me why you’re really here.”

  She hesitated, unprepared to go into detail.

  “And what’s happened to you?” he asked, before she could form an acceptable reply. “I didn’t expect you to be the giggly little girl you used to be, but I also didn’t expect this.” He gestured to her face.

  “Thanks a lot, Doc. I didn’t realize I looked so bad.”

  “You didn’t inherit those dark circles from your parents. And do you always bite your fingernails to the quick?”

  She looked down at her hands, uncomfortable but not surprised by his sharp eye. “It makes sense to keep them short because of the work I do. Have you been talking to Canaan or Johnny Jacobs?”

  “Johnny? No. I didn’t have to. You can make at least five times as much money nursing in Missouri as you can here, and I know your mother was an excellent nurse. You’re so much like her, I don’t doubt you’re good, so you would have no trouble getting a job closer to Missouri. The reason most teachers come to this school is because they feel called by God, or they feel at home in a Navajo environment. I don’t think this is an assignment from God, and you can’t be feeling comfortable here. What’s your story?”

  She nudged her tray across the table and rested her elbows on the edge. “What happened to my mother?”

  He sighed and nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “You’re a smart man, but even you don’t know everything.” She gave him a grin to take the edge from her blunt words. “I came to help Canaan, but I think I have a right to know what truly happened to my mom, and no one’s ever given me a straight answer.”

  Doc pushed his tray back and set his coffee cup down. “We can clear up the mystery very quickly. She died of insulin shock.”

  She felt a surge of disappointment. He couldn’t possibly have fallen for that line, could he? “That was one theory of many, and not at all a proven fact. Why do you support that particular theory?”

  “The autopsy. We knew she was diabetic. When the examiner discovered there was no other cause of death, the answer became obvious to me, though no one else seemed willing to accept it.”

  Sheila shook her head. If the answer had been that simple, Dad would have explained it years ago.

  “She’d overexerted on a walk out in the desert,” Doc said. “Didn’t carry any of her usual hard candy with her and couldn’t get back to the school in time. Johnny didn’t find her for hours.”

  “But I was with her.”

  “You remember that?”

  “No, but I’ve been told by my father, by Johnny, even by Canaan, that I was found out in the desert, lying beside my mother’s body, nearly incoherent in the heat. I could never tell my father anything when he tried to find out what I was doing there, and I know there are questions in his mind, as well.”

  Doc waited, watching his plate.

  Sheila leaned forward. “Is it possible my mother’s death was intentional?”

  Doc sat very still for another moment. “In what way?”

  “Did she kill herself?”

  He looked at her. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m not sure, except for some…I don’t know, some vague memories I have about that time.”

  “What do you remember?”

  Sheila couldn’t tell him that. Until arriving here, she’d remembered nothing. Now she was catching brief glimpses of time past that wouldn’t completely materialize. “I seem to recall she was very unhappy sometimes. Did anyone here say anything to you about her after Dad and I left?”

  He spread his hands “All I heard were silly guesses by the uninformed.”

  “For instance?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Nothing important.”

  “It might be to me. Why don’t you let me decide for myself what I do and do not need to know.”

  He frowned. “It wouldn’t do any good. Rumors aren’t fact, but they can hurt.”

  How did she tell this man who was now a stranger that she couldn’t be hurt any more than she already had been? She’d had nightmares about this place, and since discovering that her marriage was a farce, she needed some answers on which to build the rest of her life.

  “I think I have a right to know what people are saying about my mother,” she said, “if for no other reason than to be prepared in case I hear it from someone else.”

  His midnight-black gaze scanned the cafeteria—perhaps studying the faces of those who might have told him something about Evelyn Metcalf?

  Sheila followed his line of vision and caught him and Betsy Two Horses exchanging a quick glance. Then his gaze traveled to the older teenager who’d been helping Betsy behind the counter, washing dishes, serving food, stirring pots on the stove. Sheila had overheard the kid’s name. Steve Hunt. He would be Tad and Wendy’s son, then?

  “Okay, I’ll tell you one thing,” Doc said at last, surprising her. “Some said she died because she played with the powers of bad spirits.”

  “Bad spirits?”

  He sighed, looking at Sheila sadly. “You see, this is why I don’t think you need to hear these things, but you’re right, at least you need to be prepared in case the rumors start again. Some say that Evelyn dabbled in Navajo witchcraft.”

  He could have backhanded her and caused less shock, but she didn’t let it show. She hoped.

  “As I said, I’m sure it’s only rumor.”

  Sheila couldn’t tell if he meant the words. In fact, he suddenly seemed unable to maintain eye contact with her. She studied his face, the strong jawline, the raven-black eyes. “I’m sure you don’t want to tell me who would say this,” she told him.

  He shook his head.

  “What would make anyone suspect such a thing?”

  He looked at her, a deep well of sadness in his eyes. “Ignorant superstition,” he said. “It’s typical. Anyone who behaves strangely is a suspect around here. Your mother liked to take long, solitary walks in the desert. She promoted healthy eating, and raised her own little garden of organic produce before it became popular in this region of the country. She stirred up trouble in the cafeteria when she didn’t think the food was wholesome enough and she reprimanded the dorm parents for high-sugar snacks in the dorms.”

  “The reprobate.” Sheila’s sarcasm held an unfortunately caustic note.

  Doc gave her a sharp look. “It doesn’t help when whites come barreling onto the reservation, preaching about what we do wrong. A gentler approach would have been a lot more effective.”

  Okay, now he was making it personal. First Canaan, now Doc. It was enough for one day. She was less prepared for this than she had realized. Slowly, with precision, she gathered her utensils onto her tray. “I’ll take that under advisement. Would you please give my apologies to Canaan when he returns?”

  “Leaving so soon?” It was Doc’s turn for sarcasm.

  “I just realized I need some time tonight to brush up on my spells and potions.” She stood with her tray.

  Doc laughed, his deep voice echoing through the cafeteria. Before she could walk away, he placed a hand on her arm. “Will you be okay?”

  “Thanks for your concern, but I’m not ten years old anymore. I’ll be fine.”

  She hadn’t felt this shaken since first discovering the truth about her late husband’s infidelities. How could it get any worse?

  The night descends to total darkness, until no trace of sun lingers on the western horizon. I stand on a deserted hilltop, bare shoulders gleaming from the little light left in the heavens. It will be a black night. The slivered moon barely pricks t
he darkness. I’ve always liked it that way.

  The whipping, cold wind matches the void deep in my heart. She is back.

  She is my enemy.

  Why has she returned? The question has echoed in my thoughts many times since word arrived of her coming.

  I turn away from the jagged horizon of the Twin Mesas and bend to enter the doorway of the death hogan. The flickering shadows of an interior fire bring calm to me. The secrets held within this room—the knowledge those secrets will someday bring—will make everything worthwhile, but they are purchased at such a steep price. My calling is to keep those secrets, to make sure they are not lost and aren’t exposed before their time comes.

  I must be willing to do whatever it takes to protect those secrets. Sheila threatens them, but she might also hold answers to some of my questions.

  It has been so long. Could she possibly still be carrying those answers? After all this time, can she help? Or will she be more of a threat?

  Such confusion. Her arrival has put us both in danger. From each other. I must master this fear of her if I am to survive. But how much does she know?

  I reach for my fur cape, shivering as it settles over my naked shoulders. Stepping to the doorway and gazing wistfully in the direction of the school, I utter a sigh that comes from a deep well of ancient longing. Someone will meet me tonight and tomorrow night. I’m never alone during the school year. I’m always busy.

  Summers drag by in spurts and starts. But the school year is ripe with possibilities.

  The cycle will soon be complete, and my work here will no longer be necessary. If I can only hold Sheila off until it is finished.

  Chapter Thirteen

  E arly Saturday morning Betsy Two Horses scraped the last dollop of thick, five-grain cereal into the steam pan. She cleaned the wooden spoon with her finger, then licked her finger. Mmm, just right. This was another of her specialties. With honey and milk, hot biscuits and fruit, this breakfast would remind everyone about how much they would miss Betsy Two Horses all summer. Nobody cooked like Betsy.

  She set out a large tub of butter in a bowl of ice. Pots clattered at the huge, stainless-steel sink, where her young assistants scrubbed.

  “Be careful back there!” she called over her shoulder. “We don’t want to break anything this close to the end of the year. Bad luck.”

  The clock above the dining room entrance read six o’clock. Betsy frowned. The girl would be here soon. Sheila. Not a girl now. Betsy would have to remember that.

  Last night, Sheila’s hazel eyes had been filled with questions that had been left unanswered all these years. No, more than just questions. They’d held a hunger in them, a deep-rooted need to know. And Betsy was so very afraid Sheila’s need might lead her to the wrong place.

  Sheila looked much younger than her thirty-four years, though lines had drawn smudges between her finely shaped brows, and around her eyes. She still wore that necklace Betsy had given her all those years ago—a necklace she had given specifically to comfort a hurting little girl whose mother had just died.

  Betsy wiped at a spot of spilled cereal on the stainless-steel table. What worried her most about Sheila was that thread of tension that had come and gone in her face last night. Betsy knew what first-day nerves looked like, and that didn’t look like Sheila’s problem. This had looked much deeper—more like an old pain that still festered.

  The glass door opened, scattering Betsy’s thoughts like water on a hot grill. She looked up at the slender figure stepping briskly through the door. Fresh scrubbed, neatly dressed in jeans and blouse, Sheila looked wide-awake. She looked too awake. Her gaze darted around the empty cafeteria before reaching Betsy. Her full lips, bare of makeup, pursed, then turned up in a hesitant smile as she approached Betsy at the serving table.

  “Morning, Betsy. I see you have help today. It’s a good thing. The others are going to hit you full force in just a few minutes.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I saw them congregating in front of the dorms to say grace, same as they used to.” The girl’s light, lilting voice held a waver—again of tension—that made her seem young and vulnerable.

  Betsy grunted, filling a bowl to the top with cereal and a heap of butter. She set it on Sheila’s tray, added two biscuits and some sliced oranges. “Today’s nothing. Wait until Monday, then you’ll see a crowd. Now, I want to see every bit of this gone when you bring this tray back.” She pushed the tray toward Sheila. “Better get in a habit of a good breakfast. You won’t handle all those kids next week without some food.”

  Sheila slid her tray toward the coffeepot, hesitated, turned back. Betsy met Sheila’s eyes and smiled.

  “Thank you,” Sheila said.

  Betsy grunted again and turned to watch Steve Hunt pull another pan of biscuits from the oven.

  “Betsy,” Sheila said.

  Betsy’s head came up. She straightened her spine, met and held Sheila’s gaze with difficulty.

  “Do you remember when I used to come and help you in the mornings with breakfast?” Sheila placed her tray back on the counter for a moment.

  “Couldn’t forget. You made more mess…” Betsy caught herself. She sometimes forgot how her rough tongue could hurt a person’s feelings.

  “Oh, I know I wasn’t much help,” Sheila continued, that soft voice drawing away Betsy’s unease, “but I still remember how you made me feel as if I were helping, letting me work the toasters, dish out the butter and jam. Remember how I always loved to work the dishwasher? I think I got pretty good at it. I know I sure felt important when the kids saw me working back there with you.”

  Betsy nodded. How could she forget that little kid with the big eyes and a broad grin that promised so much mischief? She really had been helpful in the kitchen when she wasn’t spilling something. And she was bright besides. Evelyn, proud mother, had often bragged of her daughter’s good grades.

  Until the grades fell. And the wide grin faded. Evelyn had problems of her own about then, which had left her little time to spend with her daughter.

  Betsy picked up a serving spoon and stirred the cereal. Too many memories.

  “Did you miss me, Betsy?” Sheila asked.

  “Yup.” Betsy’s gaze focused on the turquoise cross, wrapped in a casing of delicately worked gold.

  Sheila reached up and touched the cross, watching Betsy. “You do remember.”

  Betsy replaced the spoon and wiped her hands on her apron. “Of course I do. I’m not senile yet. A person doesn’t just forget five years out of her life.” She looked at Sheila, felt a rush of compassion for the little girl she had been. “How…What did you and your father do when you moved to Missouri?” She remembered the change in the atmosphere in the kitchen before Evelyn’s death.

  “Daddy got a loan and bought a farm about a mile from a little village called Hideaway, on the shore of Table Rock Lake. Not a big farm, but enough for some cattle, a few chickens.”

  Betsy wondered if the horror had stopped for them there. She glanced at Sheila, and thought not. Sheila’s outgoing personality had been buried under a cloud of gloom after losing her mother. Or had that, too, begun earlier? Betsy couldn’t remember, hadn’t wanted to remember.

  “Is he still on the farm?” Betsy asked.

  “Yes, he’s still there.” Sheila looked down at her tray, her thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

  Betsy shook her head, turning away. It was there again, that lurking darkness that had surrounded the girl before. Betsy sensed it.

  Sheila looked back up. She glanced around, and lowered her voice. “Betsy? Can you tell me what happened when Mom died? There are so many things I need to—”

  Betsy caught her breath. “Not now. Not yet. Get settled. Get to know the kids and find out what they need. You have a lot of work to do between now and the end of school.”

  A delicate pink stained Sheila’s cheeks. She nodded. “Okay, but soon?”

  The door opened again, and several young childre
n filed inside. “Yes, we will talk. Now I have to get to work. Hungry people are coming. Eat that cereal before it cools.” Betsy turned to call her helpers.

  The early arrivals, second-and third-grade girls, talked and giggled, lifting the pressing gloom of this early morning’s silence as they approached the stack of trays. Most of the children went home over the weekend; the ones who stayed lived so far away their parents couldn’t pick them up and take them home every Friday.

  Betsy saw Sheila glancing at them as she took her place at a table in the far corner of the dining room.

  As Betsy served and kept an eye on the diners, the first little girls, with their dorm mother, Jane, sat down at a table next to Sheila’s. One of the bolder ones reached across and tugged at Sheila’s sleeve.

  Sheila looked around. The little girl giggled. Betsy saw a transformation in Sheila’s expression, as if the child had chased away, for a time, a bad spirit. With an affectionate smile, Sheila spoke to the child, and the girl giggled again. Maybe this place would be good for Sheila.

  “Morning, Betsy.”

  Startled, Betsy glanced up to see Tanya Swift, droopy-eyed and pale, reach for two slices of wheat toast.

  Betsy pushed the butter forward. “Late night last night?”

  Tanya shook her head. “Didn’t sleep too well.”

  An eruption of laughter reached them from out in the dining room. Tanya glanced over her shoulder. She frowned when she saw Sheila entertaining the children with funny faces.

  “I see you’ve already met her.”

  Tanya grimaced, nodded.

  Laughter around Sheila once more. Betsy grunted. The younger ones would accept a white nurse more easily than the older ones would. But by the looks of Tanya, Sheila hadn’t won this one. Not yet. She would. Betsy watched as Tanya glanced with curiosity at Sheila’s antics, and a smile almost crossed the girl’s mouth before she caught herself.

  Kai came in with three of his students, and Betsy turned her attention to the man. She liked Kai. He came from up near Black Mountain, where she’d lived for the first fifteen years of her life—where Doc Cottonwood had also grown up. Kai could tell stories about some of the people all three of them knew. She liked his stories, almost as much as Doc and the kids did. But Kai hated whites.