by Jeff Altabef
I sigh—he’s here somewhere.
Just then, Mrs. Jones pulls up in her silver Mercedes and screeches to a stop. She manages to keep two wheels on the pavement. The other two leave a skid mark on her grass. Stumbling out of the car, she slams the door shut, and weaves her way over to me.
Great! Could my day get any worse?
“Hey you! Janice. How was school?” A wicked grin flickers across her face. “I see you’ve put on your uniform.” At least that’s what it sounds like she’s saying. It’s hard to make out all the words because she slurs them.
I groan and walk toward her. “My name’s Juliet.”
She stops only a foot from me, which is good because for a second it seems like she’s about to crash into me. Her breath stinks of Scotch. “Right, Jane. I know education isn’t high on your people’s list of priorities, but listen to me—”
“My Mom’s a partner at Dormit and Will! She’s way more educated than you!”
She grabs my arm. “No need to shout, Jackie. You people are always so loud with the drums and... whatever. I’m just saying, tramping around isn’t going to get you far. Once your... looks goes, you’ll have nothing without an... education.”
Heat flushes my face and I yank my arm free from her talons. “Thanks. At least I have you as a role model.”
Her mouth drops open far enough that a fly zips in. She doesn’t notice. “You little—”
“What?”
She must see the fire in my eyes because the color drains from her face and she mumbles, “Nothing,” before she turns and staggers away.
I watch her make the entire trek into her house before my breathing goes back to normal.
Now, where’s Sicheii?
There’s no place to walk to in my neighborhood, so that means he must be in the backyard. I plod my way to our gate, push it open and find him holding a shovel, plunging it into the grass, a mad grin across his face.
Argh! What’s he doing?
Grass is rare and expensive in our town. Mom pays landscapers a fortune to keep it green, just so our lawn can have the same color as our neighbors’ lawns.
When I swing the gate closed with a thud, Sicheii stops digging and glances up toward me. His white linen shirt is unbuttoned. Dirt splashes his Lucky jeans, and his soft leather moccasins are neatly placed off to the side near the stone patio.
“Welcome home, Little Bird.” I’m not sure why he calls me Little Bird. I hate it, but at least he doesn’t call me Wildfire in public anymore.
My jaw drops once I get a better view of the hole he’s dug in Mom’s lawn. It’s already five feet across. “What’re you doing? You’re destroying Mom’s grass!”
He smiles. His bright, white, perfectly straight teeth contrast with his deeply tanned skin. “I’m making a barbecue pit.” He proudly points to a pile of rocks and a flat slab of stone to the side of his newly created hole. “I caught fresh fish for us.”
He speaks casually, like it’s absolutely normal for him to dig up Mom’s yard. I have to suppress a grin. “We own a perfectly good barbecue right there.” My outstretched finger points at our rarely used gas Weber grill. Everyone in the neighborhood owns an identical one.
He scowls at the grill as if it’s an alien device. “I don’t know what that is, but I’m not using it. That’s not how the people barbecue. The fish were good enough to sacrifice their lives for us. I’m not cooking them on such a thing.”
Sicheii refers to Native Americans as “the people.” I shrug. This isn’t my problem. Mom decided Sicheii should stay, so she’ll have to deal with the new pit in the lawn. “You’ll have to explain the hole to Mom. Maybe you’ll dig up some gold nuggets? You’ll need them.”
He shoots me a disapproving glower with his slate gray eyes. Gray eyes are unusual among our people, and Sicheii’s are bright. “How was school?” He locks his eyes onto mine.
Big red warning lights flash in front of me. I panic and do the only thing I can think to do—lie. “School was... fine.” My voice wanes like a balloon losing its last bit of air. I glance down at my feet and scratch the back of my neck. The sun burns hot against my face. My feet seem to fidget on their own. What can I say? I’m a bad liar.
“Really, Little Bird?” Sicheii leans against his shovel. He wears leather deerskin gloves to protect his manicured hands.
I double down. “I had a test in English, but I’m sure it went okay.” My hands shift through my hair, straightening it.
He frowns. The lines on his face all move at once, conveying generations of disappointment at me. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?” He tosses the shovel on the grass.
My face tints red. “I skipped school today.” I feel better now that the truth is out. In only that short moment, I’ve started to feel nauseous.
“I know. You went to Slippery Rock with Troy Buckhorn, didn’t you?”
I take a half-step back. “How’d you know?”
He smiles and flashes his pearly whites at me. “The wind told me.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Now who’s lying?”
Sicheii’s eyes narrow, but he isn’t angry, only amused. The twinkle that brightens his eyes betrays him. “I heard Troy’s bike from the street and can smell the river on you in the breeze. Besides, your school left a message. They were wondering where you were.”
Of course Bartens would call. I’m an idiot.
“I’m sorry. Cutting school was stupid. But that place gets to me, and the weather was perfect.” I twirl the ends of my long straight hair. “And I haven’t seen Troy in weeks.” He likes Troy, so I grab onto him like a life raft.
He pauses for a moment and rests his gaze on my face with a half smile on his. I give him my best, most remorseful frown, widen my eyes as much as possible, and bat my eyelashes at him. None of my antics will change his mind, but I try anyway.
He shoots me a sly smirk. “The rainbow trout is in the refrigerator. Clean the fish for dinner the way I taught you.”
I dash toward the backslider when he calls after me.
“Don’t forget to thank the fish for their sacrifice. I’ll heat up the stones.”
He gave me a break. I’m still worried Mom will find out about my skipping school, but there’s still a chance she won’t. Hope is a good thing.
I slide the backdoor open and try to remember how to thank a dead fish for jumping on my grandfather’s hook.
Sicheii’s life is free from structure. He doesn’t care about what the right time of day is to do things. For him, dinner isn’t a particular time, but a desire to consume the largest meal of the day. He’ll eat dinner whenever he decides he’s hungry —often in the middle of the day, sometimes for breakfast, other times late into the evening. He calls it “Indian Time.” It must be great to live that way—free from rules and other people’s expectations. He bends life to his will instead of the other way around. Only the art gallery tethers him to conventional time and even then he’ll close the store to do more important things.
The sun still lightens the sky, but the trout smells delicious as the fish sizzles on the thin, flat slab of blue stone, and my stomach growls. All I ate for lunch was a few handfuls of Doritos I snatched before Troy scarfed them all down.
We go inside to the dining table where he places a platter of fish and grilled squash between us. He doesn’t like to use separate dishes. He thinks the proximity brings us closer together when we share food off the same plate. It’s just more of his weirdness.
Before launching into dinner, fork primed in my hand, he says grace. “We thank the fish and the squash for their sacrifices for our nourishment. Their spirits will unite with ours, and we will forever be joined as one.”
When he finishes, he closes his eyes, hums softly, and starts meditating. He expects me to follow along also, so I close my eyes and hum. I’m not sure what he wants me to meditate on: everything I’m thankful for, or the connection between our food and myself, or perhaps the sacrifice the fish and vegetables made for
me. Instead, visions of Roundtree creep into my mind. They’re still vivid enough to make me wince. What did he do to deserve that?
I’m not sure how long I hum with my eyes closed, but he has stopped first. He’s staring at me and looks through me as if he suspects something is wrong. He doesn’t say a word about it —he respects my privacy with the spirit world.
I nod, and we begin eating. I’m not sure if I thanked the fish properly, but I shovel in heaping forkfuls and thank them now. There’s nothing as tasty as freshly caught fish.
Sicheii is still watching me with a raised eyebrow and a weird twinkle in his eyes, so I start a conversation about something far removed from Roundtree and those visions. “How are things at the art gallery?” He owns a successful gallery in Old Town where he sells Native American art and antiquities. He lives in a modern, luxurious loft above the store. “Shouldn’t you be at the gallery selling to the tourists?”
“Lisa is running the store for me. She is more than capable.”
I roll my eyes. Neither Mom nor I like Lisa. She’s young and beautiful and as phony as a politician on Election Day. We both suspect she’s a moneygrubber, and we don’t have any idea how they met. One day, two years ago, we entered the gallery and Lisa was working there. That wasn’t surprising. He hires college-aged kids all the time, but we both noticed the ease in which she touched him on the shoulder and the friendly glances they shared. Six months later, she moved into his apartment.
He ignores my reaction and smiles. “So how are you doing at that school of yours?” He hates Bartens almost as much as I do. He never mentions it by name. At least we share that in common. He had epics fights with Mom when she decided to make me transfer schools. He wanted me to stay connected with the Tribe and be around a more diverse population. He argued that life shouldn’t revolve around Ivy League schools and trust funds and materialistic things. Mom wants the best for me, and her definition of best is different from his, so I transferred to Bartens.
I shake my head. “Everyone is so perfect there. They all like horseback riding, and look the same, like they’re clones. There isn’t much color among the students. I mostly stick to myself.” I shove a forkful of fish in my mouth.
He scrutinizes me, fork frozen in the air. “You’re stronger than that, Little Bird.” He places his fork on the table. “They will see your worth if you let them.”
“They don’t care about my worth. All they care about is what car they drive or whether they’re spending the summer in the French Rivera or the Caribbean.” I swallow. “I’m better off without them.”
“Either you are a river or a rock.”
“What?” I instantly regret asking, having unwittingly opened the door to another Sicheii lesson.
I can almost hear the door creak on invisible mental hinges as a grin sneaks on his face. “Both rivers and rocks existed on the First World when time began. Rivers change with the conditions. Water will always find the least resistant path. Build a dam and the flow stops, or construct a canal and the river will flood the new easier path.”
He pauses and I nod, so he continues. “The great rock formations are unchanging. They’re unbending and have strength and value in their unique beauty and construction.” He smiles knowingly as if he’s made sense. “You don’t have to choose between that school and your heritage. You’re either a rock or a river.”
I shake my head. He’s definitely a rock. If only my life was as simple as his.
The doorbell rings.
“Are you expecting anyone, Little Bird?”
“Nope.” I jump to my feet. No matter who’s at the door, it must be better than another lecture from Sicheii.
Daniels and Deputy Johnson stand on the front stoop and look through the small window in the center of the front door. I’m totally wrong. My heart leaps unevenly. Do they know Troy and I were at the crime scene? Did the college kids file a complaint? How much trouble are we in?
Sicheii appears behind me. I undo the chain lock and open the door. Sheriff Daniel’s face is pinched tight, and his lips are turned down in a deep frown. Sweat rolls down the side of his face where he has a thin scar near his right ear. Is he going to cuff me right now in front of my grandfather? I’m so certain he’s going to arrest me, I almost lift my wrists together and thrust them at him to make the entire process easier.
“Good evening, Juliet,” he says as he looks beyond me and stares at Sicheii. “We need a moment alone with Jake.” Daniels is tall and stocky with wide shoulders, but Sicheii’s shoulders are wider.
“Of course, Sheriff,” Sicheii answers. His legal name is Jake Clearwater Stone. I’ve always called him Sicheii, which is a Native American word for maternal grandfather. “Come right in.” He casually waves Daniels and Johnson into the house as if he’s expecting them.
Both men take off their hats and stiffly enter the foyer. They look nervous as they twirl their Stetsons. Daniels glances at me. “If you don’t mind, Juliet, we’d like to talk to Jake alone for a minute.” He looks sullen and speaks softly, which I don’t like. In my experience, the softer the voice, the worse the trouble. I stand up straighter and am about to tell him that I’m not going anywhere when Sicheii answers.
“Why don’t we go into the living room, Sheriff?” Sicheii glances at me. “You should go back to the dining room and finish dinner before the meal gets cold. I’m sure this will be a brief visit.”
Daniels shuffles forward with Johnson a step behind. They’ve never been inside our house before and their steps are uncertain.
Left with no real choice, I trudge to the dining room, but the expression on the Sheriff’s face worries me. I swing the door mostly closed but keep it open a crack. The living room is on the other side of the house, so I really shouldn’t be able to hear them, but what the heck? It’s worth a try.
At first, only muffled sounds reach me, but when I concentrate harder, the voices become clearer and grow louder. Their husky quality tells me they’re speaking in hushed tones, but they sound as clear as if they’re standing next to me.
“I have some bad news, Jake,” Daniels begins. “Charles Roundtree was murdered earlier today.”
After a short pause, he continues. “Where were you earlier?”
“At the art gallery. Why?”
There’s another pause, and then Daniels says, “One of Roundtree’s neighbors said they observed you arguing with him yesterday.”
“He said it got heated,” Johnson adds in his gruff voice.
Sicheii sighs. “We’ve been fighting for forty years in the same way day battles night. You both know that, but I respected him and we had an understanding. He lived in balance with the world in his way. His way was different from mine, but I had nothing to do with his death.”
A plastic bag ruffles. “Do you know what this is?” Sheriff Daniels asks.
“It looks like the tip of a ceremonial carving hatchet. I’ve never seen this one before.”
“Can you identify anyone who could’ve harmed Roundtree or anyone selling Native American antiques like this one?”
The question is pregnant with suspicion. Of course — Sicheii is the most successful dealer in Native American antiquities in town, and everyone knows it.
“I don’t have any idea who harmed Roundtree.” Sicheii’s voice sounds final and hard like stone. Heavy footsteps lead to the front foyer, so I push the dining room door open another inch to hear better.
“If I think of something, I’ll call you.” The front door opens and closes with a soft thud.
I scoot to the dining table and attempt to wrap myself around what they had just said. Why did Sicheii lie about where he was earlier today? He went fishing. He wasn’t at his gallery. Roundtree’s house abuts Fishkill River. We’ve gone fishing for trout from those waters before, but there are other rivers to fish also. He could have caught dinner at one of the other ones.
When Sicheii returns, his body is stiff. Tension bunches in his shoulders, and shows in the rigidity in which
he walks, and the lines in his clenched jaw. “Roundtree was killed earlier today. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I try to display as much shock in my face as possible without overdoing it and shake my head.
He must have been fooled because he asks me, “Have you been feeling well lately, Little Bird?”
“Fine.” It isn’t the whole truth, but I’m not going to tell him about my recent headaches and those noises in my head. I can’t predict what he’d do if he knew the whole story, but he certainly wouldn’t like it, and I can’t take the chance that he’ll do something really weird.
He steps close to me, looming over me in my chair. A trace of his musky cologne mixed with the smoke from barbecuing the fish hangs in the air between us. He seems to gaze right through me. “Have you been experiencing any weird headaches?”
“Not me.” I turn away and fiddle with my fork. Sweat beads on my forehead. Who would believe me? I am such a bad liar.
His face softens as if he feels sorry for me. The lines in his jaw disappear and the canyons in his forehead smooth. “The time is coming when we must stop lying to each other. Events are going to move quickly. Soon, we won’t be able to control the spirits. You must open your heart. You can’t run from who you are.” He lightly grazes my cheek with his fingertips. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up for me. Keep the door locked.”
He spins and strides out of the house. The Porsche starts up moments later and speeds away.
I’m left sitting in the kitchen feeling hollow, full of questions but no answers.
I call Troy within five seconds after Sicheii leaves. “Sheriff Daniels and Deputy Johnson just stopped over. They questioned my grandfather about Roundtree.”
He pauses for a second. “I’m sure they’re talking to all the people who knew Roundtree. Jake has to be at the top of their list. How many other medicine men are there?”