by Susan Slater
When the tourists had walked in looking for the Indian arts and crafts center, he jumped at a chance to get out of the building. He walked out into the sunshine with them and stood in the parking lot and chatted about what they might want to look for—what was a good value, what they should have to pay for some items. They thanked him profusely and drove away; the two children leaned out the side window and waved.
And that’s when he’d remembered the packet. He, at least, had been thinking clearly by then—enough to know that he needed to get the packet and destroy it. The governor had put it down on the corner of his desk. The packet was the only thing that could get anyone in trouble. The only thing that could be traced to a lab. The governor had the seeds. That part of the plan had been completed. He burst into the governor’s office and strode to the desk.
But it wasn’t there. He sucked in his breath, closed his eyes, counted to ten and opened them. It simply wasn’t there. The shiny foil packet wasn’t anywhere. He dropped to the floor to run a hand under the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. He’d crawled around to the back, snagging his slacks on the plastic carpet protector under the chair. The beating of his heart rose to make his ears throb, and he hadn’t heard Mary walk in until she’d asked him if he’d lost something.
He picked up a business envelope from the desk and told her he was looking for an aluminum pouch about that size. But she’d been down the hall and hadn’t seen anything. Any further questions were stalled by the governor walking in. There hadn’t been a quorum and the meeting had been postponed. Johnson remembered how elated he was to see the basket of seeds in his hand.
Johnson’s legs had almost failed him, but he’d managed to leave the room and walk back to his office. He’d sat and swiveled in his chair, the motion soothed his jangled nerves. And then the cleaning lady interrupted his reverie by asking to empty his trash. And he knew at that moment, beyond any doubt that she had taken the original packet—it had been empty, hadn’t it? It looked like trash. He’d fought an urge to embrace the dumpy woman who stood in front of him, apron askew.
But that didn’t explain the deaths of Peter Tenorio and his fiancée or the Hispanic construction worker. The five old people had probably been at the seniors meeting with the governor. He must have shared the basket of seeds. So what about the others? How could this mystery flu have become contagious? But wasn’t it all due to the expansion of the cemetery anyway? Something beyond Johnson’s understanding and certainly beyond his control—and there would be only three more deaths. There were only three more spaces to be filled. He needed to remind himself of that.
“Everything seems in order. Sir? Sir?” The young cop shook his shoulder. “I need your signature here.” The patrolman leaned into the car and pointed to a dotted line on the side of the ticket pad.
Johnson wiped his perspiring hands on a paper towel that was stuck in the cup caddy on the dash. “I have a very important meeting with Anderson and Anderson Investors in Santa Fe.”
His voice sounded a little weak, Johnson thought, but gained strength when he said, “I am the governor of the Tewa Pueblo.” He then pulled himself up to sit tall behind the steering wheel and added, “I’m on official tribal business.” He emphasized the ‘tribal’ and waited. The cop stood there. “I’d think that this ticket could just be forgotten.” This time Johnson smiled but not wide enough to show the missing first molar.
“Well, sir, I appreciate your thinking that. I understand your predicament. But, I’m not allowed to alter a ticket. I will make a note of the fact that you’re on official business.” The patrolman balanced the ticket pad on the door and made a notation. “Now, sir, if I could just have your signature right here.” Again, he pointed to the dotted line. Johnson signed, put his driver’s license back in his billfold, and tossed the registration in the glove compartment along with the ticket. He let the cop pull out first.
Johnson was forty-five minutes late when he pulled up in front of the sprawling adobe office complex of Anderson and Anderson on Cerrillos Road. He admired himself in the bronzed glass as he walked toward the hand-carved mahogany doors. He liked the way the band on his chocolate-brown polyester Farah slacks hugged his waist. The matching cocoa silk shirt gaped open and showed the heavy gold chain with gold nugget and turquoise pendant. He was glad that he had put half-inch lifts in his Ropers. The extra height was noticeable. He felt like a man about to become rich.
The Anderson’s secretary, a thin elegant woman in her late forties, was saying something into her headset and motioned him toward the walnut door to her right. Johnson smiled and nodded and knew he would be ignored. There was no love lost between them. He had asked her out to lunch once and she had barely contained her disgust. Johnson still wondered why he had asked her out. The challenge, he guessed. Everything about her was severe, hair pulled back in a bun, collars always buttoned to the neck, absolutely no breasts. There’s a woman who hasn’t spread her legs in awhile, he thought. He pushed open the door.
The Andersons, Douglas and Junior, were standing by the window, both dressed alike and both glaring at him. Johnson opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it, and closed his mouth.
“Don’t even think of giving me that Indian time crap. You’re forty-five minutes late.” The old man’s face was flushed but his eyes were a clear, cold blue. Like the eyes in that Australian shepherd puppy that his daughter dragged home. The one that got hit by the car.
“The governor’s dead.” Johnson finally found his voice.
“And how many other people?” The veins stood out above the elder Anderson’s eyes and Johnson struggled not to stare. Out of respect, he looked at the carpet.
“Are you listening to me?”
Johnson glanced up. Anglos always wanted eye contact. His ears and eyes could work separately; staring at someone didn’t make him hear better.
“You tell me ...” The old man was sputtering now. “You tell me how this could happen.”
Johnson shrugged. “They were mostly old people. No one knows exactly what happened. The tests run on—”
“That’s another thing. You lied. You said there wouldn’t be any damn tests.” The words were almost a shriek now. “You told us it was against your Indian religion to defile the dead. Said your people had to have the bodies in the ground by sundown.”
“Yeah.” Johnson traced a flower in the carpet with the toe of a Roper. The much dreamed about power boat was fast becoming a canoe without paddles. “We sort of got cornered on that one. Some infectious disease hotshot at IHS wanted to make sure.”
“Make sure? Make sure of what?” Johnson noticed the elder Anderson’s clenched fists. His knuckles were white.
“Dad, calm down. This may not be as bad as you think. Six of the people were elderly. There is such a thing as coincidence.”
“Nine coincidences? Is that what you think, Junior?” Douglas, Sr. swung to face his son. Johnson eyed the door and expected ‘no-boobs’ to burst in any moment. He hoped she couldn’t hear them. “Was there any guarantee from your lab guy that the illness couldn’t be spread?” Johnson asked.
The senior Anderson swung back to eye Johnson but didn’t answer. Johnson knew he had him on this one. Who was to say it had to be Johnson’s fault—all his fault? In one split second, Johnson knew that the elder Anderson didn’t trust his source one hundred percent.
“Dad, let’s sit down. We need to hear what Johnson has to say.” Finally, the elder Anderson glanced away and followed his son to the couch. The Andersons sat at opposite ends of a burnt orange leather monstrosity and faced the chair that they expected him to take. Johnson sat down. This was better. He swallowed.
“One of the tests just confirmed that an old woman died. She was seventy-eight and had a history of weak lungs. There’s no way she could have gotten the ... the sickness,” he finished lamely. Johnson realized that no one wanted to talk about the hermetically sealed packet of pumpkin seeds—not by contents anyway.
“Do y
ou have the packet with you?” This from the younger Anderson.
“Threw it away.”
“Are you telling us the truth?” The elder Anderson peered closely at him. Johnson wished he wouldn’t stare like that. He always felt funny after these meetings. With those eyes, the man was probably a witch.
“Shouldn’t we sign the papers?” Johnson took a chance and tried to change the subject. He crossed his fingers that it would work.
“We’ll finalize the papers today, your agreement to have the casino on Tewa land; but Dad and I would rather wait until this thing, these deaths, blow over to have any hoop-la. I know there hasn’t been any sickness for the last ten days, but a press conference might not look right. Do you agree with me, Dad?”
“Yes. The important thing is not to call too much attention to ourselves.”
“We’re completing negotiations with the state for a Class III permit. We don’t anticipate any problems. We have the support of several other pueblo governors and Dad’s in tight with state legislators. If all goes as we anticipate, we’ll bring the earthmovers back in Monday, start slow, and get some of the preliminary work done before we announce it. How about it? Does that sound okay, Johnson?”
Johnson nodded. He didn’t know whether he’d buy the boat or the Caddy first. No, he’d stick with the boat.
“We’re prepared to make a down payment on the sum we agreed upon, say, one hundred thousand today and the rest the day the casino opens,” Junior said.
The elder Anderson cut in, “We’re in up to our eyeballs. Do you understand that?” He watched Johnson. His eyes seemed to burn into Johnson’s forehead. “Tell me again that we have nothing to worry about. Tell me you took every precaution.”
“Sure. Everything’s fine.” Johnson almost looked him in the eye but didn’t, and he almost told him that the cemetery was close to full now, that the deaths were under control now. But, he didn’t. He just thought about what he’d buy with the one hundred thousand. It was better than nothing. And in a few months he would get the rest. He could wait. The old man walked to his desk and returned with a bulging manila envelope.
“Here. A first installment.” He sounded gruff, but almost civil.
Johnson took the envelope and left.
PART II
SIX
The Santa Fe morning was bright and hot. Larry Bernowich stepped back into the shade of the portal and wiped his forehead. Who said that dry heat would be better than the humidity in Peoria? Hot was hot, with or without humidity. There wasn’t even a breeze. He looked at the flags in front of The Palace of the Governors. Limp. Not unlike a certain part of his anatomy, he noted. Vacations and hanky-panky might go together. Vacations, sex and two children did not. He looked appreciatively at the backside of his wife as she squatted in front of an Indian vendor. A little broad in the beam but still a good-looking woman.
He checked his watch. Oops. That wasn’t allowed on this vacation. Marilyn’s orders. Checking just one more time, he popped the clasp and stuffed the watch in his pocket. It was eleven o’clock. They were stopping in Albuquerque so that Marilyn could call her aunt; that meant that they wouldn’t get to Carlsbad before evening.
The driving trip to New Mexico had been Marilyn’s idea. She wanted the trip to be leisurely. Stop and go whenever they wanted. She had insisted on renting a large van so that everyone had plenty of room. Larry thought her idea was all right in theory, but the last five days had driven him nuts.
He looked at his wrist and wondered how long it would take him to remember his watch was in his pocket. He wished Marilyn and the kids would hurry. Back home right now, Frank would be calling in that big parts order. Larry hoped he wouldn’t have any problems with the supplier. He knew Marilyn wanted him to forget work; he had said he would try. He had promised to stand in the shade and keep an eye out for movie stars. He didn’t go to enough movies to know who was who. He absently worked over the cuticle on his index finger with his teeth.
“Dad. Dad. Look what I got.” Seven year old Ryan ran toward him holding what looked to be a spear with feathers and leather lacings twisted up the sides. Larry breathed a sigh of relief; the point was rubber.
“That’s great, son.”
“Me, too. Me, too.” Amy had been close behind her brother. Now her short legs were propelling her upward in bouncing hops landing each time on top of his Nikes.
“I got sum pin.” She opened her sweaty fist and showed her father the dozen or so cream-colored pumpkin seeds stuck to her palm.
“Pun tin sees.”
“Pumpkin seeds. Pump-kin-seeds.” Her brother enunciated carefully.
“Pun-tin-sees.” Amy defiantly repeated also drawing out the syllables, her voice rising at the end.
“Okay, okay, sweetheart. Let’s see what you have.” Larry scooped the child up in his arms. “Where did she get these?” he asked Marilyn who had just walked up.
“The Indian lady where I bought this bracelet.” Marilyn admired a silver band with insets of large blue stones. “She had a basket full of them.”
“Are they edible?” Larry asked.
“Of course, they’re like sunflower seeds. But, I think we need to save our appetites for lunch. Amy, let’s put your seeds in a plastic bag and save them for later.” Marilyn took a bag from her purse and helped Amy scrape the seeds into it. “Now, put this in your pocket.”
Larry had expected a wail of protest. At three, Amy seldom wanted to do anything anyone wanted her to do. Surprisingly, this time she followed her mother’s instructions.
Marilyn checked her watch. “It’s eleven-twenty. It will take us over an hour to get to Albuquerque. I think we should eat here. What do you think, hon?”
Larry sighed, but nodded.
+ + +
Larry awoke at five a.m. He could tell it was going to be a terrible-Amy day. She had awakened twice in the night. The first time she wanted a drink of water; the second, she complained about being hot. He volunteered to get up with her. The air conditioner in the window of their motel room in Carlsbad put out more noise than cool air. So, he told Amy that he would make it rain on her bed and she would be cool. He got a glass of water and lightly sprinkled the sheets on her side of the queen-sized bed. It had been a game and Amy helped by generously dousing her pillow.
Five minutes after Larry turned out the lights, Amy sat up and screamed that her bed was “icky.” This time Marilyn got up and declared that if watering the sheets was so wonderful, he could sleep on them. Amy was placed on his side of the other queen-sized bed beside Marilyn and he crawled in beside Ryan. Amy had been absolutely correct; the sheets were icky. Larry gathered a light blanket around him and pushed two arm chairs together with a coffee table in between. It wasn’t much of a bed, but it was dry.
Larry leaned against the bathroom sink and stared in the mirror. He was amazed that he couldn’t see the cobwebs. He decided that an early morning walk would get rid of his throbbing headache. This feeling might be tolerable if he’d had a few beers last night. Maybe he’d think of an excuse to get out of going underground to look at stalagmites and just crash for a few hours. Maybe he could catch a Cubs game on TV. He glanced at the bed and saw that Marilyn’s nightgown had worked its way up to her waist. One plump leg dangled seductively over the side of the bed. Damn. Any other time and that would be an open invitation. Better to not even think about it. Larry opened the motel room door and locked it behind him.
He was gone less than an hour. As he turned onto the long strip of asphalt that would take him back to Room 122, he saw the ambulance. He began to run and reached the door just as the paramedics pulled a gurney over the sill and turned to load it into the ambulance. The small form was wrapped in a blanket and strapped to the bed. Amy. An oxygen mask hid her face. Marilyn thrust Amy’s teddy bear into his arms and grabbed Ryan’s hand.
“We’ll follow in the van,” she said.
Larry was too stunned to ask questions. He unlocked the van; Ryan rode beside him in the
front, Marilyn behind him. He could see her eyes in the rearview mirror. They were wide with the terror of not knowing. “What ...” Larry had started to ask her what had happened, but she quickly shook her head and pointed at Ryan. Probably best not to upset him more than he was. Larry concentrated on keeping the van reasonably close to the ambulance and ran two stop lights to do so.
“Wow, Dad. That was really neat.”
“Ryan, put your seat belt on.” Marilyn’s voice was shrill and uneven. When they pulled into the emergency entrance, she was out of the van before Larry could say anything. He watched her run toward the ambulance. The paramedics worked in one fluid motion. They pulled the gurney out, balanced it between them and snapped the legs in place then ran, pushing it ahead of them through the sliding glass doors. Then they were gone, swallowed up by the four-story white building. Larry hurriedly parked the van and met Marilyn in the corridor outside an examining room.
“They asked me to wait here. Larry, I couldn’t get her to wake up this morning. Her breathing was so ragged.”
He put his arms around her. He pulled her into his chest as her body convulsed in sobs. He had never felt so helpless. He tried to give Ryan a ‘buck-up’ kind of smile, but he felt it fail.
A white-masked man emerged from the room and, noticing them, pulled his mask down and offered Larry his hand.
“I’m Dr. Randolph. I don’t have any news just yet, but she’s holding her own. She’s a plucky little fighter. Why don’t I have one of the nurses show you to the waiting room and get you some coffee if you’d like. I’ll join you as soon as I know something.”
Two hours later, the doctor was pulling up a chair beside them. “Frankly, I’m baffled by this one. My suspicion is that she contracted a pretty virulent upper respiratory infection that moved quickly to her lungs. Size and age are big factors here. At the moment, she’s stable. I’d like to airlift her to Albuquerque for tests. They have the equipment to monitor her and, hopefully, find the culprit.”