Mother To Be

by Cheryl Reavis

  "Please! I want you to go!"

  They stared at each other across the table.

  "You have to understand," she said, her voice quiet now.

  "Oh, I understand," he said, because he suddenly got a glimpse of what it must have been like for her father-when he looked into her eyes and knew that she was ashamed of him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He couldn't count the number of times he nearly turned mound on the way back to Window Rock. The baby was his. He wanted it. And he wanted her. He hadn't made an offer of marriage because it was the "right thing to do." He'd made it because he – He sighed heavily.

  Because he loved her. He had no idea precisely when or how aggravation had become desire and desire had become love. It just had. He loved Lillian Singer. He thought that il never would have happened if Mae had lived. And if his mother hadn't sent Lillian to scold him back into the world of the living. And if he hadn't been so damned determined to take her to bed.

  The truth of the matter was that, unlike Lillian, he had no regrets. He supposed that she must be feeling greatly relieved now that he'd gone, just as he supposed she would think he had made his token gesture of marriage and then happily given up. He hadn't given up at all, but for now, it hurt too much, knowing that she could be so accepting of the child and so cast down by the man who had given it to her.

  He arrived home well after sundown, letting himself into the dark and empty house that Lillian had negotiated for him.

  Another house with yet another ghost, he thought as he switched on the lights. He had begun his tempestuous relationship with Lillian Singer here, and the memory was strong. He had wanted her so much that afternoon. He still did.

  He considered going to the law-enforcement building under the pretense of working, but he didn't. He was too out of harmony to deal with anything else now. The incredible realization that Lillian Singer was going to have his child kept washing over him. He was going to be a father, and his male pride wouldn't let him be anything but delighted. He, who had never imagined himself having a wife again, much less a baby. Of course, if Lillian had her way, he wouldn't have either.

  What she was doing was wrong. She was wrong – about his intentions, about their relationship, about everything. And he at least deserved a chance to try to prove it to her.

  But there was nothing he could do at the moment except stare at the telephone. She wasn't going to call him; he knew that. Even so, after a few moments, he decided there was no reason why he couldn't call her.

  She answered on the second ring.

  "It's me," he said. "I was...angry when I left and I..." He didn't finish. It was far too presumptuous of him to tell her that he hadn't wanted her to worry about him.

  She didn't say anything.

  "Lillian?"

  "Are you at home?" she asked finally. Her voice sounded strained and unnatural to him. He wondered if she'd been crying.

  "Yes," he said.

  "I I'm glad you called."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm...fine."

  "It doesn't have to be like this. You know that, don't you?"

  There was a long silence.

  "Good night, Johnny," she said and quietly hung up the phone.

  He did try to get back into his usual work routine, but he found himself unable to manage any kind of routine at all. He slept fitfully, ate when it occurred to him or not at all – which did nothing to improve his desolate mood. He tried to do whatever he was supposed to do, to pay attention, to make the necessary decisions, but every day it became harder. The simple truth was that he didn't want to be bothered by anyone or anything, officially or otherwise. And he didn't particularly care who knew it. He was incredibly happy about the baby and filled with worry and anxiety about Lillian, all at the same time. He wanted – needed to go to Santa Fe, and he supposed that Lillian had been right, after all. He did think he had to do the right thing – and behaving otherwise was killing him.

  he stayed at the law-enforcement building most of the time, because he found he was less disturbed there than he was at home. He might not have fewer memories of Lillian Singer at work, but at least he had less provocative ones. There was enough tribal police business to keep him occupied, if he'd been so inclined – a rash of domestic-violance cases, a family of bootleggers selling bad whiskey, rumors of some illegal "pot hunters" out to desecrate Navajo burial sites and steal the artifacts, two armed robberies. And the summer tourists, of course, who could get into more trouble doing nothing than seemed humanly possible. There was also the rumor of something called a "desert rave," a kind of sex-and-drugs-and-loud-music orgy, reminiscent of the 1960s, that hundreds of bored and aimless young people seemed hell-bent on carrying out in a "spiritual" but isolated place. This time, word of mouth suggested that the place of choice was somewhere on the Navajo reservation. Because there had been injuries and even deaths at these semisecret gatherings in the past, all the law enforcement agencies in the area had been put on alert – even if it meant canvasing a possible party site in an area nearly the size of South Carolina.

  He decided to delegate the task, and he buzzed Mary Skeets.

  "Tell Lucas I want to see him when he comes in," he said when she answered. His request was met with a long silence. "Mary?" he said. "Did you hear me?"

  "Oh...well...yes, sir, I did. You think you want to see Lucas."

  "No, I don't think. I know. Send him in here," he said, frowning.

  "Well, if you're...sure," Mary said.

  He stared at the receiver a moment before he hung up, wondering what was the matter with Mary Skeets now.

  Lucas eventually appeared in the doorway, but he was not happy about it. At all.

  "Come in," Becenti said. "Do you know anything about this?" He handed him the memo regarding the "desert rave."

  "How would I know anything?" Lucas asked when he'd finished reading – or pretending to.

  "You've got Will living in your house. He goes all over the rez helping Eddie Nez with his ceremonies, and he's the right age to hear about things like this. I thought he might have said something about it."

  "Well, you thought wrong."

  "I want you to ask him about it any – "

  "You want?" Lucas interrupted. "And what makes you think I give a rat's – "

  "That's enough!" Becenti said. Unfortunately, Lucas Singer's belligerence was all too familiar. Becenti looked at him for a long moment, searching for signs that, after all these years, Lucas had fallen off the wagon and was drinking again. But he didn't appear to be under the influence of any controlled substance. He appeared to be royally pisssed.

  "Close the door," Becenti said. Lucas made no effort to do so. "I said, close the door!"

  Lucas closed it – hard enough to leave no doubt in the minds of anyone in the building that another one of the notorious Becenti-Singer "discussions" was about to commence.

  "What is this about?" Becenti asked, regardless of the fact that he was certain he already knew.

  "When was the last time you saw my sister?" Lucas demanded.

  "Three weeks ago yesterday," Becenti said evenly.

  "So what is it with you? She's only good for one thing and then to hell with her if she gets knocked up?"

  "Sit down," Becenti said.

  "I don't want to sit down!"

  "All right, then stand! What did Lillian tell you?"

  "Me? She didn't tell me anything. She told my mother and she told Sloan. She's pregnant. You're the father. Now I want to know what the hell you're going to do about it!"

  "Nothing," Becenti said.

  "Nothing? Why not?"

  "You'll have to ask her that."

  "I'm asking you."

  "Well, I'm not answering."

  "What in the hell is the matter with you two! Lillian has always been hardheaded – my mother and I thought we might have to go through this when she was sixteen, but not now. Both of you are old enough to know better!"

  "Are you finished
?"

  "No, damn it! I'm not!"

  "Well, wind it up and get out of here!"

  "You should have left her the hell alone!"

  "You're right. I should have."

  "So she's just – on her own? You're not even going to try to work this out with her?"

  "Lucas, it's none of your damn business!"

  "She's my sister! You better believe it's my business!"

  "There's no point in talking about this anymore," Becenti said. "Your sister is going to do whatever the hell she wants to do. And she's not going to consult either one of us. Now, get out. I have work to do – and so do you."

  Lucas stood for a moment, then turned to go. "Don't you hurt her," he said when he reached the door. "I mean it."

  Becenti sat there after Lucas had left, staring at nothing. Hurt her? It wasn't possible. A woman had to have some regard for a man before he could do that.

  When he finally left for the day, Mary Skeets stopped him at the front door.

  "Winston Tsosie's been waiting a couple of hours to see you," she said.

  "Well, why didn't you tell me?" he asked in annoyance, regardless of his recent apathy. He was never going to be able to follow Mary Skeets's logic as to when it was acceptable for an old man to wait and when it wasn't.

  "Because he wouldn't let me. He said he didn't want to talk to you while you were working. He wanted to talk to you when you were done."

  "Where is he?"

  "He went outside."

  Becenti walked through the front doors to the parking lot, but he didn't immediately see Winston. He finally spotted him, standing patiently by one of the tribal police utility vehicles.

  "Yah-ta-hey, my grandfather," Becenti said as he approached.

  "You done working?" the old man asked.

  "For now. Why?"

  "I need to get someplace. I'm thinking we could take one of these." He patted the utility-vehicle door. "I like to ride up high."

  "You want to tell me where you're planning on going?"

  "No. But I got something you need there. You have to see it in the daylight, though. Can we go now or not?"

  "Is there any chance we can call this police business?"

  "Maybe this trip will give you some harmony. Maybe it will keep you out of trouble with Lucas – and help you quit yelling at everybody who works in the building there. That would be good for the law-and-order business, wouldn't it? Cost-effective, I'm thinking."

  "Cost-effective?" Becenti said, wondering where Winston had picked up that particular term. But it didn't escape him that he'd just been chastised about his bad behavior by a man he truly respected. The voice had been mild, but the message strong.

  He stood for a moment, then went back inside for the keys to the utility vehicle, and for once he didn't have to wrestle them away from Mary Skeets as if they belonged to her personally.

  Winston was still waiting when he came out.

  "Are you going to tell me where we're going?" Becenti asked an he unlocked the police-vehicle door for Winston to climb inside.

  "No," he said. "I don't remember how to tell where it is so good anymore – but we can find it."

  Winston had him take the road north toward Fort Defiance. They rode in silence except for the old man's occasional directions to slow down so he could look along the roadside – for what, he still wouldn't say.

  Hut eventually he found it. "Pull in here," he said.

  There was a pickup truck already parked in a small cleaing. Becenti recognized it immediately. It belonged to Will Baron and was allegedly responsible for the recent injury to his hand. The boy was standing beside it – his hand no longer bandaged now, and he was waiting with his stepsister's husband, Jack Begaye. There had been a time in the not-too-distant past when Becenti had had no choice but order both Jack and Will arrested. Either of the two would have gladly taken him on then, and Becenti would be the first to admit that perhaps they had an even better excuse now.

  "Do they know about Lillian?" he asked Winston as he pulled off the road.

  "Everybody knows about Lillian," Winston said. "And you."

  Even so, Becenti got out of the vehicle and went around to help Winston to the ground. Both Jack and Will wait by the truck.

  "Did you find it?" Winston asked them as he shuffled in their direction.

  "We found it," Jack said. "So, Captain, what's new?” he added with just enough mischief to let Becenti know that Jack Begaye had found a certain humor in Becenti's situation with Lillian, if no one else did.

  "Show me where it is," Winston said.

  "Over that way. The junior hataalii here says any one of them is okay."

  "Because they are okay," Will said, giving Jack a token punch on the arm.

  Becenti followed the procession, still not knowing what was about to take place. Eventually, they arrived at a stack of cut logs several feet high – cedar, he could tell when he walked closer. He didn't understand, but he didn't ask questions. He waited for Winston to get around to explaining.

  Winston inspected the logs closely. "They're in good shape still. You come and look," he said to Becenti.

  "What am I looking for?" Becenti asked.

  "You're looking for the right piece of wood to make a cradle board for your baby," the old man said.

  Becenti looked at him. The remark caught him completely off guard.

  "Ain't much a man can do to help out when he's got a baby coming. But he can do this. Jack and me – we cut these logs a while ago – cut them especially for the babies in the family that might need them, and we stacked them just right. Jack's babies got their cradle boards made from these logs here. You look for the one you think will work lot yours and Lillian's."

  Becenti stood there, saying nothing. There had been any number of cradle boards in his own family, but he didn't remember anything about selecting the wood for one. If he’d ever known, he'd forgotten – perhaps because he never exacted to have to do it.

  He looked at the logs, and then at the old man.

  "You got to put your hands on the wood, my son," Winston said. "Takes more than just the eyes to know which one is good enough. Like this."

  Becenti followed Winston's lead, touching piece after piece with both hands. "How – " He stopped and cleared his throat because his voice sounded husky and strange to him. This was not what he'd expected, this gesture of acceptance and perhaps understanding from the men in Lillian's family. "How many logs will it take?" he asked.

  "Pick two," Jack said. "You can get the whole cradle board out of one – but it's good to have another one in case a piece splits wrong."

  Becenti nodded and kept looking.

  “This one right here – it's got really good vibes," Will said, regarding a particular log, and Becenti smiled at the boy's twentieth-century description of so ancient a concept.

  “The color's good," Will said. "Looks like the furniture Lillian's got in her house. It might be the kind she'd like. And the spirit's good. I don't feel nothing bad in it, do you'"

  "No," Becenti said. "Nothing bad. This is the one, then. "

  He carefully selected a second log, and he helped Jack and Will put both of them in the back of the battered pickup truck.

  "I'll just take these to the mission house, Captain," Jack said. "That way Winston can help you get started. The bowed piece that goes above the baby's head will have to be soaked for a while so it'll bend. But once you get that done and the rest of the pieces cut right, there's not much to it but a lot of planing and sanding. You can work on that at your place whenever you get a minute. When's the baby due?"

  "I...don't know," he said, the admission calling home how little he had to do with Lillian's plans.

  "Well – you've got plenty of time, right?"

  Plenty of time, Becenti thought. Yes. But, even so, he' felt incredibly rushed. The thought of trying to make a cradle board and trying to get Lillian to see reason was overwhelming.

  He thanked Jack and Will for their efforts,
and he stood and watched them drive away. He could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance, and he looked to the northwest where a bright-edged plume of gray-white cloud shot upward into the sky. He'd been hearing the thunder for days now, thunder that never brought any rain. But this afternoon would be different, he thought. He could smell the storm coming on the wind. He could sense it in the change in the air. And he should feel elated. When the rain came, everything – plants, animals, the People – all became new again. But he felt nothing. He was empty.

  Alone.

  I don't know what to do, he thought.

  "You got to learn how to walk in beauty again," Winston said as if he'd heard him. "The one who died – ever since she left on that journey, you been acting like a white man. You keep trying to make things be the way you want them to be, and that don't work for us. It don't work, and some of us drink because of it. Some get in trouble. Some of us try to run away to a new place – like Lillian going off to Santa Fe. Some do like you and go and hide. First you were hiding in the hogan at the sheep camp. Now you’re hiding in the policeman's office. You had relatives to teach you the Navajo Way. You know you got to get things in balance so you can do your job for the People like you're supposed to do. Some say they think you can't be a policeman no more. They think your hozro is too bad."

  "Maybe it is," Becenti said, looking around at him.

  ''Yes, but you can get your harmony back. It ain't going to be easy for you. You got to be strong. You got to let everything blow around you while you stand still. You got to be the policeman like you always was and when you doing that, you go and make the cradle board for your baby. And you quit spending so much time thinking there's something you can do to change things in Santa Fe. There ain’t – not right now. You got to stay here until Lillian sends for you."

  "She's not going to send for me."

  "She will. You're in too big a hurry. You got no patience. You're the father of this child, ain't you? If she wasn’t going to send for you, she wouldn't have told you nothing about a baby coming in the first place. And she wouldn't have told the family this baby is yours. She's a good woman. She ain't going to keep you away from your son."