Owen's Daughter

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  Next, Skye pulled aside the torn window curtain to allow some light into the bathroom. She saw her dad and Joe leaning against the corral fence, laughing and feeding the horses as another pickup drove off. She envied the way men could pick up friendships wherever they had left off, no matter how many years passed. After she’d married Rocky, the few friends she’d had pretty much disappeared. They went off to college, or got jobs in New York, or got married to guys with normal jobs and had their babies—planned ones, not by accident.

  Her dad and Joe were out there so long, she went back to the kitchen area to make the coffee herself. All Joe had was a big can of ground Folgers. No cream or even powdered milk, but there was a ten-pound bag of sugar. While she waited for the water to boil, she picked up Joe’s iPhone and tried Rocky’s number. Nothing but a full mailbox message. What if he’d taken Gracie and run off? What if she never saw her little girl again? She tried what she thought was Rita’s number, but her closest guess turned out to be, of all places, a tire store. Near tears, she cleared a space on the table, laid her head down on her arms, and cried herself to sleep.

  She woke up cranky, with a sore neck. Joe and her dad were playing cards at the table beside her. Her dad was dealing. Joe let his cards sit facedown in front of him. “I got a feeling about this hand,” Joe said. “Bet me something worthwhile, like your truck.”

  “Hell, no,” her dad said. “That old truck of mine has never let me down, other than throwing a tire now and then. Everything I own in the world’s inside it.”

  “Then bet me something else,” Joe insisted. “How about your Levi jacket with the sheep fleece lining?”

  “A, it would fall off your skinny old carcass, and B, I won’t bet you a dime unless you offer me something worthwhile in return. You’ve had the excellent companionship of my dog for the last ten years, and since I been here you got fifty dollars of mine for the hay, not to mention exciting company. Tell me some rez news. Is Verbena still weaving? How’s her daughter, Minnie?”

  Joe looked away. “Those ones. A car accident.”

  “The both of them?”

  Joe looked up toward the ceiling, which Skye saw was holding a cobweb contest. “Gone.”

  “Sorry I asked,” her dad said.

  “Ah, cheer up. I’m still here. And it’s about time for my herbal treatment. I’m happy to share.”

  Skye turned her head and stared at him. “No way am I sitting here while you smoke marijuana and cause me to fail a drug test.”

  Joe smiled. “Beauty speaks! No need to fret over legalities. I got a prescription for it.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  He lit his pipe, took one hit, and put it out. “Ah,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Hits the spot all right.”

  “What spot’s that?”

  “The nerves in my legs. Got some painfulness, you know?”

  “Did you leave me any coffee?” she croaked. Her arms smelled like Comet, and that cloud of smoke Joe exhaled smelled like something that had been run over. She waved her hand. “Why does pot have to smell so bad?”

  Joe took the pipe out of his mouth and set it on the table. “Last time I saw you, Miss Sara Kay, you was still in diapers. Now you’re a full-grown woman. Thank the powers you don’t take after your dad. He’s a nice guy, but he has an ugly old mug I wouldn’t wish on the dog.”

  “It’s Skye now, and you shut the hell up,” she said. “That right there is my dad you’re talking smack about.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. “Aieee! Got her snake-charmed already. So, Owen. How was the pen? They having you punch plates or what?”

  Who was Owen? Was it some kind of nickname? Skye knew she needed coffee before asking that question.

  “Nah,” her father said. “Since I was a model prisoner, I learned how to train service dogs. It was a bundle of fun compared to working in the laundry, where I was the rest of the time.”

  Joe laughed. “Steamed your pores open, init?”

  Her dad laughed, and Skye watched the two men joke with each other, close as brothers. All these years her dad was a fuzzy memory to her, and the real thing turned out to be so different, she had to make room for it. “How long have you two known each other?” she asked.

  Joe overturned his cards and dropped them on the table. “Man, is my good old Injun intuition off today. This is the worst hand in the history of Bicycle cards.” He got up, poured Skye coffee, fetched an open can of sweetened, condensed milk, and set it on the table next to her cup.

  “Doesn’t anyone ever answer a question around here?” Skye said.

  Joe laughed. “I was getting around to it. Shoot, has to be twenty-odd years now. Your old man and I used to calf rope together. They called us the cowboy and the Indian. Man, we were good. Kills me that I can’t ride no more. My spine is disintegrating. Of course, so’s my mule’s. What a world, eh?”

  “You been to see the sawbones?” Owen asked.

  “Surgery’s a waste of time. Nothing they can do except plug me full of pain medication, and I been sober two years now, so none of that for me. If it comes from a plant, smoke it. If it’s made in a plant, refuse it. I got everything I need with the farmacia.”

  “Pain pretty bad?” her dad asked.

  Joe smiled. “It’s not something I look forward to every morning.”

  “How do you get by?” Skye asked.

  Joe held up his pipe. “This, when it gets bad. Otherwise, I use my Jedi mind tricks. I think of the best sex I ever had. So many choices! Might take hours! Or I take my mule for a walk, talk to the dog, stroll down memory lane, or make a sandwich. I love me a fresh sandwich. What else do you need in life?”

  Owen snapped his fingers and the old heeler got to his three feet, rear end wagging, and headed toward the table.

  “That dog,” Joe said. “He’s one heck of a listener.”

  Skye could tell the Indian loved him.

  “I got to say, I didn’t expect to see him alive,” her dad said.

  “Yeah, prison can make you hopeless.”

  “Very funny,” her dad said. “Dog’s name is Hopeful,” he explained to Skye.

  “On account of he was the only pup out of the litter to wag his stump when he saw your dad’s face,” Joe said.

  Skye compared the limping Indian and her dad and saw they weren’t much different. Both looked rode hard, both were wearing old clothes, but Joe’s ponytail was neatly braided and her dad’s hair was recently cut. “Which one of you wants to explain to me who this ‘Owen’ is?”

  Joe whistled. “That’s one for your dad.”

  Her dad squatted and used his fingers to comb the dog. Just like any heeler, whatever time of year, he was blowing his coat and clots of hair drifted about freely. For a long while Skye just stared and waited while her dad focused all his attention on the dog.

  Joe tapped her arm. “Sleeping Beauty? Need a refill?”

  “No, thanks. My heart’s going like a jackhammer. What’s in this stuff? Doubt I’ll sleep for a week.”

  “High-test coffee and herbs. It’s a secret blend only us Navs know about,” he said.

  “This better not make me fail a drug test,” she said.

  “Relax. Some creosote and yerba buena.” He winked. “Thanks for tidying up my lavatory.”

  Skye ignored the wink. “You have something personal against cleanliness?”

  “Women’s work,” he said gruffly, and then laughed at her outraged expression. “Got you going for a minute there. Do you realize what a great guy your dad is? He saved my life more than once.”

  “I was wondering where all your scars came from. Were you guys fighting buddies or something?”

  “Mine are courtesy of the U.S. Armadillo,” Joe answered. “Thought I was gonna be a warrior for my country. Famous, like the code talkers. Turned out I was duped by the Man.”

  “Hence all the protest signs?”

  “Nah, the sign carrying is just a pastime. Mainly I enjoy whipping up all the cowboys down at the W
almart. I focus my attention on herbs and native plants for old-timey medicine. I operate the rez farmacia.”

  “Somehow I can’t really picture you and my dad being friends.”

  “That’s because he’s a different guy from your childhood dad. Bill Sampson, he wasn’t much good, I hate to say. Owen, he’s the real warrior in the game of life.”

  Skye thought that remained to be seen. “And his dog?”

  “Hope’s the most useful dog I ever met. He’s killed, let me think, four or five rattlesnakes? Got ’em nailed to a board, somewhere around here. Tourists buy the skins for making belts. Anybody got a gopher coming into their garden, they borrow Hope, and poof! Bunch of dead gophers lined up. Not afraid of nothing.”

  “Hope? He looks older than you. How’s that possible?”

  “Them heelers are tough like a dingo. I expect someday he just won’t wake up. I’ll miss that old bugger when your dad takes him back.”

  “Where the hell are we going to put a dog?” Skye said. “Mama’s pied-à-terre has only one real bedroom. One of us is going to have to sleep on the floor.”

  Her dad shrugged. “I won’t be there that long.” He got up and walked outside, the dog following.

  Joe said, “Hope don’t take up much space. He’s an easy keeper. Sleeps under the trailer. Feeds himself hen’s eggs, shells and all, when I forget to feed him.”

  “How can you forget to feed a dog?”

  “Does he look like he’s starving to you?”

  Skye sipped her coffee, which tasted like melted butter-pecan ice cream thanks to the sweetened condensed milk. She was grateful for the caffeine rush and the sugar, but instantly nervous at how good it made her feel. If it felt good, she immediately wanted to overdo it. That’s addiction talking, Duncan would say. She sat across from this crazy Indian, drinking away a full pot of coffee as if that were natural, and all around her were packets of “herbs” and pot smoke. She listened to Joe’s explanation of each herb’s properties, pretending to be interested, and watched while her dad trailered up the horses. She and Joe joined him outside to discover that the wind had come up fierce enough for her to shut her eyes. It was throwing sand around like wedding confetti. They were about to head out when her dad began a conversation with the dog.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said, bending down on one knee like he was going to propose. “If you want to stay here, I’m good with that. I been gone a long time, long enough for you to change alliances. But if you want to come along, that’s all right, too. I will feed and water you before myself, and I promise I won’t leave you again until one of us heads to the Pearly Gates. Up to you.”

  And the crazy thing was, the dog cocked his head as if he were thinking about it. He went back to Joe, head butting the old Indian on the knee, then turned and leapt into the cab of the truck.

  “Traitor!” Joe said, laughing. Without saying good-bye, he went back indoors and shut his door. At least for now he has a clean bathroom, Skye thought.

  Her dad laughed. “Scoot over,” he told the dog. “Otherwise how am I going to drive this bucket of bolts to Burque?”

  Skye got in the passenger side. “I still want to know who this ‘Owen’ is.”

  “Long story,” her dad said.

  “Last time I checked, it took five or six hours to drive to Albuquerque.”

  “I don’t know if that’s enough time,” he said.

  “I ain’t giving up, Daddy.”

  “That’s readily apparent,” he said.

  While Skye watched the scenery go by, her father apparently collected his thoughts. When they drove past the turnoff for Cottonwoods, she gave it the finger.

  “Girl, you need to put a governor on that temper of yours.”

  “I inherited it from you.”

  “There’s this saying, maybe you’ve heard of it? ‘Do as I say, not as I do’?”

  “Your dog smells like cow pies fresh out of the oven,” she said.

  “I agree. First dog wash we come to, I’ll give him a bath.”

  Skye rolled down the window and yawned, hoping the fresh air would help a little. Instead, grit carried by the wind flew inside the cab and went right in her teeth. “Oh, yuck!” she said, spitting.

  Despite the coffee, Skye fell asleep hard, her head against the window. Her dreams were filled with Joe Yazzi in some kind of flying machine and her dad holding the string to a kite that turned out to be that smelly, three-legged heeler dog. When she next woke up, they were in Taos, at an Allsup’s. Her dad was filling the tank and the trailer was gone.

  “Where’re the horses?” she asked.

  “Left them at a ranch near here that boards. Don’t worry. Once we’re settled, we’ll come back and get them.”

  “Well, I might’ve liked to say good-bye.”

  “I can drive you back.”

  “Never mind.” She went to the bathroom (nice and clean) and then walked back to her dad. “Can I have a couple of bucks?” she asked.

  “What for?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “A box of Red Vines.”

  “Sara, that stuff is bad for you.”

  “It’s Skye now, Owen. S-k-y-e. It’s not like I’m asking for vodka. Though if you want me to be totally honest, that sounds even better.”

  He sighed and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Hate to tell you, but that feeling never goes away.”

  Skye accepted the five-dollar bill and said, “Don’t crush all my dreams at once.” She turned and walked back to the convenience store, feeling his eyes follow her. Didn’t even get to say bye to Lightning. Even though she hadn’t seen her dad for ten years, she had to take his word for it that her horse was safe. Son of a biscuit. As she scanned the aisles of candy, she thought of Gracie. Why did they put everything bad for you right up front, at kids’ eyes’ height, and make it affordable? Maybe if she ate only half the box, she wouldn’t gain any weight, but truly, her body was screaming for sugar, anything to soften the edges, and candy was legal.

  Back in the truck, she struggled to pry open the ungodly tight cellophane on the box, wondering whose marketing idea that was. Imagine if you made it to old ladyhood and had arthritis. This could take all freaking day. Then her dad took the box from her and stuck a key into it, making a rip. “Thanks,” she said.

  “My pleasure, so long as I get a couple of those whips.”

  “You’re as bad as me, aren’t you?”

  “‘I taught the weeping willow how to cry.’”

  Skye laughed. “Yeah, right. You and me, we’re potatoes in the patch.”

  “Huckleberry friends.”

  “Grapes in the bunch.”

  “Which make a healthy lunch.” He started the truck and put his head out the window to check for traffic. He was always a good driver. She remembered when he used to let her sit on his lap and steer. Dangerous, but it was fun.

  The licorice itself was slightly stale, sharp on the edges, which was perfect. Some folks liked aged wine; Skye liked licorice past its shelf date. She ate one stick in mincing pieces, while next to her the dog drooled. “You’re not my problem,” she said, but ended up giving him half a vine anyway.

  “That was kind of you,” her dad said.

  “You I am not talking to,” she answered.

  “What the heck happened in the last twenty seconds?”

  “I’ve got one word for you. Owen,” she said.

  He sighed. “Fine, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “Do I look like I’m worried about liking it?”

  “So long as that’s settled,” he said. “The name Owen means ‘warrior.’ Garrett is for Patrick Garrett, the unsung hero who killed Billy the Kid.”

  “Tell me the rest of it.”

  He talked about fresh starts, cutting ties with the past, pushing guilt out so that hope could settle in its place, and she mulled it over in her mind. Before she knew it, they were in Albuquerque, surrounded on the east side by the Sandia Mountains, home to t
he balloon festival, and north to south, crouched over the Rio Grande, the river Duncan called Tó Ba’áadi.

  Chapter 5

  At nine thirty Saturday morning, Margaret opened the door to check on her son. In D.C., where he lived, it was already eleven thirty a.m. She’d been up for two hours, finished the New York Times crossword puzzle, and done one load of the laundry he’d brought. His clothes were appallingly worn and faded, his pants shiny at the knees. Peter, always a clotheshorse, had come a long way from that, and she wondered why. After last night’s dinner, without asking, he’d fetched a bottle of wine and opened it up. This morning, she’d found the empty bottle in the recycling. Was he hung over? Was he still breathing? How did she summon the courage to ask him about his drinking? Was that even appropriate? He was twenty-five years old.

  She found it consoling to see that the adult Peter slept the same way he had as a teenager, before the accident. Facedown, feet hanging off the mattress on her convertible couch, a stranglehold on his pillow as if it were a life preserver. Echo II had curled up between his legs, her head resting on his thigh. The dog looked up at Margaret, wagged her tail, but made no move to jump off the bed for breakfast.

  Margaret didn’t mind. Peter had a way with animals. When he was a boy, he brought home nestlings, a baby chipmunk, and then one day, Echo, the puppy who waited by the front door until he returned from school every day. Peter wasn’t like that with people. Echo I had been the one to bring him back from the coma he’d suffered as a result of meningitis years ago, and his bond with animals had only grown. In Santa Fe, half the population would say it was being in the coma that caused it, that he’d come so close to the spirit world that he’d returned to the living profoundly altered.