by David Crow
“Yes, Dad.”
“Someday, I’ll write down all the stories about the Q—the cons, the screws, the punks, the stoolies, the lifers, the warden, and the chief psychiatrist. You wouldn’t believe the stories I heard in the yard—tons of unsolved murders committed by the cons. They’d laugh about how easy it was. Hell, mine are unsolved too. You’ll be able to read about them in my book—Murder Eight. After I die, you can publish it and make a lot of money. But for now, you need to learn how to steal without getting caught, how to keep secrets, how to be a good watcher, and how to help me when I really need it.”
“I’ll fight anybody who tries to hurt you, Dad.”
“That’s my boy,” he said, rubbing my head with his powerful right hand.
I was learning to be the son Dad wanted and hating every part of it.
The rest of our day was uneventful, except for loading the trunk with expensive tools and driving back to Gallup to meet Dad’s compadres, as he now called them.
AFTER HE SPOTTED GEORGE, OR thought he had, Dad took side streets in Gallup, staying away from Route 66. It was always busy with tourist traffic and too easy to miss vehicles and people. But as spooked as he was about the possible George sighting, he continued taking chances, visiting his lady friends who worked in businesses lining the street.
One time in a restaurant in Gallup, he strode right over to a waitress and kissed her without checking around first. I went to him and said he wasn’t being careful. He punched me in the chest, his face full of disgust. But later in the car, he reached over and gently squeezed my knee. “You were right,” he said.
I had to save Dad from himself.
On our way back from Shiprock on another stealing trip, Dad kept going south at Yah-ta-hey, and when we arrived in Gallup, he turned left on Route 66. It was extra crowded that day, Navajos and tourists everywhere. What was he thinking? If I reminded him about being careful, he’d probably punch me again, so I stayed quiet.
Crawling along the street in the heavy traffic, he glanced in the rearview mirror and yelled, “Shit!”
He took a fast right on Fourth Street, driving over the curb, and then the first left on Coal Avenue, one block over from 66, and hurried to park. Dad pushed my head down as he hunched over the seat. We didn’t move for a long time. I was afraid to make a sound.
Finally, he told me to walk into every business from Fourth to Second and look for an Anglo who might be asking around for somebody. And double-check the license plates. My heart pounded in my ears. All I saw was the usual mixture of Mexican merchants, local shoppers, and Navajo families walking the street. I told Dad it was clear.
We drove to a truck stop on the edge of town, Dad’s eyes in full bulge. After we ordered food, he calmed down some. I asked him what was wrong, assuming he thought he saw George again.
It took a while for him to answer, his face going through a series of familiar contortions. When he spoke, he rambled about screws, cons, the injustice of prison, and why a man sometimes needed to kill to make things right.
Suddenly he pounded on the table and said that the bastard would never get him. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch first.”
After lunch we left for home. Dad was silent the whole trip, deep in his own world. Later, I asked him if he was okay.
“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?” he said, as if nothing had happened.
CHAPTER 31
IN JUNE OF 1964, THE Navajo BIA compound finally had a place for us. Apartment 251-4, a flagstone unit in a fourplex, with three bedrooms, a living room, and a fenced yard, became our new home. Within days after we moved, the BIA tore down the Mud Flats house due to asbestos contamination, probably the least of its flaws.
Our new part of town buzzed with activity. People walked in and out of two small trading posts, a deli, a post office, and an Indian hospital. Down the street from us was a twelve-unit apartment complex for the additional BIA support staff and their families. Doctors, Indian health service officials, and senior BIA employees lived in scattered flagstone apartments, log cabins, and modern houses in a tight area up against Canyon Bonito.
There were no hogans, rusted-out trailers, feral dog packs, or roaming Navajo kids throwing rocks and shooting BB guns. Though only a mile from the condemned shack in Mud Flats, this neighborhood was a world apart.
Our living situation greatly improved, but I missed Evelyn’s daily visits. Shortly after we moved, I took over the local paper route from an older boy and stopped by to see her as often as I could when I passed Eighth Street.
Having a paper route meant I could read the Navajo Times, the Gallup Independent, and Arizona Republic. I loved keeping up with politics and events, just as I had in Albuquerque and Gallup, and most important, I now had a diversion from my life in the Crow household. Like my former customers, my new customers in the compound area let me into their lives with daily conversations and good tips.
But some of my customers lived in Mud Flats and in the nearby hills where trailers were spread out among the hogans. As soon as I turned down Kit Carson Drive toward Mud Flats and passed the two trading posts, the vicious dog packs appeared, along with the Navajo kids firing BB guns and throwing rocks. They were bad enough when we lived there, but now the heavy canvas paper bag made it even harder for me to maneuver out of harm’s way.
One afternoon I complained to Dad about the dogs. He smiled and said, “On Saturday we’ll drive to Gallup and get the tools to solve this problem.”
After buying a machine gun replica squirt gun from Tom’s Variety Store, where Sam and I bought water balloons, we made our way to Jay’s Super Market and bought a few bottles of ammonia. It cost me two weeks of tip money for the purchases, and I couldn’t believe a squirt gun full of smelly liquid would stop the dog packs from tearing into me.
The next day I had my first opportunity to test Dad’s solution. It was the toughest delivery day because the Sunday papers were full of thick packs of advertising and my bag groaned under the weight. It bounced against my legs, and I could barely turn the bike.
When the first pack charged, two dogs bit into my legs before I could get off the bike and point the gun. Usually I would have ridden as fast as possible while kicking them. Stopping made me an easy target.
The second time they charged, I fired a long squirt into the lead dog’s nose and then another into the next dog’s eyes. They froze and ran away howling in pain with their tails between their legs. New dog packs charged on every street. My aim got better along with my confidence, and I emptied the squirt gun into their faces, hitting them over and over. By the end of the day, they followed behind fearing me.
I felt powerful and invisible again.
Dad understood violence and pain, and he was never wrong about what would work. But I still had to contend with the hogan and trailer kids throwing rocks and six-ounce Coke bottles at me. When I told Dad, he handed me a .22-caliber pistol with hollow point shells. “This will stop the bastards. A few rounds will quiet them just like the ammonia squirt guns did with the dogs.”
“I can’t do that,” I said. “Shooting with a gun that can kill isn’t the answer.”
“Suit yourself, but don’t complain to me if you won’t do anything to protect yourself. Their weapons are just as dangerous as a .22.”
His solutions were drastic, as I had known since our first car ride together. I found my own way out of the problem. When I collected for the paper, I told the customers living where the kids were hitting me that I’d quit bringing them papers if they didn’t get them to stop. Within days, the assaults had ended.
WHEREAS MY CUSTOMERS IN THE COMPOUND were fun to talk to, many of my customers in Mud Flats and the surrounding hills were barely functional, especially the Anglos. Instead of hoping for good tips, I used my mental energy to create what became the Crow craziness index—a one-to-five rating system based on hygiene, physical appearance, strange outbursts, alcoholism, and unusual fetishes. I especially loved them if they were paranoid and I could get
them riled up.
I gave our justice of the peace a five. He typically came to the door in boxer shorts caked with shit and urine and a stained T-shirt full of cigarette holes stretched across his mountain of a belly. He’d have a .38-caliber pistol in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Rarely sober, he often made a loud whooping noise and fired his gun in the air as I was riding away, sometimes barely missing me. I never wondered why there wasn’t a Mrs. Bowman.
Another customer kept sheep pinned in a small yard surrounding his trailer. With a fat, disgusting grin and chewing tobacco dripping down his chin, he explained that a sheep’s vagina and a human vagina felt exactly the same. Laughing, he’d slap himself on the thigh as though he’d discovered some great truth and needed to share it. He also had pictures of small boys to show me if I was willing to go inside his trailer. He fell into a special category of weirdness that no number could capture.
The missionaries prayed that my soul could be saved if I’d renounce Satan. The instant I said I was there collecting for the paper, they would launch into a sermon about Jesus and suffering. I generally stood silent for a moment, but then temptation would take over.
“Yes, I repent!” I’d yell. “I renounce Satan. Save my worthless soul.” Then I would pause and say, “The Lord wants you to tip me.”
It never worked. Missionaries were tighter than a tick when it came to money. Sometimes it took them a half hour to round up enough pennies to pay me.
The oldest missionary was a man who smelled like moldy cheese and always looked like he’d just woken up. His socks didn’t match, his pants made it only to midcalf, his shirt was missing buttons, and his pants were held on by a rope he must have found. He’d tell me that the Lord had sent him on a mission to Fort Defiance to help Navajos renounce their pagan gods and prepare for a glorious afterlife. I gave him a four.
My craziest customer became my favorite. A large, red-faced trucker, he moved from Texas to get away from the feds. His trailer sat off by itself a half mile from the road, the windows covered with newspapers to keep anyone from seeing inside. He buried boxes of ammo in his yard and planted yellow flowers on top so he wouldn’t forget where they were. At all times, he wore a Stetson, a flak jacket, camouflage, a gun in his holster, and ammo belts. The cab in his truck was loaded with rifles.
Stacks of Guns &Ammo magazines piled high on his front stoop. He wouldn’t allow me to take down his address because that Communist bastard Lyndon Johnson was after him. He’d ask if anyone followed me. I’d tell him that federal troops were coming from Albuquerque to lock him up, that he needed to prepare because I could see them on the horizon. He vowed to fight until the end. He was a perfect five.
Customers who refused to pay were on a different list. I always wrapped their final paper tight, put rubber bands around it, and taped a well-tucked cherry bomb on the outside. A perfect throw exploded as it hit the front door. The bastards had it coming.
My world expanded again and would continue to do so as I befriended more people in the compound. Earl Ashcroft, the Anglo owner of the Fort Defiance Trading Post, let me listen to him speak to his customers in fluent Navajo as they bartered and swapped goods. When the trading post was empty, he dragged out photos from his father and grandfather and told stories about the history of Arizona and New Mexico. I listened to him for hours and studied the Navajos up close just as I had done at the Hubbell Trading Post years earlier.
The biggest luxury was riding the school bus safely past Mud Flats into the secure, fenced-in school compound.
CHAPTER 32
WE’D LIVED IN APARTMENT 251-4 just over a month when Dad did his customary summoning of the four of us to the living room for a talk. While we sat on the couch, he paced the floor, staring at the carpet. My stomach churned. He never gathered us to deliver good news.
“Mona Tully and I have been dating and we’re going to get married,” he said with no emotion. “She’s twenty-eight with a bachelor of science degree and nursing degree from Duke University. She works at the Fort Defiance Indian Hospital, is an officer in the Navy Public Health Service, and owns property in Hatteras, on North Carolina’s Outer Banks.” He acted like he was reciting from her résumé rather than telling us about someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
Sam and Sally fidgeted. Lonnie and I stared at each other. A plump widow would have been a more likely candidate or a divorced nurse whose children behaved better than we did. We knew Dad went to some woman’s apartment in the evenings, but he’d known her only a couple of months.
“Mona has never been married. You’ll meet her soon. She wants to provide you with the discipline and rules you so badly need. Who can argue with that?”
I didn’t understand. Was Dad turning us over to her? He didn’t believe in discipline and rules. And there was no way he loved her. But what the hell was in it for us? Why would this woman want to be a mother to three heathens and a girl who was only eleven years younger than she was? She had to be a psycho.
The next night, Dad herded the four of us into Mona’s place, a flagstone apartment nearly identical to ours. But she had a record player with opera music playing and furniture that was nicer than any we’d ever seen. She even had a painting on her wall of the North Carolina beach near her parents’ home.
When we first entered her apartment, she didn’t smile or look at us. She moved aside and pointed toward the living room. Lonnie perched on the edge of a stiff orange chair, and the rest of us sat on the matching couch like wooden soldiers.
Dad disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Mona standing alone in front of us. Her beady green eyes, taut face, and thin, rigid body gave her all the appeal of an officer at a concentration camp, like the ones in the World War II movies we watched.
“I love your father,” she said, her voice flat. “We’ll be a team. You’ll follow my orders. I’m your mother now. You need strong discipline, and you’re going to get it.”
She marched a few steps across the floor as if she were collecting her thoughts for a speech. “There will be consequences for breaking my rules. I’ll put a chart on the kitchen wall listing the punishments for your offenses and the dates the punishments are executed.”
She abruptly walked into the kitchen. We were dismissed.
Any hope that life would be better for us had vanished. She and Dad were getting married the next weekend in Gallup with a one-night honeymoon in the Shalimar Hotel, where Dad and Vance had gone to meet Mexican women with tight asses.
“Maybe she’s just nervous and wants us to behave for her,” Sam whispered. “We need someone to give us rules, and it’ll be nice to have a mom, especially one who makes Dad happy.”
“No one can make Dad happy,” I said. “She doesn’t smile, she doesn’t hug, her eyes are cold, and she has a nervous laugh like she’s hiding something.” I stood and crossed my arms. “This is bad.”
Sam looked at Sally, frowning on the couch next to him. “Mona’s been to college and everything,” Sam told our little sister. “It’ll be okay.”
“I’m glad I’ll be graduating from high school in two years,” Lonnie said.
I didn’t blame her for wanting to get out as fast as possible. But the rest of us had a long way to go before we could leave.
Mona barely spoke during our first dinner as a family. In fact, the whole table was quiet as her disapproving eyes watched us. Lonnie and Sally mostly pushed their food around their plates.
When Dad ate his last bite, Mona told us it was time to clear the table. “You will have a set of punishments for a multitude of offenses that are already apparent,” she said as the four of us took our plates to the sink. “You’re like a bunch of orphans who’ve taken over the institution. That will change shortly.”
THE DAY AFTER MONA MOVED IN, she called Sam, Sally, and me into the kitchen. “I want to show you something,” she said.
On the wall next to the refrigerator, she’d taped a large piece of heavy white paper with our names w
ritten in red marker across the top. “This is where I’ll enter punishments and execution dates for you. We will review it daily.”
The next morning, Mona yelled for us to come into the kitchen. Under Sam’s name on the punishment board, she had written, “Didn’t brush teeth—cod liver oil.” Sam had to swallow a large mouthful of the stuff. It looked like motor oil and smelled like a wet dog.
For the rest of the summer, Mona’s rules and punishments grew, whether it was washing out our mouths with pumice soap for disobeying orders or pushing Dad to hit us for not calling her Mom or making us stand in the corner for talking back.
A day or two after school started, Mona came into our bedroom just before bedtime. She looked at Sam. “You’re stupid,” she told him. “You didn’t take out the trash, so now you get to sleep in it. Maybe next time you won’t forget.”
Dad appeared next to her with the metal garbage can from outside. “Get into bed, Sam,” he said.
My brother pulled back his bedspread and climbed under his top sheet. At first, he burst out laughing when Dad upended the can, dumping coffee grounds, eggshells, cooking grease, potato skins, meat scraps, and dirty napkins on top of him. The putrid gray liquid from the bottom of the barrel poured onto him. He stopped laughing.
I seethed at the humiliating treatment. My rage was stronger than any feeling I’d ever had. How could they think up such a cruel punishment? How sadistic could Mona be?
She pointed at me. “Your turn. Last night you fell asleep in your shirt, so tomorrow you’ll go to school in pajamas. Maybe you’ll remember to take off your shirt next time.”
Dad looked at Mona and smiled. “So this is how to get them to follow rules.” He roared with laughter. They walked out of our bedroom and into theirs, content with their day’s parenting.