“You never want to talk about it.”
“That’s right. Why should I? You never listen. You already know everything.”
“What—” Bernie stopped herself. She took a breath. Fighting never got them anywhere. “That one who was here with you that day, is he your boyfriend?”
“He’s a guy I know. I don’t wanna talk about him. I didn’t even want to go with him that day, but he sort of made me. And I don’t want to listen to you nagging me either.”
“What do you mean, he made you? Does he threaten you? Hurt you?” Bernie felt her blood rise hot, ready to go to battle for her little sister. “Nobody has the right to make you do something you don’t want to do.”
“He’s kinda like you,” Darleen said. “He’s got my life all figured out, like you do. You make me do what I don’t want to. You think I want to be here every stinking day? Listening to Mama tell the same stories over and over? So what if I drink a beer or two?”
Darleen wobbled to the couch, stretched out on her back, pulled a pillow over her eyes.
Bernie said, “When you dropped out of high school, you promised to use the time you weren’t helping Mama to study for your GED. Remember? You agreed.”
“Whatever. That was then. I changed my mind. Why bother getting a piece of paper? This is now. I need to have some fun.”
“Fun? You need to live up to your agreement. You need to start taking better care of Mama. And you need to get your GED before you forget what you learned in high school.”
“Shut up!” Darleen wrapped her arms over the pillow. Her voice was muffled. “You come in, handle some little things, go away. I’m here day after stinking day with nothing to do except slave work. Borinnnng.”
“So do something,” Bernie said. “You could spend all the time you save not cleaning, not shopping, not cooking, studying for your test. You’re living here for free, coming out fine, except you think you have to whine and feel sorry for yourself.”
“I’m working on my drawings.” Darleen took the pillow off her head and sat up slowly. “That’s important to me. You are Mrs. Perfect Navajo Police Department, and you know everything. I’m like hired help. My life stinks, but nobody cares.”
Darleen was crying. “What’s the point, anyway? What’s the stupid point? So I get the GED, become a second-class high school graduate. What then? Huh? What do I do? Work? Work where? There’s no jobs here on the rez. Move? No money for that. I’m still stuck here, watching my life crawl by. My art is good, I know it is. But nobody cares about that. Yeah, I like to drink. It’s the only vacation I get.”
Bernie took another deep breath. It broke her heart to see her sister cry, even though she was still mad at her. “I didn’t realize how frustrated you were.”
“And I thought you were the bright one, Big Sister,” Darleen said. “Frustrated? Yeah, right. You ignore my texts. I can never get you on the phone when I want to talk. Whenever I call your house, you’re not there and I talk to the Cheeseburger.”
Bernie said, “You know my hours are weird. Sometimes by the time I get home it’s too late to call. I call back.”
“Hardly ever. Lie as much as you want.”
Bernie swallowed. “Okay. Sometimes I see it’s you and I don’t answer. I’m tired. I’ve dealt with too many upset people. I don’t have the energy to listen to you complain about Mama and how bored you are. But fine. I’ll call you every day. Even if it’s late and I’m exhausted. I promise. You like that?”
Darleen leaned back against the couch. She looked pale. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Your stomach hurts?” Bernie said.
“Yeah. Too much coffee on top of too much beer.”
“I didn’t know you drank coffee.”
“I don’t, but Charley Zah said I should. Maybe that’s what’s making me sick.”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
Darleen gave her a dark look. “I told you I don’t have a boyfriend. Babies? Mama gave you that job, having the babies. You’re not doing it very well.”
Bernie went to the pantry and found a box of saltine crackers. Let her anger cool.
“Eat some of these,” she said. “They might help settle your stomach.”
“No, thanks.”
Bernie found her backpack, extracted a roll of Tums. Gave them to Darleen. “You can keep them. Chew a couple. They won’t hurt you.”
Darleen peeled back the paper. “Thanks.”
Bernie said, “I appreciate what you do for Mama. I know—”
Darleen said, “No. You don’t know the first thing about what it’s like here day after day.”
“You want to tell me?”
“I wanna tell you that I can’t do this forever,” Darleen said. “I need to have a life. I need time to do my art.”
“Get your GED,” Bernie said. “That was what we agreed on. You have to take the first step. Then we’ll figure out what’s best for you and for Mama.”
Darleen crunched on the antacid. “Did you know that guy, that retired cop who got killed in Window Rock?”
“He isn’t dead,” Bernie said. “I know him. He’s a sort of friend of mine, more like an uncle or something. He and Chee worked together on some cases.”
“What happened to him?”
“Somebody drove up, shot him, drove away.”
“Just like that, some random freak thing?”
“The FBI doesn’t think so,” Bernie said. “They think the shooter was out to get him.”
Darleen looked at her. “Don’t let that happen to you.”
“I’m off work for a few days, so you don’t have to worry,” Bernie said.
“I’m serious,” Darleen said. “Mama needs you.”
“Mama needs you, too,” Bernie said. “And so do I. I’m sorry if I’m bossy.”
“You’ve always been like this. I guess you can’t help it.” Darleen hugged a throw pillow to her midsection. “I’m going to sleep now.”
Bernie went back to her research. She noticed, on pots from several of New Mexico’s Rio Grande Pueblos, flowers, lizards, bird designs, as well as a stunning variety of geometric forms. She knew archaeologists had discovered pottery in ancient Pueblo kivas. But the book’s text made no mention of research that linked any of the designs to ceremonies or sacred rituals. She found scant references to any of the pots themselves being created for special ritual use. Maybe Davis was right and Leaphorn was just doodling. Or maybe Bernie needed a reference book with better and deeper information.
In a while, Mama was awake and ready for lunch. After they ate, Bernie showed her Leaphorn’s notebook with the triangle drawings. Darleen snoozed on.
“Those drawings are like the old ones made,” Mama said. “The ones who lived at Chaco Canyon.” She looked away from Leaphorn’s pictures. “The man who drew them, was he your friend who got hurt?”
“Yes.”
Mama closed the notebook. “Don’t look at them too long.”
“Are they sacred?”
Mama smiled. “Some say everything natural on this mother earth is sacred.”
Bernie went back to the photographs. She found pictures of canteens and bird effigies, of pictographs and petroglyphs pecked and painted on the Chaco Canyon walls. She found images of centuries-old turquoise and argillite beads and beautiful gaming pieces. Interesting and frustrating. She put the book back on the shelf and took out another. This time, she turned to a page with photos of pottery cylinders.
She read, “Found in Pueblo Bonito, these rare cylindrical jars have flat bases and can stand upright. The small holes or clay loops near the opening indicate that they could hang from a cord and perhaps were used as drums. The asymmetrical geometric black-on-white designs complement the shape, rare in Anasazi pottery.”
She took out her own notebook and jotted down some information,
things to think about. The bold black-and-white designs looked almost identical to those the lieutenant had drawn. Why had these designs captured his attention?
Having found what she thought she needed for the AIRC pottery research, she investigated what the book had to say about the art closest to her heart, Navajo weaving. She showed Mama some of the pictures and told her about the rug at the AIRC museum. Bernie described its craftsmanship and the tale from the Navajo creation story that it told.
Mama said, “That sounds like the rug I saw as a little girl. The rug I talked to you about, except the story is different.”
“I’m sure of the story, Mama. I looked at that rug a long time. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, it was so striking, so well done.”
Mama patted her hand. “The one who made that rug, some people thought that he shouldn’t do it. Some people thought he was wrong. They said prayers used for healing should not be captured in a rug. But those were hard times. Some people wondered if the Diné would be able to continue. Many, many died from disease, from nothing to eat after the government made us kill our sheep. People died of broken hearts. Valuable old ones who knew the stories and the songs and prayers for blessings.”
Bernie knew about the years of forced livestock reduction, starvation, acculturation. Sad days for the Navajo people.
“The one who made that rug, a white woman encouraged him to do the weaving. The bilagaana remembered everything she saw and made drawings of the sacred sand paintings the hataalii used for healing. They took those drawings and the rugs of the sacred stories away to a special place.”
In college, Bernie had learned about the collaboration between Hosteen Klah and Franc Newcomb and Mrs. Newcomb’s friend Mary Cabot Wheelwright. Their work included audio recordings of sacred chants. It all had grown from the assumption in the 1930s that the Navajo were a dying tribe.
“I think they had good hearts,” Mama said. “But old things leave, new things come, that’s the way it is. This world changes. Some say it can’t hold everything.”
Mama asked about the rug Bernie had seen at the AIRC, specific questions about the colors used and the arrangement of the designs. “I would like to see that rug,” she said.
“I would love to show it to you. It’s a long drive to Santa Fe.”
“And a long time home again. Not today. Another time.”
Bernie nodded. “We’ll do it.”
Mama smiled. “Darleen should come, too. Is Darleen here?”
“She had a headache. She was on the couch, but she went to her room. She’s probably sleeping.”
“Darleen has lots of headaches. She says drawing makes her eyes tired, but I think it’s from the drinking.”
“Where does she get the alcohol?” Bernie asked.
Mama shook her head. “Bootleggers don’t care how old you are.”
“Where does she get the money?”
Mama shook her head again. “I don’t know. Don’t worry so much about her.”
Darleen said she felt better when she came out of the bedroom an hour later. She and Bernie drew up a grocery list. “I’ve been thinking,” Bernie said. “If you’d like to take a GED class in the evenings, I can come and stay with Mama a couple nights a week. It would get you out of the house.”
“I’ll think about it,” Darleen said.
Mama patted Bernie’s hand. “You better get going. Cheeseburger will be wondering what happened to you. Bothering us about it.”
“Yeah,” Darleen said. “I’ll see how the classes work. Let you know.”
On the way home, Bernie called Chee’s cell to tell him she was on her way. No answer. She called the home phone, no answer. Left messages at the Window Rock and Shiprock offices. Came home to a dark house. Fed the cat. Fixed dinner. Ate alone. Went to bed with apprehension and let the cat sleep with her.
It was nearly midnight when she heard Chee’s footsteps on the trailer floor.
“Hey you,” she said.
He bent over to kiss her. She sensed his exhaustion. “You coming to bed?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ve got some thinking to do.”
By the time he was out of the shower, she’d made coffee.
He kissed her. “You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you did. I’ve got something to go with it. Hungry?”
“Always.”
Walking back outside to retrieve the cake from his trunk somehow reminded him of the thumb drive with Leaphorn’s AIRC report on it, the one he’d told Bernie he would get her. He found it in his pocket, along with the earrings.
The cake seemed to have gotten better after eight hours in a warm car.
“So we’re going to Santa Fe tomorrow?” he asked.
“Today, actually. Then we can go to the hospital. Can you get off?”
“Yeah, as long as I’m reachable. I wrapped up things today as well as I could.”
“Did anyone track down the Lizard boy?” Bernie asked.
“Lenny the Lizard? Still looking for him. He’s our next viable suspect,” Chee said. “Him and Louisa and Mrs. Benally’s ninja.
“Hey,” he said. “I have another surprise for you.”
“A nice one?”
He extended two closed fists. She picked the one on the right. He opened it to reveal the thumb drive.
“Leaphorn’s report?”
“Yes,” he said. He smiled at her. “But that wasn’t really the surprise.”
She tapped his left fist, and he opened it to show her the earrings.
“They’re beautiful. What’s the occasion?”
“Just a little thank-you for putting up with me.”
The cat jumped to the sofa and settled into Chee’s lap.
“She missed you,” Bernie said.
“She’s probably homesick for the lieutenant and Louisa,” Chee said. “After I interviewed Tsosie and ran out of leads, I thought, well, time to call Leaphorn. Then I remembered.”
“He would have taken you back to the scene of the crime, had you review the clues, the way he always did.” She wondered, for the fortieth time, about the accuracy of her description of the shooter and the car. She’d worked with enough eyewitnesses to know that their recollections often left much to be desired.
“Tomorrow I want to ask the lieutenant about a sing,” Chee said. Leaphorn wasn’t a traditional Navajo, but Chee had done a healing ceremony for him years ago after a particularly disturbing case. Back in the years when Chee had been studying with his uncle who had passed away. “I think I can find someone who will do it when he gets back home again.”
Before Bernie went back to bed, she plugged in the laptop and inserted the thumb drive to check for Leaphorn’s AIRC reports. She found more than she bargained for.
12
The row of files, all titled “AIRC” with numbers to follow, stretched to the bottom of the laptop screen. She opened the first one, the lieutenant’s bill for consulting services, including photocopies and mileage. It matched the contents of the small envelope she’d delivered to the AIRC, along with the photocopied pages.
She clicked on the next heading, a larger file dated a week earlier. Research material, some sort of online auction catalog from a place in New York. She glanced it at. Indian artifacts were among the listings.
She closed both of the open files and clicked on the next one. Sure enough, it looked like the missing report. How simple was that?
She glanced at the first page, Leaphorn’s cover letter addressed to Dr. Collingsworth, admiring the lieutenant’s economy of language. She scrolled to the report itself.
The introductory section concerned the question of insurance valuations, the lieutenant’s area of expertise.
The narrative opened with a concise explanation of how insurance appraisals worked, and how they differed from the valuations co
llectors might place on their holdings for an auction or a tax deduction in the case of charitable donations. Bernie skimmed Leaphorn’s discussion of changes in the overall market for Native American art and artifacts. He noted that most of the values mentioned in the appraisals Collingsworth and the AIRC board had received from the McManus Foundation seemed accurate for the date they were created. He recommended that the AIRC increase the existing coverage of the McManus collection by 20 percent because of the added risk of displaying the artifacts to AIRC visitors, staff, and researchers. The report mentioned that the few exceptions to the accuracy of existing valuations would be dealt with in the appendix.
The exceptions made her curious, but she continued reading.
Part 2 focused on the appropriateness of the collection for exhibit. Leaphorn outlined reasons many American Indian tribes did not want certain items they attributed to their ancestors publicly displayed, or even viewed by scholars or museum professionals. Their rationale included, he wrote, “explanations that may not be disclosed to non-tribal members or to tribal members who are not initiated.” He had read the descriptions of uncommon, nonutilitarian items provided by the appraisers. He also had paid considerable attention to the lengthy report of a cultural anthropologist who had vetted the most potentially sensitive material.
Bernie recalled Collingsworth’s mention of that.
Leaphorn wrote that he had also conducted his own follow-up research on potential sacred items, using interviews and written sources that he documented at the end of the report. In conclusion, the lieutenant assured Collingsworth that the collection in its entirety “could be displayed to an audience that might include American Indians without fear of offense.”
She looked up from the screen. The lieutenant was good at this. He used the same logical thinking and methodical research he had been known for as a police detective. What she’d read proved that Collingsworth’s suspicions were off track. Too bad it was too late at night to call him and tell him so.
Bernie skimmed through the list of sources and footnotes. She reached the exceptions Leaphorn had noted to the pottery valuations.
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