by Sandi Ault
“What?! You’ve never made the trip up the mountain with the tribe?”
“No. This isn’t my tribe, Jamaica. I don’t even speak the native language here. I’m from Cochiti Pueblo down south. I have never been invited to ride up the mountain to the Indigo Falls.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“This is a small pueblo. There are only so many families. Some of the young men and women have to marry outside the tribe to avoid inbreeding. It is common that a member of the pueblo will marry someone from outside.”
“But then, you aren’t included in the ceremonies?”
“Some of them. And sometimes after a long time in a marriage, a few chosen ones will be included in nearly all of them, the ones who learn the language. But I have never been invited. And I don’t speak Tiwa. My son will take my place, and my husband’s place, in all tribal activities now. These are Angel’s people, and this is his home. The house we live in is his house. I am here only to care for him.”
After this, a pregnant silence. I almost dared not speak again. But I had to ask a few more questions. “So, before all this kiva training—what can you tell me about your husband’s life, his routines, the people he hung out with?”
She sighed. “I might not be the best person to ask. We fought a lot. He would go away angry. He drank, sometimes a lot. I stayed away sometimes, too, when I knew he’d be home with Angel. But mostly he was at the computer lab. He practically lived there.”
“Was he working with the kids all that time?”
“I don’t know. I just know that I could almost always find him there if I wanted to.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Do you know anything about a man named Ron who might have known your husband?”
“Yeah, Ron…what was that he called him? Dirty Ron? Crazy Ron? I can’t remember, he had some nickname for him.”
“So who is this guy?”
“I don’t know, but I think he had something to do with the computers my husband bought for the lab.”
“And you don’t remember the nickname?”
“Ah, shoot! I know it—I just can’t recall it right now. It was just some little name my husband called him. He would get ready to go out in the evening and say, ‘Well, I have to go meet Shabby Ron,’ or whatever it was. And off he’d go to the lab. I never met the man.”
“If you remember the name, will you jot it down and tell me? Maybe I can contact this guy and find out anything he might know. This Ron—whoever he is, it doesn’t sound like someone from the pueblo.”
She laughed. “No. My husband did not have too many friends here. When his family was on the war council a few years ago, he made many proposals to the tribe. He and his brother, Frank, tried to institute some changes that made them very unpopular with a lot of the elders. Yellow Hawk tried to mediate, but there was a big power struggle. They ended up having a lot of bad feelings all around. That was the year the casino got built. Even though my husband wanted a lot of modern changes—English literacy programs for the elderly, medical training for those who take care of the old and the sick, business training and assistance for entrepreneurs in the tribe, and computer training for the young people—he was against the casino. All his family was. They felt it was an unhealthy move for the tribe, all for the sake of greed. In the year they served on the war council, everything they tried to do was voted down. There are still hard feelings.”
“Do you mind if I ask what the trouble was between you and your husband, Madonna?”
She bit her bottom lip, her eyes glistened. “I don’t know exactly where to start. This was not his first marriage. He has sons almost as old as me. They’re always in trouble, and they always need money. My husband couldn’t say no to them.”
I nodded my head.
“I am not a saint either, Jamaica. I suppose you already know that. I had a daughter before we were married, by another man. I was not married then, I was only a child myself. My daughter lives with my mother at Cochiti. She will be fourteen next month—she’ll be the same age as I was when I had her. She already had her Becomes Woman ceremony and everything, where she had to grind corn for four days and everyone went from house to house singing her name. I went there for the ceremony, and I felt ashamed that there was no father there to sing for her. I missed my people then, and I felt like I lived in three worlds—my home at Cochiti, my life here, and the modern world we have to live in now in order to survive. It’s not easy when you have all that to deal with.
“But…I guess I don’t understand some things about the way people live here. My husband seemed like a pretty forward-thinking guy. We both agreed that we live in modern times and can’t go back to the past, so we’re not going to live as if we’re trying to ignore progress. But he started building that house five years ago, and nothing is finished in it. I wanted nice things, and he told me I was being greedy. I was lonely at home with Angel all day, so I went out and got a job. My husband never forgave me for that. But my job made it possible for us to have a new car, some nice furniture, good clothes. I want Angel to have nice things, too.”
“And you fought about that? About money? And things?”
“Yes. And about what a woman is supposed to do in this world.”
“So…your spouse wanted you to assume a more traditional role as a wife?”
She snickered. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Even though he wanted so much education and economic viability for the young people of the tribe?”
“It doesn’t make sense, does it? Well, the lab is just right over there.”
Ahead of us was the Indian Center, a beautiful new building where important community events transpired: lessons in basket weaving and micaceous clay pottery making, lectures on care for diabetes and high blood pressure, and food stamp and surplus product distribution. Here, federal employees worked to serve the tribe in a variety of programs. Because the pueblo was closed, the Indian Center was vacant, or at least its parking lot was empty. Madonna pulled around into a dirt lot behind the big building. The computer lab was a portable metal classroom set on dirt among the sagebrush, made level by concrete blocks and some railroad ties. A family of tumbleweeds had lodged beneath the wooden steps up to the door of the lab. The wind buffeted and caused the steps to creak. It was hot, and the blowing dust felt like it was sandblasting my skin as I got out of the car.
“Looks like there’s no one here. You’re lucky this is Quiet Time, and computers and things like that are forbidden right now. Normally, this place is full of kids, no matter what time of day. Only time my husband could find any peace to work here was at night, so that’s when he came to write programs, grants, lessons for the young people, things like that. He said it was the only time he could hear himself think. I brought some keys from the house—we’ll just have to see if one of them works.”
Inside, the space was divided into two sections. In one half of the room, a few rugs were spread on the floor and a half circle was made of large woven pillows adorned with images of turtles, bison, horses, and wolves. A painted gourd rattle, with a hawk talon for a handle, and a blackened micaceous pottery smudge bowl sat in the center of a rug. On the other side, a row of computers squatted like one-eyed gargoyles on desks made from doors and sawhorses. Above these, on the wall, spread a display of students’ computer artwork. Vivid, primary colors illuminated the name Aerosmith across one large sheet of paper, done in a futuristic font with a host of graphic arrows going outward from the band’s name in all directions. A cubist face of a brave in red and green war paint stared out from another piece of paper. Another entry in this exhibit was a long, winding red-dirt road with a platoon of red chess pawns placed along its length. A giant white hand reached down to reposition one of the pawns. At the bottom, the title of the piece was The Red Road.
I turned to Madonna, who was shuffling through some papers on a desk. “Is this what your mate was teaching? Computer graphics?”
She looked up at me. “Actually,
I think that was just the students playing around with some of the programs. I think he was teaching them basic computer applications—you know, word processing, spreadsheets, presentations.”
“But there’s a lot of artwork here.”
“I know. A bunch of the kids liked to hang out here and do that stuff. It was kind of like a club. They came every day after school. My husband said it kept them out of trouble. He encouraged anything that made them computer literate.”
I walked to the desk where she was riffling through papers. “Is this where he worked?”
“Yes. He did his grant writing here, and he designed programs and developed learning exercises for the kids to do.”
I pressed the power key. “Mind if we look at his hard drive and see what’s on there?”
“No, I was just looking through these papers…sometimes he would write letters to Angel in Tiwa, on the computer. He wanted his son to know his native tongue as well as how to operate a computer. He would write short notes to him in the tribal language. Sometimes he’d print them out with a little picture, but sometimes he’d tell Angel to check in his file on the computer, that there would be something in there for him. Angel comes here with his Head Start group in the mornings.”
“Angel comes here to study Tiwa with Hunter Contreras?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know a kid named Sam Dreams Eagle?”
“Know him? He’s Angel’s best friend. Even though Sam’s a couple years older than him, they play together all the time.”
“Does Sam come here for Head Start, too?”
“Well, he used to. Now he’s in elementary school. But I heard his old granny sent him and his brother to the Indian School in Santa Fe this week. Probably got too much for her to deal with—she’s hard of hearing, you know, and I think she’s losing her sight, too. Angel keeps saying that Sam ran away. He doesn’t understand why his friend had to leave.”
By this time the display was up and the cursor prompted for a user password.
“I know this.” Madonna smiled. She typed quickly. “Angel told me one night when I was putting him to bed and we’d talked about secrets. I shared one with him, and he shared this one with me.”
Once I had access to the computer’s desktop, I pulled out a chair and sat down.
“That’s funny,” Madonna said. “Usually there’s a picture of an angel right there on the desktop, right in that corner. That’s an icon for his file. It’s not there now. In fact, there used to be a lot of stuff on the screen when you first booted up, shortcuts to files with pictures and documents in them. It looked like a comic book. Now it’s all blank!”
I scanned the contents of the hard drive. “Everything’s been deleted. Nothing but native applications, no document files, no picture files, nothing. It looks like there’s nothing on this computer that wasn’t there when it came out of the box.”
Madonna drew up. Her face looked stern. “What happened to my husband’s letters to Angel?”
“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Could they have switched the computers around? Could another one of these be the one?”
“No,” Madonna said. “See that microphone resting on the top of the monitor? He used that to record little messages for Angel. He had voice-recognition software—none of the other computers had it. He worked with that software for a long time on the computer at home to get it to work with his native tongue.”
I checked the list of recent applications on the hard drive and saw SpeakAloud. I tried to find the application but had no success. “Maybe he has another code or a password on this.”
“If he does, I don’t know it.”
“Does anybody else use his computer here? Any of the kids? That Ron guy?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. You saw that I had to use a password to log on. Unless somebody knew it, I don’t think they could even get to the desktop.”
“How about Contreras? Does he use computers when he teaches the kids the language?”
Madonna laughed. “Are you kidding? It’s a miracle that guy will even allow Indians to drive cars around here. He doesn’t want much to do with anything that’s going to change the way the pueblo has been for the past few centuries. If he could, he’d turn back the clock and I’d be chewing a buffalo hide to soften it tonight—after I served dinner and washed everyone’s feet.”
I looked through the items atop Santana’s desk: a pile of papers including a PC supply house catalog, files of grant paperwork for the computer literacy program, letters to the high school requesting that students be given opportunities to use computer equipment; a stack of blank data CDs; a ream of printer paper; and some sticky notes. Above the monitor, tacked to the wall, were a list of the students’ names and phone numbers, a photo of Madonna with Angel as a baby, another photo of Angel on the lap of a department store Santa Claus, and a group shot of the Head Start kids sitting in their semicircle on their pillows, with Contreras at the hub, his back to the camera. I turned and looked toward the area where the small children studied their native language. It was as if the photo were taken right from in front of Santana’s desk—everything lined up perfectly in the picture just as I saw it from where I stood.
“Did your partner and Contreras get along?”
“Oh, I think they had their differences, but they worked them out. I know when Hunter was looking for space for his language program, my husband really wanted them here. They could have used the Indian Center—which has much nicer rooms—because that program is federally funded. They wouldn’t have had to share a room like this. But Hunter didn’t want any of the white people who worked there to overhear the language and maybe learn some of it.” She chuckled at this. “My husband made the high school kids come one day and move all the computers over against one wall to make space for them. And he wanted Angel in the program, too.”
“Can I see your computer at home?”
“Oh, we don’t have it anymore. I sold it.”
“You sold it?”
“Yes. After a point, my husband was always working here, never at home. He didn’t use it anymore. I figured we could use the money.”
30
Looking for Clues
When I returned to town, I stopped at the vet clinic to see my beloved Mountain. “My name’s Steve,” the tech told me, offering his hand. “I’m the one taking care of your wolf today. He’s still not conscious, but his pulse rate has stabilized and we’re not as worried about respiratory failure—at least for right now. We’re just hoping he’ll come out of this coma. We’ve moved him to one of our large cells with its own run. We put him right on the floor, and even for a while packed him with some ice. It’s so hot today, and it’s cool on that concrete slab. Atropine affects the body’s ability to regulate temperature, so we have done everything we can to keep him cool. He’s just resting, and we’re checking on him every half hour or so. We have him on some IV fluids to keep him from getting dehydrated. There’s nothing else we can do.”
“Can I see him?”
“Sure, c’mon back.”
In gray light a beautiful carpet of blond and black fur lay completely inanimate against cold cement. The tech opened the cell gate and I went in. I touched Mountain’s face. I could hear small breaths. I put my hand to his chest. A weak heartbeat. I sat on the floor and looked at him, touching his feet, his legs, his face, his ears. I raised one of his lifeless paws and pressed it over my face. I always loved the way his pads smelled, wild and warm and wolflike. A place on his foreleg had been shaved, and a bandage secured an intravenous valve connected to a long plastic tube leading to a bag of clear liquid that hung from the wire cage wall. I maneuvered myself behind him and lay down, pressing my body into his back. I could feel the weak whisper of life within him, fighting for a foothold. Tears poured from my eyes and I felt like my chest would split open. I pushed myself closer and ran my fingers through the long, beautiful ruff at his neck. I stroked his side and buried my face in the back of his h
ead. I willed my heart to open and beat for both of us, my lungs to breathe enough air to feed his body, too, my spirit to dive into the uncertain abyss between life and death and find Mountain, lift him up, and bring him home again. I thought for a brief moment that if he died, I wanted to die, too, to go with him and never be apart from him again. And I cried aloud, such a wail that Steve opened the door and looked in on me—then said nothing and closed the door again.
A voice woke me. “Ms. Wild? We’re about to close for the evening. I thought I’d let you know. You’re welcome to stay—I’m going to sleep on a cot here in the surgery room and keep an eye on Mountain. In fact, we’re about to hook up another IV to give your wolf some liquid nourishment. But I thought you might like to know we’re closing up the clinic and everyone else is leaving.”
I lifted my arm from around Mountain’s neck. I felt his nose, and it was dry, but there was a little breath coming out. “What time is it?”
“It’s seven. The doctor has already left for the day.”
“I have to go somewhere. But I’m coming back when I’m finished.”
“Well, okay, I guess that would be all right. Just knock at the back door, around behind the building.”
I knelt on the concrete floor and lowered my face into the crook of Mountain’s neck. “I’ll be back, buddy, as quick as I can. Wait for me, okay?”
I stopped by the market just as Jesse was locking the door. “Buenas tardes, Jamaica!” he said. “Hey, got a new car?”
“I’m sorry to ask this, Jesse, but could I come in and just pick up a few things, really quick?”
“I guess so. Hey, where’s Mountain? Isn’t he with you?”
“He…I…” I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself.
Jesse opened the door and stood aside for me to enter. As I walked through, he patted me on the back. “There, there, now. Tell me where El Lobo is. I want to know.”
“He’s at the vet. I think someone poisoned him.” In spite of myself, I started to cry. “I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”