Mother To Be

by Cheryl Reavis

  He made no attempt at conversation while they ate, neither did she. She hardly looked at him except to hand him the bread or the sausages or the peaches. When the remnants of the meal had been cleared away, she left him sitting at the small table and went outside. It took a certain amount of effort on his part not to ask her where she was going. She returned eventually, with an armload of wood.

  "Wait," he said when she was about to put it into the stove.

  She glanced at him. "It's cold in here."

  "What happened – with – you and Dennison?"

  The question surprised her. It surprised him. Of all the enigmas she'd laid out for him, he would have been hard-pressed to explain why he had selected that particular one for inquiry. He thought at first that she wasn't going to answer, because she gave a quiet sigh and went back to putting wood into the stove.

  "You said you – got dumped," he reminded her.

  "He's getting married," she said finally, still not looking at him.

  "Don't you approve – of his choice of – brides?"

  "I don't know if I approve of her or not. I didn't know there was a potential bride until a few days ago."

  "Why not?"

  She finally looked at him. "Why not? Oh, I don't know, Johnny. Probably because he was taking me out to dinner with his political friends, sending me flowers, calling me every day – and it just never occurred to me to ask him if he'd suddenly found some child he wanted to marry."

  He had to work hard not to ask the logical question that should follow the detail that Dennison's fiancée was "some child."

  Is she white?

  "So he – hurt – your pride?" he suggested instead.

  She gave a short laugh. "You might say that. I could probably handle the hurt pride part – it's feeling so damned stupid that I'm having a problem with. I don't like surprises, especially when I should have seen it coming. He caught me completely off guard. And it wasn't just that he suddenly announced that he was getting married –" She was still on her knees in front of the stove and she turned to him earnestly. "It was the way he did it. Stuart Dennison and I were friends. Or so I thought. Even if I wasn't the love of his life, I deserved better than –"

  She abruptly got up and began brushing off her knees. It occurred to him that he'd never seen her dressed the way she was now – in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. The narrow-legged jeans gave her a youthful, coltish look that was not unattractive. He didn't understand her at all. He had actually been witness to a breakdown of the infamous Lillian Singer's stoic demeanor, and she seemed more annoyed with herself than embarrassed. And he didn't know what to make of her candid revelation about Dennison.

  "Better than what?" he asked, because he realized that, in spite of himself, he actively wanted her disclosures to continue.

  She didn't answer him.

  "Better than – what?" he asked again.

  She came to sit at the table, sliding down in the chair, her arms folded over her breasts and her long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. He made a point of not looking. He didn't want to look. He didn't feel like looking. But his eyes made the trip anyway.

  "He delivered his wedding announcement in the middle of a restaurant," she said. "The bride-to-be was there – well, not there. She excused herself from the table long enough for him to actually tell me. It was beautiful – music playing, candles burning, me thinking I'm going to get New Zealand raspberries. Believe me, a 'Dear Lillian' letter would have been a whole lot easier."

  "You're a – lawyer. You could handle it. You've had a lot of practice – at not letting people know what you're-really feeling."

  "Yeah, well, it didn't help much that time."

  "What did you do? Throw things? Turn over a few tables?"

  She smiled. "I wanted to. It's never been my way to brood," she said significantly.

  "Meaning what?" he asked, ready to be offended.

  "Meaning some of us brood. Some of us don't."

  "Then what are you – doing here – if you're not brooding?"

  "I'm hiding. I told you that."

  "But you didn't say – why."

  "Because I didn't want another encounter with Stuart and his new fiancée. Because I lost that big case and I want to feel sorry for myself. Because your mother gave me a perfect excuse to disappear for a while when she paid me to come out here and lecture you about your bad behavior."

  "My mother paid – "

  "Yes, she did. She actually came to Santa Fe to see me. That alone should give you some idea of the uproar you've caused. You know, I thought at first you were still grieving and that was why you didn't care if you worried the hell out of your family. But that's not it, is it?"

  "Isn't – it?"

  "No, I don't think so. I don't think you're all that sad, Johnny. I think you're mad."

  "And who – am I mad at, counselor?"

  "Mae. You're mad at Mae."

  "You don't know anything – about it." He made an attempt to stand, but she reached out and caught his arm.

  "I know getting dumped makes you mad as hell."

  "She didn't – dump me."

  "Didn't she?"

  "No!" he said, pulling his arm free. "She died, damn it!"

  "Right. She died. But you're acting like she put your saddle outside the hogan door – like she went off with somebody else, somebody younger and richer and a whole lot handsomer than you are. You remind me of my brother when he had that thing with the white woman anthropologist – "

  "I'm not drinking," he said to get some kind of barb in.

  She wasn't impressed. "You're throwing away your career – just like he did until he got some help. Now, who was it that made him get that help, I wonder?"

  "I don't want to – talk about this!"

  "Too bad, Becenti. I knew Mae for a long time – since we were children. You were the joy of her life. She was so proud of you – all the good you were doing for the People. She wouldn't be proud now, would she, Becenti? Poor Mae. She was always a good and loving wife. And your mother blames her because of the way you're acting now."

  "Get out," he said, his voice deadly. He meant it. She had no right to say anything to him about Mae. He wanted her away from here!

  She looked at him. He had to force himself to hold her steady gaze, because he saw only compassion there. He didn't want her compassion. He didn't want anything, least of all her opinions about what he felt and what he should be doing.

  She stood and crossed the hogan, picking up the backpack on her way to the door. And she didn't hesitate. She walked out without a backward glance.

  He sat there, fighting down the need to cough, his hands shaking with anger. It was a good thing she had gone. If she hadn't, sick or not, he might have –

  He listened intently for the sound of her car starting. He heard voices instead – Lillian's and a man's. He didn't go to see. He didn't care who she was talking to. He just wanted to be left alone.

  Even so, he strained to hear. Her voice grew louder, but he couldn't understand what she said.

  Now what? he thought, but he stayed where he was. After a moment, he heard her car start and drive away, and then complete silence.

  Finally. Finally!

  He knew that he should go see who she'd been talking to, but he didn't. He couldn't hear anything now; there was a good chance that she'd taken whoever it was with her.

  Quiet. It was good to have things so quiet.

  Alone. It was good to be alone.

  He expected to feel relieved, liberated now that she had gone. He didn't. He felt exhausted, sick, and completely overwhelmed at the prospect of having to look after a flock of sheep. He should have held on to his temper until after Lillian had figured out a way to get the water barrels filled. And, angry or not, he should have said thank-you.

  He looked around the hogan. There was nothing that would indicate that she had even been here. Nothing but his own body that exuded the fragrance of the soap she'd given him to use, a sof
t flowery scent that belied her exasperating nature but was still entirely her.

  "Yah-ta-hey!" someone called from the outside. He gave a heavy sigh – and tried not to cough. He wasn't alone after all. He stood with some effort and walked to the door of the hogan, trying to reconcile the fact that he felt both better – since he'd eaten – and worse – since Lillian Singer had made her grand exit.

  Winston Tsosie stood outside, patiently waiting, and Becenti suspected he was not here by accident. Winston wouldn't come this far without a good reason. He usually worked as a volunteer at the mission men's shelter, his frail and aged appearance belying his true self. Winston was wise and tenacious – an old busybody for whom Johnny Becenti had nothing but the greatest respect. There was nothing Winston Tsosie wouldn't do for the betterment of the People – as a nineteen-year-old marine private hitting the beaches of Iwo Jima during World War II or as a keeper of drunks now. Even so, Johnny was not eager to become one of his projects.

  "Yah-ta-hey, Winston. What are you – doing here?" he asked, bypassing Navajo decorum altogether. He had neither the patience nor the strength for it. He couldn't manage the polite period of waiting for the old man to state his business.

  "Lillian," Winston answered simply.

  Of course, Becenti thought. Lillian. She must have gotten the phone to work after all.

  "She says you got trouble," Winston said. "She says the sheep need looking after. She says there's no water – "

  "I don't care – what she says!" he interrupted, compounding his rudeness.

  "She says," Winston continued anyway, "you need somebody to look after you, too."

  The sarcastic remark that came immediately to mind got lost in a sudden wave of weakness. Becenti reached out blindly for the hogan wall, and with Winston's help, he sat down heavily on a warped wooden bench by the door.

  "I'm all – right," he insisted.

  "Yeah, you in fine shape, Johnny – except you can't breathe and you can't stand up so good."

  "I don't –" He abruptly gave up the protest, because he realized suddenly that Lillian's car was still here. "She left, didn't – she?"

  "Who?" Winston asked mildly.

  "You know – who! Lillian!"

  "How am I going to know, Johnny? If you don't care what she says, I'm thinking you don't care where she goes, either. Not enough to ask, anyway."

  "Is she still here – or not?"

  "Her man took her off."

  "What – man?"

  "The man from Santa Fe, the one she don't marry. He didn't like her being up here with you much – and she' didn't like him not liking it. He said she looked like hell. She said, thank you so much, but he really didn't have come all this way to tell her that. If she wanted to know it, she would of looked in a mirror. And then – " Winston stopped.

  Becenti had to force himself not to prod the old man into continuing.

  "He came to Window Rock looking for her because nobody in Santa Fe knew where she was. He followed us when we left to come up here," Winston said finally.

  "Us?" Becenti asked, still trying to keep from interrogatirlg him about Lillian's "man."

  "Me and Jack Begaye," Winston said. "Lillian, she didn't want Lucas to come along. She said he would upset your harmony even more than she does."

  "There's nothing wrong with – my harmony," he said, not wanting to lend credence to Lillian Singer's self-proclaimed disruptiveness. And Jack Begaye was all he needed. Jack had been nothing but trouble since he was eleven years old. It was only since Jack's marriage to Lillian Singer's step-niece that Becenti had begun to have some hope that Jack Begaye would ever get himself straightened out. The very thought of having to deal with Jack and Winston sent him into another coughing fit.

  "You ain't had your harmony for a long time, my son," Winston said. "Now you ain't got your health, either. So when Jack gets done with the sheep, he's going to look at you, see if your lungs are as bad as they sound."

  "Winston – "

  "Lillian said you don't want no IHS doctor – so she don't send you any. She sends you somebody from her own family. Jack was a good marine corpsman – he's still good at it. And if he says you need to go to the hospital, then you're going. It don't matter if you say no to me or not. If we got to throw you in the truck like some damn drunk that wants to sleep in the middle of the road instead of coming to the mission where he can be fed and be safe, then we'll do it. Jack Begaye and me – we can handle you."

  Becenti didn't doubt it for a minute. He'd seen the two of them rescue drunks before. These two ex-marines, in spite of their extreme difference in ages and wars, made a formidable team, and he was hardly up to a physical confrontation, even with the elderly Winston.

  He sat there, trying not to cough. “Do you two – do – everything Lillian Singer – tells you?” he asked when he was able.

  “Lillian don’t give orders to us, Johnny. She’s worried, even if Katie Becenti did pay her, and she asked her family to help her.”

  “Yeah: When did you get into the Singer clan?”

  The old man looked at him, and it occurred to Becenti that he hurt Winston Tsosie’s feelings.

  “Ibeen adopted a long time now,” Winston said quietly. “Jack’s wife, Meggie, she done it. She needed a grandfather for her and Jack’s children.”

  “What does Lucas say – about that?”

  “Lucas is the uncle-by-marriage. Uncles are important. Gradfathers are important. He knows that. Children need all the help they can get to learn which path to walk on. And even when they ain-1t children no more,” he added significantly.

  Becenti was cold sitting in the sun, and he had to work hard not to shiver. He intended to take a deep breath, but it hurt too much and made him start coughing again – just in time for Jack Begaye to come around the Hogan and hear him.

  Jack didn’t waste time with amenities. “You going to let me listen to that or not, Captain?” he asked.

  “You mean – I’ve got a choice?”

  “Yeah, you got a choice,” Jack assured him. “But not much of one. You know Lillian. Hard telling who she’d send out here next.

  “It’s not as – bad as – it sounds.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Jack said, clearly humoring him. “Unbutton your shirt.”

  Jack had a stethoscope in his jacket pocket. He took it out and began to listen intently to Becenti’s chest and then his back.

  “I can hear the congestion all over, Captain,” Jack said matter-of-factly. “I think you need to go into town, especially if you’ve been having chills and fever. It hurts pretty bad, too, right?”

  Becenti didn’t answer him.

  “Look, man,” Jack said. “It’s your chest But I’m telling you I think you need medical treatment – now. Either Winston or I will take you to get it. You don’t have to worry about your animals – I know where the hay and the well are.”

  “What – are you – supposed to be doing?” Becenti asked. “What about – the men’s shelter? What about – your family?”

  Jack grinned. “Captain, you’ve known Meggie as long as I have. You know, she keeps a ‘worry list’ and I’m sorry, but you’re on it. It’s a wonder she didn’t come up here herself. The shelter is under control and Meggie knows where I am. So let’s get this show on the road, okay? I’m going to let Winston take you in – he’s dying to drive Lillian’s new car, aren’t you, old man?”

  “Damn straight,” Winston assured him.

  Jack tossed him the keys. “Oh, and Lillian wanted me to tell you she found your horse, Captain,” he said. “It’s in the corral She said be sure to mention she played hell trying to catch the damn thing,”

  Becenti stood with some help. He was too tired to protest anymore. Jack Begaye had been right. If he didn’t cooperate, there was no telling who Lillian would send out here next, And perhaps he’d found some remnant of his good upbringing after all. These people – not to mention his own mother – had gone to enough trouble on his account, and there wa
s no point in letting the sheep and his prodigal horse suffer. Surely he could pull himself together long enough to prevent that.

  “Come on, son,” Winston said, taking his arm.

  “You know how to – drive a car like – that?” Becenti asked him as they began a slow walk toward Lillian's low-slung vehicle.

  "Nope," the old man said. "This is going to be an adventure."

  "That's what I'm – afraid of," Becenti said. "You're not still – riding – motorcycles, are you?"

  "All the time," Winston assured him.

  Becenti could see the corral now, and he abruptly stopped.

  "What's the matter?" Winston asked, still holding on to his arm.

  In spite of his mental and physical misery, in spite of the likelihood of precipitating another series of painful coughs, Becenti laughed. Out loud.

  "What's the matter?" Winston said again.

  "Lillian – "

  "What about her?"

  "That – horse – in the corral," Becenti said. "She had to – work really hard – to get him – in there, right?"

  "That's what she said."

  "Too bad," he said, laughing again. "It's not – my – horse."

  Chapter Five

  He was in the hospital in Gallup for a week – long enough to reassure his mother that he would indeed recover, long enough to attend to some pressing business regarding the Navajo Tribal Police and his continued employment, long enough for Lillian Singer to come to see him.

  She didn't. It both surprised and annoyed him, how much he expected her to visit. There was no reason why she should come, of course. She'd only been paid to get him here. No, actually she'd been paid to lecture him about his behavior – which she'd done nicely, as he recalled. Strong-arming him into the hospital had only been incidental to the task she'd been hired to do, and therefore finite when it came to her personal responsibility for a follow-up. She likely didn't visit any of her unfortunate clients who ended up in prison, either.

  He wanted to see her. He wanted to annoy her about that horse she'd accidentally stolen. He wanted to tell her how much he didn't appreciate being here, and how easily he recognized her heavy hand in the appearance of the irrepressible Mary Skeets, a longtime tribal police dispatcher, who came to see him nearly every day – just to casually mention the most recent and flagrant violations of Navajo tribal law – something he couldn't help but be interested in.