by Gwen Florio
“There it is. I thought you said it wasn’t an engine sound.”
Charlie chuckled. “It’s not. Haven’t you ever heard a sewing machine?”
“Do I look like I have? I barely made it through home ec in high school. I think Naomi’s is the first I’ve seen up close since then.” Lola had faked appreciation when Naomi pointed out the sewing machine sitting atop a table with a flounced and flowered skirt, showing off an instrument panel that would have done credit to a jetliner,. She’d narrated all the things it could do, things about which Lola cared not a whit.
“Guess Naomi can’t sleep either. Besides, that’s not what I heard. It was definitely a car door.”
“Maybe Naomi or your brother left something in the car and went out and got it. Besides, what do you mean, you can’t sleep either?” Lola, an insomniac who nightly marveled at the profound restfulness of Charlie’s sleep, had jerked fully awake. He might as well have told her the sky was green and the grass was blue. He never couldn’t sleep. “What’s on your mind?”
“What do you think?”
They lay quietly together, thinking of the two innocent men shredded by someone’s murderous impulse. Lola reached for the light blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it over them. Naomi and Edgar turned off the air-conditioning at sunset and threw open the windows to admit the cool night air. Lola’s and Charlie’s room overlooked the shade house. The breeze whispered through its rooftop branches. Something skritched across the patio’s flagstones. Lola remembered the lizard she’d seen earlier in the day. When she’d told Naomi about it, Naomi had assured her they were harmless. “But watch out at night. That’s when the tarantulas come out. Sometimes when you’re driving, the headlights will catch them crossing the road. They look scary, but they’re not poisonous.”
Lola resolved never to go anywhere barefoot at night in this place. Which, she hoped, wasn’t a place she’d be much longer.
She broached the subject to Charlie. “Your brother and Naomi are going to be even busier than before. Maybe we should just go home.” Even though he couldn’t see her hands in the dark, she slid them beneath the blanket and crossed her fingers.
“I thought that, too,” Charlie said. Lola uncrossed her fingers. Too soon.
“But the girls are getting along so well.” His voice a murmur, barely audible. “Besides, there’s something else.”
“What?” Lola tried to soften her snappishness. “Yes, it’s nice about the girls.” Why oh why couldn’t Juliana have been the Miss Priss she’d expected, the kind of ruffle-bedecked child who’d present Margaret with Barbie dolls and dress-up clothes? Along with her gray eyes, frequently narrowed in suspicion, Margaret also had inherited her mother’s horror of all things girly.
“Eddie ordered me to go.”
“What do you mean, ordered?” Lola thought Charlie was probably exaggerating. Edgar had likely made the same sort of suggestion Lola had just proffered. “They’re probably worried about not being able to be the perfect hosts because they’re so busy with the bombings.”
Charlie shook his head so emphatically that Lola’s own pillow shifted. “We’d just put the girls to bed. We closed the door behind them and he looked at me and said, ‘Go home.’ Just like that. I started to ask him about it and he walked away. Went to his and Naomi’s room and damn near slammed the door.”
“What the hell?”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Telling his story seemed to have drained the tension from Charlie. His breathing lengthened and deepened. “Anyhow. He’s my only brother. I haven’t seen him for years. Things haven’t been right between us for all this time. Somehow we’ve gotten too far apart, and I’m not sure why. I don’t want to go anywhere until we fix it.” His words now almost a whisper, fading into the night and ending on a faint snore.
Lola tamped down her disappointment. But as long as they were staying, she had a few things of her own she wanted to resolve before they left. She nudged Charlie to make sure he was well and truly asleep. A snore stopped short before resuming its leisurely rhythm. Lola started to swing her feet over the side of the bed and then remembered what Naomi had said about tarantulas being nocturnal. They couldn’t get in the house, could they? Back home in Magpie, she’d made the rounds at night before going to sleep, making sure that doors were locked and windows were fastened no more than four inches open—too little room for anyone to squeeze through—a habit dating to her Baltimore days, and one shared by almost no one else she’d met in the West. Especially on the reservations, where knocking was considered rude and people just strolled into one another’s homes and helped themselves to coffee. What if Naomi and Edgar were like everyone else, leaving windows propped high and doors never ever locked, an open invitation to whomever—or whatever—wanted to creep in?
Lola wished she’d brought slippers. Then considered the fact that a tarantula might find the toe of a slipper very much to its liking, reminiscent of its own desert burrow. She felt around on the nightstand for her phone, clicked on the flashlight app, and shined it across the floor. Nothing scurried.
She eased from the bed, held the phone close to the floor, and followed its glowing path into the hallway. The girls’ door stood ajar, easy admission both for tarantulas and a snooping adult. Lola didn’t see any of the former and didn’t plan on either of the girls seeing the latter. She lingered in the doorway, assuring herself of the girls’ deep breathing. She flashed the light across the floor—nothing—then held it close to her body as she crossed the room to Juliana’s low dresser, its surface covered with a detritus of interestingly shaped stones, feathers, and fast-drying plants—the same sorts of things Margaret picked up on her own rambles. Out of habit, Lola held a bit of sage to her face and inhaled, smiling at the scent that lingered within its brittle leaves. She put it down and flashed the light across the dresser to make sure she hadn’t missed the key chain. It wasn’t there. She turned around, checked on the girls, and slid open one drawer after another, running her fingers through the clothes within. Nothing but socks and underwear, shorts and T-shirts, and a single pair of jeans, all folded and stacked in neat rows. Lola turned to the nightstand beside Juliana’s bed. She held her breath and stepped to the table. But its top, in contrast to the dresser, was distressingly clear.
Something brushed her bare feet. She gasped and jumped back, fumbling for the phone’s flashlight. A weak laugh escaped her lips. She’d stepped on Juliana’s clothes, abandoned on the floor beside her bed. Margaret wasn’t the only one who couldn’t seem to remember to use a hamper. Lola bent and lifted the clothing. The key chain’s metal ring clanked against the floor, and Lola froze for a long moment. Silence. She felt around on the floor until her fingers closed on the tiny woven rug.
Words rent the darkness. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?
The words were grown-up. The voice wasn’t. Lola responded to the former. “I might ask you the same thing,” she hissed to Juliana. “What the hell is this?”
She held the key chain before Juliana’s face, shining the light on it.
Juliana snatched at it. “Give me that!”
Lola held it high and switched off the light. “Not a chance, missy.”
“It’s mine. You’re a thief. I’m going to tell my dad.”
Lola crouched beside the bed and lowered her voice so that it could barely be heard, forcing Juliana to lean toward her. She didn’t want to risk waking Margaret, especially given what she was about to say. “And you’re a liar. This isn’t yours. You took it from that bookbag today. Do you realize that’s a crime? Maybe I’m the one who’s going to talk to your father.” Lola reminded herself that she was playing hardball with a nine-year-old. She vowed to soften her next remarks.
She might have been ready to back off, but Juliana wasn’t. “He won’t believe you. You’re white.”
Lola sat on the floor with an audible thud. She and J
uliana each held their breath for a minute, reassuring themselves that Margaret’s slumber continued unbroken.
You little shit, Lola thought, barely choking back the words. She said aloud, “We’ll see whether he believes me or not. You can take that chance—or you can tell me why you lifted the key chain.”
Just like that, Juliana’s defiance broke. “You can’t tell him. You can’t tell anybody. Please.” Her voice, so assured moments earlier, quivered and broke.
Lola suspected an act, then reminded herself yet again of the girl’s age. She touched a tentative hand to Juliana’s back. It quivered through her thin pajamas. Lola rubbed in a circular motion. “It’s okay. Just tell me what’s going on. Why’d you take it?”
Juliana trembled so hard her teeth chattered. Tears glinted in the moonlight slicing through the blinds. “Because someone will get hurt.”
“Having the key chain will hurt someone? That doesn’t make sense.” Lola wished for a cup of coffee. Her synapses were firing entirely too slowly. She belatedly answered her own question. “Not because of just having it. Because the key chain will lead them to whoever owns the bookbag.”
Juliana sobbed aloud. In the other bed, Margaret stirred.
“Juliana.” Lola’s whisper was urgent. “Do you know whose bag that was?”
Maybe there was a “no” in Juliana’s wail. Lola couldn’t tell. Margaret rolled over. Lola needed to calm Juliana, and quickly. “Listen. All kinds of things could lead them to the owner. Whatever’s inside the bookbag, for starters. We might as well just give them the key chain. I’ll help you think of a reason why you took it. Maybe you could say you just liked it and took it before you realized the bookbag might be evidence. For heaven’s sake, Juliana, you’re just a kid. The worst thing you’re going to face is a lecture. I’ve already been meaner to you than anybody else will be.”
Juliana hiccupped. “You’re pretty mean.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Juliana’s hand, damp with tears, found its way to hers. “Can I have it back for now?”
Lola hesitated, wrestling with her conscience over the fact that she didn’t trust a nine-year-old and what kind of person did that make her? Juliana interrupted her internal monologue by sliding the key chain from her fingers. Lola reached to retrieve it, then froze at the sound of footsteps outside.
The door swung open.
“Everything okay in here?” Edgar asked.
“I thought I heard Margaret,” Lola said. “So I went to check.
They were in the kitchen, Edgar busying himself at the stove. “I’m guessing, given the hour, that decaf is in order.” It wasn’t a question. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Neither.” Lola would have preferred high-test but didn’t want to distract Edgar, whose movements were purposeful to the point of being abrupt. Something was on his mind. Lola figured the longer she kept quiet, the quicker he’d get to the point.
He set the mugs on the island and took a seat across from her. “When do you think you and Charlie will be taking off? This can’t be much fun for you, with us being so busy.”
Lola raised the mug to her lips as a way to avoid answering. She’d thought that maybe Charlie was exaggerating Edgar’s desire to have them gone. Now she wondered. She swallowed her coffee and parroted Charlie. “You know, the girls are getting along so well. It’s a shame to cut the visit short.” Even though she didn’t think it was a shame at all. But she wanted to see how Edgar reacted.
“That’s another thing.” Objects dissolved into shadow in the dim glow of the light above the stove. Lola couldn’t discern Edgar’s expression.
“What’s another thing?”
“This friendship between the girls. I’m not sure it’s good.”
“How so?”
Edgar drained his mug in a long swallow. “I don’t know how to say this nicely.”
Lola’s fingers tightened around the mug. “Just say it.”
“I think your being here confuses Juliana.”
“Why?”
Edgar got up and poured himself more coffee, ignoring Lola’s cup. “Naomi and I, we could have gone anywhere,” he said, his back to her. “Could have taken our Ivy League degrees and cashed in. You know how many corporations would love to check a diversity box with an Indian? Unique among minorities! But we made a conscious decision to work for the tribe, to raise our daughter here among her people.”
Given what she figured he was about to say, Lola allowed herself a jab. “Among her mother’s people, you mean.”
Edgar turned and faced her. “Among Indian people.”
There it was. He started to say something else. Lola raised her hand. “I get it.”
“I don’t think you do. If you did, you’d have never married my brother. But you did, and you’ve got this white child, and my brother works and lives off the reservation instead of with his own people—”
“Margaret’s an enrolled member of the Blackfeet tribe,” Lola interrupted. No need to mention the fact that her daughter met the blood quantum requirement by only about a single drop of blood. “She spends every day, when we’re working, on the rez with one of her aunties. She’s with her own people all the time. And Charlie was already working off the rez when I met him.”
She tried to think of a single reason not to bounce the heavy coffee mug off Edgar’s head. Back off, she told herself. Before you say or do something you’ll regret. “I’m so sorry you feel this way,” she said finally, falling back on the standard not-apology of practiced politicians. “It’s late and I’m tired. I’m going back to bed.”
She stalked from the kitchen with as much dignity as possible, given her limping gait due to toes curled against the possibility of lurking tarantulas. She slipped into bed beside Charlie and dug an elbow into his ribs. He woke—almost—with a snort.
“Your brother’s an asshole.”
“Whaaaa … ” His voice trailed away.
“I’ll explain in the morning.” She paused. She could have sworn she’d heard a car. She listened hard but detected only the wind. She reminded herself of her own words to Charlie earlier—sound travels at night. “But don’t worry about cutting our vacation short. We’re not going anywhere.”
That wriggle within again, not so deep this time, something stretching and expanding, insistent almost to the point of anger, as Lola Wicks silently echoed the vow Charlie had made earlier: to figure out what the hell was going on.
FIFTEEN
No matter how early she got up, Lola thought as she registered voices in the kitchen, someone in this household was always ahead of her.
Naomi stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the insouciance of an orchestra conductor. Thomas perched on a stool, his long legs in faded denim wound around its metal ones. The face he turned to Lola was all haggard lines and under-eye circles so dark it looked as though someone had punched him. His wan “Morning” ended in a choking cough. A yellow legal pad sat at his elbow. Some sort of list ran halfway down the page. He turned it over when he saw Lola looking.
She shrugged her way past him, pretending she hadn’t been caught, and poured coffee into the largest mug she could find. “I knew I heard a car.” Her eyes wandered to the pad again, its blank cardboard backing a mockery. “What time did you get in?”
“Late,” he said. “Or early, depending on how you look at it. I was … out with friends.”
“You must have gotten the car fixed,” Lola said. “It’s a lot quieter. No backfires. And I could have sworn I heard that car twice. Were you coming and going in the middle of the night? You and your friends must have had quite a time.”
Naomi shushed her with a hiss. She reached for the radio that sat on the counter and turned it up louder. It spat a stream of agitated Diné, high and low tones punctuated by glottal stops. A pancake bubbled and turned brown around the edges, then black, as Naomi
stared at the radio. An occasional English phrase leaked through. Conrad Coal. FBI. Thomas put down his coffee. The Navajo Times lay open before him. A photo spread showed the truck’s charred metal skeleton and grim-faced headshots of faces both white—Conrad Coal executives—and Indian. Lola recognized the elder’s portrait, bordered in black, among them, and surmised that the second black-bordered photo was that of the truck driver.
Smoke rose from the skillet. Naomi slid the spatula beneath the charred round and sent it soaring into the sink. Country music replaced the newscast, a guy trying to figure out whether he preferred his girl to his truck, the homespun sentimentality jarring in contrast to the lurid photographs in the newspaper.
Naomi dripped another circle of batter on the skillet. “There’s going to be a meeting,” she said. “At the high school outside Window Rock.”
The music faded with a final twang. The announcer broke in, with the same sense of urgency. Naomi froze. Lola stepped to her side, took the spatula from her hand, and turned the pancake. Another song, this time traditional. Naomi’s breath caught. “It’s an honor song.” The wailing tune rose above the drum’s parade beat as the singers gave tribute to those who had passed on.
Lola slid the pancake onto a plate and offered it to Thomas. He waved it away. “Not hungry,” he said.
Lola was always hungry. The way you eat, you should be the size of a house, Charlie had often marveled. She slathered the pancake with butter, drowned it with syrup, and dug in. Thomas turned the pad back over and jotted more notes. Lola nodded toward it. “What’s that?”
“I thought I could get a jump start on next semester, maybe collect stuff for a paper about these bombings for my political science class. The meeting should give me some good information.”
Lola would have thought the information would better apply to a criminology class, and said as much.