A Kachina Dance

by Beverley Andi

  He laughs. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to share it with.”

  “What happens if you meet a car coming down?”

  “A car is nothing; you just hope you don’t have to pass an RV.”

  I gulp. “An RV? You mean somebody is crazy enough to drive an RV up here?”

  “Yup, and we’re not even at the top. We’re on an old Indian walking trail I found near the summit. It’s mine.” He smiles. “All mine.” He plays with my hair. “No one comes here but me.” He leans over and kisses me.

  “Hmm.” I laugh. “Sounds like you got plans.”

  He kisses me again. “Little moaner, I’m very hungry tonight.”

  “Uh-hunh, so, do you want a sandwich or do you want to pick?” OK, I know he’s not talking about food but I’ve never done it outside. Have you? Suddenly I don’t know how to respond so I stay on task.

  “Make me a sandwich, spoil me. I won’t have this opportunity again.” He laughs as I dangle a bunch of grapes over him while he lies down looking at the sky. As always he looks at peace, at one with the land. He must never leave here, I think. I feel the lump in my throat as I concentrate on the sandwich but my eyes are starting to water.

  “Katie, I have a surprise for you.” He raises himself on one elbow as he turns on his side to face me. I hand him his sandwich. I grab a beer, some crackers, cheese and grapes.

  “A surprise? I love surprises. Ouch, darn.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing. I got scratched by a thorn before and it stings. I’ll live.”

  “Let’s see.” He examines my hand and kisses the tiny reddish marks. “All better?”

  “Hmm, yes. Now, do I get an ice cream?”

  “I’ll do better than that I promise.” He gives me a wide smile.

  “Oh, is that the surprise?”

  “No. The surprise is that I was able to fix it with one of the ladies at the Cultural Center to change workdays with me. So I’m going to have two days off this week to be with you. Next week I’ll work straight through the seven day work week. It won’t be bad because it will keep me from missing you.” He smiles. “Is that a nice surprise? We’ll have two whole days together.”

  “Oh, Jay, you doll! That’s the best news you could give me other than coming to New York.” I leave my food and lie next to him and cover his face with kisses. He laughs and puts his arms around me and studies my face.

  “Have you been crying?”

  “Yeah, get used to it. It’s a girl thing.” I try to smile.

  “No tears, that’s a guy thing. We’re gonna’ celebrate our love this week. We can always cry next week. Hmm?” I don’t have time to answer because he is already on top of me kissing me. “Kate, this morning when I said I wasn’t interested in marrying again, I thought that’s what I wanted. But all day I’ve been thinking about what you told me at the diner the day of the home dance. You said you wanted a husband and a family. You could persuade me.”

  There’s that little smile as he looks into my eyes and kisses me deeply.

  I guess you know the rest, right? And in case you’re wondering, there’s nothing as amazing as seeing your lover’s eyes against the backdrop of the blue sky.

  As he sleeps, I wonder, what would happen if I didn’t go home? I cradle Jay in my arms and I ask myself, if I could just walk away from my old life and never look back? Do I have the guts to stay here with this man? There could be many more nights like this…if only...

  Chapter 6

  As the week comes to a close we talk less and love more. Neither one can find a solution. We are both mature enough to know that the separation is the test. We decide to just give it time and see what the next several months will bring.

  So I leave among tears and kisses not sure I will ever see Jay again. In my apartment I begin to unpack. I break into sobs as I find Jay’s colorful blanket carefully hidden in my suitcase. When my crying subsides I unfold it to find a neatly printed note.

  Until we are together again, keep warm in my love.

  I hug the blanket as the tears come gushing out. I end up wrapping myself up in it like a cocoon and rocking myself to sleep.

  My old life leaves me in a deep funk. Work is the only thing that sustains me; I am preoccupied. Jay and I speak every night and it helps. We both feel the loneliness and emptiness that separation brings. I want to send him a laptop so we can see each other as well as talk but he refuses. He says he has no money to pay for the internet fees. It’s then I find out he’s paying back a friend for money he borrowed for our trip to Santa Fe. The gallery hasn’t yet sent him his commission for the sold paintings. He also says sheepishly he doesn’t really know how to use the new computers. August fades into September.

  October brings the promise of cooler weather to the city. It is a Friday and I have 3 days off because of a holiday weekend. Normally I would have been making plans. Tonight I decide to take a shower and try to reach Jay again. I had phoned him twice earlier and couldn’t get through.

  I guess I didn’t tell you, I live in a renovated brownstone a few blocks from work. My parents happen to own the building so not only do I pay cheap rent, I also have the garden apartment with the backyard. The only drawback is that the apartment is at street level and street noise is a factor. To those not acquainted with New York brownstones, they were once built for the wealthy that employed servants. Hence, my apartment has the servant’s entrance, the door under the stone stairs.

  The buzzer rings, “Who is it?” I ask, dreading company.

  “Special Delivery for little moaner from Arizona.”

  “OMG, Jay? Is it you? OMG, come in. I don’t believe this.” Looking like my mother with wet hair in a terry robe and bunny slippers I open the door with shaking hands.

  There he stands.

  His brown eyes are melting me with his backpack and duffle bag in hand.

  “I can’t take this anymore. I had to come.”

  “Oh baby, why didn’t you tell me, I could have met you at the airport?”

  “I took the bus.”

  “The bus?”

  “Stop talking,” he says over the traffic noise.

  He drops his bag and begins kissing me. In the process I manage to kick the apartment door closed with my foot. It closes with a bang which startles Jay who thinks it’s a gun shot. He jumps, I continue my questioning.

  “Jay, why did you take a bus?”

  “It’s cheap.”

  “But it must have taken days.”

  “Oh, it was long. Kate, tonight I need three things: a shower, you, and a bed.”

  “You got it, baby. Just let me lock this door; this is New York. The bus terminal is on 34th Street, isn’t it? Oh sweetheart, you walked all that way, I bet. I think maybe a shower and bed would be more realistic.”

  After a shower, Jay flops on my bed and spots his blanket. “I’m glad to see my old friend.” He pats the wooly covering.

  I smile. “Your blanket and I have become very close. I’ve washed it with my tears many nights. It’s never left my bed.”

  “I wanted you to have something of me. This old thing was all I had.”

  I lie down next to him and kiss his tender face. “No one has ever given me a more precious gift from the heart. I do have your paintings but I can’t wrap myself in them.”

  “Paintings?” He notices the painting across the room. “That’s my painting but that’s not the one I gave you.”

  “No, that one is hanging in the living room. This one was the only painting that hadn’t sold when the exhibit closed in Santa Fe. I called the gallery on the last day and asked if any paintings of yours were left. They said only this one so I bought it with instructions that you were not to know who it was sold to.”

  “But you know I would have given it to you.”

  “Exactly.”

  He gives me that slight smile and I find out he isn’t too tired for me after all.

  ***

  Over breakfa
st the next morning Jay says he’s packed everything he owns and put it in storage, taken all the money he had from the sale of the paintings, and plans to stay in New York as long as the money holds out. I figure he has fifteen to twenty thousand dollars on him which is probably the most money he’s ever had. I don’t want him to spend it, especially on me. He never lets me pay for anything no matter how I try to reason with him.

  I have to think fast. In Santa Fe I had tried to slip a twenty dollar bill in his pocket every once in a while but after the third time he caught on. I find the ideal solution on our walk in Central Park that afternoon.

  “Jay, I don’t feel good about your using the money you earned from your paintings for this trip. Some of that money should be saved and some should be used to buy new art supplies. New York is a very expensive place. A cup of coffee can run you $6.00. Selfishly I want you to be with me as long as you can so I have an idea. How do you feel about working?”

  “Sure, I guess I could go back to the galleries in SOHO and try there.”

  “No, I mean with me at AMA. Not literally with me because I’ll be upstairs but working downstairs with the art handlers. They’re a different department.”

  “Um, I guess if you won’t feel strange having me there. But I don’t think I have enough experience to be working in a big museum like AMA, Kate.”

  “What do you mean by strange?”

  “You know what I mean. Everyone there is sophisticated and urbane and here I am a Hopi from a tiny reservation in the southwest that most people have never heard about. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  “We’re back to the ethnic thing again, hunh?”

  “You can’t ignore it.”

  “Jay, there is a picture of you and me taken in Santa Fe that has been sitting on my desk in the office ever since I got back from Arizona. All my friends in the museum know about our romance. If you are here when we have a museum reception, I would want you to accompany me to the event. I will never feel uncomfortable if some urbane person hasn’t heard of the Hopis or if they are upset at seeing us as a couple. Their ignorance is their problem.”

  He looks in my eyes and gives me one of his half smiles. “Kate, that’s why I love you, but what about my lack of experience?”

  “You have enough experience to work there. We’ll write a resume tomorrow. Besides, the guys in that department owe me big time for covering their asses more than once. With the new exhibits coming in, they’ll need extra help this month.”

  ***

  Tuesday morning Jay stares at me and says, “Kate, I almost wouldn’t recognize you.”

  “This is my professional look, hair up, make-up, business suit, heels. You’re used to seeing me in jeans and a tee shirt, no make-up and long hair…that’s weekend Kate.” I laugh.

  “But that’s the Kate I love.”

  “Oh, you’ll get use to this bossy one. Now, come on or I’ll be late.”

  Once in the museum, I show him around my office and the department. Not many people are in yet so I take him downstairs to the preparators. Miguel is at his desk with eyes closed sipping a cup of coffee.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He opens his eyes.

  “Miguel, this is my man who came all the way from Arizona to be with me. So you gotta’ take care of him. I’m callin’ in a few favors. You know you owe me. My man needs work and you’re the man to make it happen. Here’s his resume so it official. Did you have a nice weekend?”

  “You know I always have a nice weekend.” He says with a wink.

  “Good, because if you want more nice weekends get my man a job, dig?”

  “Yo’ man look like a brother, I’ll take care of him.” Turning to Jay he says, “Yo’ Kate is a mean mother.” Jay looks concerned and turns to look at me as I hurry out suppressing a giggle. I see no more of Jay until 5:00.

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, I guess I’m hired as a temp for this exhibition. I kinda’ followed Miguel around today to get a feel for the place. I filled out some forms and I start after my references are checked. Oh, I put you down as a reference.” He grins. “Miguel said that I should be working here by the start of next week.”

  Everything is going as planned. Jay is hired. Things seem to be perfect. We stroll home after work hand in hand, sometimes stopping to eat out or sometimes heading for the park. Miguel tells Jay where to pick up cheap art supplies. We take the bus down to the village, that’s Greenwich Village, and carry tons of stuff back on a Saturday afternoon while people gawk at us.

  Jay begins painting outside and it makes my heart sing to watch him in the little backyard. He had shown me some of his earlier work before I left Arizona but none quite equaled the six paintings he took to Santa Fe. He is maturing as an artist and he needs to keep painting. My dream is to be the one working and him to be the one painting full time, that’s vital for his success.

  Yes, things seem to be perfect!

  Chapter 7

  As I said things were perfect until the telephone call from mother. She had heard from my sister, Cara, that I had a boyfriend…a live-in boyfriend, no less. Why hadn’t she been told? Why hadn’t she and my father met him? Who was I ashamed of, him or them? This was the payback for living in the brownstone with cheap rent, my mother’s constant inquisitions.

  “So what’s his name?”

  “Jay”

  “So does he have a last name?”

  “Lomatewama”

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  “It’s Hopi.”

  “Kate, is he from a third world country?”

  “Well, in a way you could say that. He’s from the Hopi reservation in Arizona.”

  “Oh my God, Charles, your daughter is going to marry an Indian.”

  I could hear my father yell back, “So now they’re outsourcing husbands, too.”

  “No, Charles, not that kind of Indian, an American Indian, you know like cowboys and Indians.”

  “Mother, they are called Native Americans now.”

  “Kate, your brother became a surgeon and married a doctor, your sister is a designer and married an architect. You are a museum curator, who are you going to marry?”

  “Mother, who mentioned marriage? Jay hasn’t asked me to marry him. He’s an artist and I think in a few years he will be a very good one. But he’s given up a lot to come here and be with me. You and Father can meet him but don’t you dare start any insulting cowboys and Indians talk or I’ll walk right out. We can come over for lunch on Sunday. Father can grill some burgers, nothing fancy. Oh, invite Cara and Mark; I’d like them to meet Jay, too.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “No, let’s not overwhelm Jay with family. Mother, remember, informal, we’ll be in jeans. Jay is very casual.”

  “So we’ll be casual.”

  I hang up dreading what will follow.

  After becoming empty nesters my parents sold their home in Connecticut and bought a condo overlooking the Hudson River. It was filled with antiques and oversized pieces of furniture from the house and was anything but Zen. Nothing my parents did was ever laid-back or simple. I knew the little luncheon would turn into a fiasco. Somehow I would have to prepare Jay for a very unique experience.

  We buy wine and flowers and take the bus over on Sunday. I have tried to prepare Jay all week about what he will see and hear. He wears his slight smile and looks so damn cool, I don’t know if he needs my help.

  The first comment Mother whispers as we enter is, “You didn’t tell me he wore his hair in a bun.”

  Cara winks and whispers, “He’s cute, I see why you fell for him.” At least someone will be on my side.

  Of course, we don’t have burgers; Father grills steaks, salmon and chicken. Mother dominates most of the conversation, probing Jay with questions. Thankfully, Mark jumps in and speaks about his many trips to the southwest. Cara asks how Jay likes working at AMA which peaks Mother’s curiosity. Now she knows he has a paying j
ob at a big institution that silences her for the moment. I steer the conversation to Cara and Mark’s new house in Greenwich, that’s Greenwich, CT. I tell Jay he has to see the house since Mark designed it.

  “Do you live with your parents on the reservation?” Mother begins.

  “No, they died years ago.”

  “What kind of business was your father in?”

  “He was a miner and a farmer. The Peabody Western Coal Mine is a big mine on the reservation.”

  I can see Mother rolling her eyes. Luckily, Jay was spearing his meat.

  “Any siblings?”

  “I had a sister who died as a child; and I have two brothers who moved away to get work and never return to Hopiland.”

  Mother harrumphed.

  “So what kind of a name is Hopi? The New York Indians have long names, like the Rockaways, the Shinnechocks, the Setaukets, the Marsapeaques, the Canarsies. Those are just the names of Long Island tribes. Then you have the upstate tribes like the Algonquin, the Iroquois, the Onondagas, and the Tonawandas. Why is your tribe’s name so short?” My Mother asks indelicately.

  “Hopi is derived from Hopituh,” he answers softly, “or more precisely from Hopituh Shi-nu-mu. Our language comes from the ancient Aztec. We are the only Pueblo people to speak this language.”

  I interrupt. “Hopituh Shi-nu-mu, isn’t that pleasant sounding?” I look at my mother who watches Jay smile at me.

  “Mrs. Knighty, there are New York tribes with short names, for example the Mohawks, Cayugas and Seneccas.”

  Yes! I cheer inwardly. I wink at him across the table; he won’t let her ruffle him.

  Everyone except mother smiles. I’m wondering on what cocktail napkin or paper placemat she read this information on Native American tribe names. She really is a corker! But she continues.

  “Well, how many of you are there?”

  “Mother, please, will you let him eat,” I snap.

  “It’s fine, I’m used to these questions on my tours.” He gives me his slight smile. “There are about 7,000 Hopi living on the rez…the reservation, according to the 2000 census.” He smiles at Mother.