I sat up in bed and stretched the stiffness out of my back. “I’m all ears.”
“My cousin persuaded the Attorney General to fast-track your claim. The gold is yours. Clear.”
“That’s fantastic.” By now I was wide-awake.
“You know, Gabe, your great-grand uncle was a smart guy.”
“We’re all smart guys in my family. So?”
“James A. McKenna had been prospecting for this gold for years.”
“I know that.”
“In 1918, he had the foresight to incorporate his prospecting labors into a mining business. And three years later, he did something much more interesting.”
“What?”
“After he found the gold, he took a portion of its value as a capital gain each year until private gold possession was outlawed by FDR in 1933.”
“What difference did that make?”
“It concealed the magnitude of his discovery and covered the tax obligation on his entire find.”
“So I don’t owe any taxes?”
Pelfrey made a sound that I took for laughter. “Hear me out. James McKenna paid the tax when gold was worth less than $22 per ounce. That price remained steady throughout the decade. He ended up paying a little over $8,000 in capital gains.”
“Damn.” My heart hammered in my chest. I took the phone into the bathroom and filled the water glass.
“Then—this is the best part—he formed an irrevocable trust in 1940, the year before he died. Very savvy. The records are right there on file.”
“So how much is the gold worth today?”
“The price of gold has been over $1200 per ounce all year. So your gold is worth at least $3,600,000.”
I had to laugh. Erskine joined in. Then we coughed for a while. I drained the water glass before I could speak again.
“Just out of curiosity. How much estate tax would I have paid if Jimmy hadn’t been so smart?”
“About two million.” He said it like it was nothing.
I paced the room. “Okay, Ersk. Here’s what we do. I want to sell the gold. All of it. Can you handle that?”
“You’ll have to sign an authorization, but yes, it’s no problem. I know a broker who can arrange the sale.”
“Great. I’ll stop by later to give you my signature and banking information. Keep one percent for yourself as a bonus, that ought to be about thirty-two grand. Get a new suit. And send me your bill, of course.”
Pelfrey hung up in the midst of another coughing fit.
There were two phone calls I had to make.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Simon Chino, Chairman of the Acoma Pueblo Tribal Council, sounded excited. “I’ll call an immediate session of the Council. I think we can get a quorum. How soon can you be here?”
I checked my watch. “I’ll need three or four hours to prepare everything. Say around noon? Can you invite the Historic Preservation Office members, too?”
“I’ll try. See you at noon.”
The drive along I-40 seemed different today. The sun shone and I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the beauty of the landscape.
Sam called when I was twenty miles from Acoma Pueblo. “The Grand Jury is over. The testimony you gave about Rebecca saving your life was key.”
“Yes!”
“They declined to issue an indictment in the death of Carmen Flores. Called it justifiable homicide. Rebecca Turner is free. Might even be home by now.”
“Great news, Sam. I appreciate how you stood up for her. Maybe I’ll swing by her place on my way back. Take her out to dinner to celebrate. Care to join us?”
“Let me buy the drinks?”
“I’m still on the wagon.”
“A Shirley Temple then.”
At noon, I pulled into the parking lot of the Acoma Pueblo Community Center. Simon Chino greeted me outside the front entrance. He was small in stature, but his energy and personality filled the building. He insisted I check out the Center’s magnificent indoor pool. I’d never seen a pool so large, nor a man quite so proud.
“Maybe after our meeting, you’d like to try out the sauna?”
“I’d love to, but I have another appointment this afternoon. Perhaps some other time?”
Simon led me into the Tribal Council Room and took the seat to my right. A dozen other Council members and representatives of their Historic Preservation Office filled out the circle. Some wore business suits, others jeans and work shirts, still others came in traditional dress.
Simon called the meeting to order and introduced me to a round of silence. I thanked him and addressed those assembled.
“My great-grand uncle, James A. McKenna, took possession of 4,800 acres of land south of Chavez Canyon near Bell Mountain in 1921. This land has been in my family for four generations.”
The Council members listened. I learned nothing from their faces.
“Chato Ramos and his son, Ricardo, were murdered over the past two weeks. I promised that they’d be laid to rest on this land, next to the graves of their ancestors.”
I picked up a large manila envelope I’d brought from home.
“I know my land once belonged to your people. If you give me your word that the graves of my friends will be honored and protected, I will transfer title of this land to Acoma Pueblo. I ask only that it remain under the care and protection of your office of Historic Preservation, that a memorial is built where the cabin once stood, and that care be given to the animals. I am prepared to include a bequest sufficient to cover all initial expenses.”
The Council members smiled and agreed to my offer by acclamation. Simon Chino promised that tribal lawyers would see that the land transfer and its new use conformed to the National Environmental Policy Act.
Tribal representatives would attend the Ramos burials. Their graves would be protected. The Acoma Tribal Council would care for the land. And I received a lifetime pass to the new pool and sauna.
I declined an invitation to lunch at the Casino Hotel, but assured the Council I would be back soon. I shook every hand in sight and returned to my Hudson. Laguna Pueblo was only a few miles on the other side of I-40.
Nai’ya met me at her office. I handed her a $2,000,000 check for the Laguna Educational Foundation. She broke into tears.
“You have no idea what this means. There’s such need here.”
We embraced. I lifted her chin and our eyes met. “A gift from one educator to another.” I reached down for a tissue from the box on her desktop and dabbed at her tears.
She looked down. “You may wonder why I’ve been out of touch lately.”
“That did cross my mind.”
“I heard the news report of your ordeal at the volcano while I was driving back from our ceremony. This was the day after. UNM Hospital said they’d already sent you home. I decided to respect your privacy and give you some time to heal.”
“That was thoughtful.”
“It’s not my way to pry, Gabe. But I prayed for you every day.”
I kissed her forehead. “You did the right thing.”
“Thank you for understanding. Thank you for everything,” she said.
I stared at her for a moment. “I’d like us to get together one of these days.”
Nai’ya’s eyes lit up. “I’m going to be in Albuquerque tonight for a poetry reading. Could you stop by? Some of my students will read. I may read as well. For you.” Her eyes were moist again.
“I’d like that. Can I bring a friend? Maybe two?”
“Of course.” She gave me the address of the poetry club. “Tonight, then?”
“We’ll be there.” I left Nai’ya beaming through her tears and swung the Hudson back onto the Interstate.
Back in Albuquerque, I stopped by Patient Financial Services at UNM Hospital and signed an agreement to pay all hospital and rehab costs that C.J.’s insurance didn’t cover. I still had more than a million dollars left from the gold, plus the cash, stocks, and bonds Aunt Nellie had left me. More than enou
gh to take care of my friend and see to my own modest needs.
C.J. was conscious when I entered his room, but he couldn’t talk through all the tubes. I told him I’d signed to cover all his bills. Charmaine decided to let me live.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
That night, Rebecca, Sam, and I dined in Corrales, a few miles north of Albuquerque. She looked stunning and relaxed in a strapless, black dress, the bruises on her wrists, arms, and neck now healed. Sam even put his cigarettes away during dinner without having to be told.
After our entrees arrived, I asked him, “When do I get the Land Cruiser back?”
Sam bombarded his vegetables with salt. “My guess is in ten to fourteen days.”
“About time. This has been such an ordeal.” I looked across at Rebecca. “How can I ever thank you enough?” I raised my ice tea and saluted her. Sam took the cue and did the same with his margarita.
She blushed and moved a few remaining bits of carrot around on her plate.
“We’ll catch dessert and coffee at the poetry reading, okay?” I said.
Sam winced. “Can I smoke there?”
The Night Owl was the most spacious coffee house I’d ever visited. It tried for a cool Bohemian atmosphere, with posters of Miles Davis, other jazz greats, and the Beat poets gracing the walls. A faint echo of folk music drifted in the air. A microphone stand and bar stool sat on a slightly raised, spotlighted platform at the far end of the main room.
Nai’ya greeted us as we came through the door, and ushered us to a small table up front, against a wall of exposed brick.
Sam sat close to the wall beneath a “No Smoking” sign. The grumbling commenced. “Who ever heard of a smoke-free coffee house?” He leaned his chair back against the brick, folded his arms, and glowered.
“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” I told him. “Behave yourself.”
Ceiling lights dimmed. Two of the students read first. I felt the intensity of Nai’ya’s involvement in their efforts as she nodded them on. I tried in vain to recall a time when I’d been so supportive of my own students.
After a short musical break, Nai’ya stepped into the spotlight to enthusiastic applause. I caught Sam nodding off and kicked him under the table. He drummed his fingers and tugged at his collar. A non-smoking poetry club without a liquor license was clearly Sam’s idea of earthly hell. By contrast, Rebecca sat to my left, in rapt attention.
After a moment of silence, Nai’ya looked my way. “I’d like to dedicate this to a dear friend.”
Thank you, Nai’ya, for not asking me to stand and wave at strangers.
Potamology:
Like the earth,
we are
riddled with passages,
vessels and arteries—
rivers and rills,
all streaming
toward might,
the awful sea,
the chasmal heart.
We are
self-contained histories,
lists of diseases, traces of wreckage,
minerals, living parasites, the memory
of drought and
gold there, too;
Not formed in place—not
precipitated from fluids nor
grown by some
microbial action,
but spat out by fire
brutal and deep—gold,
its yellow shriek
evidence
of process and weathering
and incalculable
journey . . .
Her words lingered in my heart. I stood as Nai’ya approached our table and took my hand. “Did you like it?”
“You were wonderful.”
“I’m hosting a small reception for my students and their families back at the University tonight. Would you like to stop by?”
I looked at Sam. He stared at the clock on the wall and then at his wristwatch. Subtlety was not among his virtues.
“I’m afraid I can’t tonight. But, thank you.”
Her smile never wavered.
“Nai’ya, you do know that we’re burying Chato and Ricardo in two days? Will I see you there?”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps we can get a bite to eat afterward?”
She nodded, patted my hand, and walked over to the line of people waiting to congratulate her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
April 30
At four o’clock the next morning I was still awake.
I crawled out of bed, showered, shaved, put on a suit, and called a cab. Before it arrived, I sent a copy of my itinerary to Rebecca and another e-mail to Nai’ya to thank her for the poetry reading. I offered to pick her up on my way to the Ramos burials the following day and asked her to call Rebecca if she had any questions.
I landed at LaGuardia Airport at two-thirty east coast time, four hours before my return flight.
The Ethiopian cab driver I got had more letters in his name than teeth in his smile. He did have a sports talk channel on his radio. And he knew the way to Fourth Calvary Cemetery in Queens.
Traffic was moderate. We turned off at the 55th Street exit. I asked the cabbie to stop at a small florist shop outside the cemetery.
Gladioli. Some people think they’re too funereal, but they were Holly’s favorite flower. It didn’t matter that they’d wilt in a day or two. Nothing lasts forever.
I slid back into the cab. We drove to section twelve, over by the large trees.
“If you wait to take me back to LaGuardia, you’ll get a fifty dollar tip.” The cabbie gave me a thumbs-up and cut his motor.
I trod a familiar path to Holly’s grave and knelt in silence. I braced my left hand on her headstone, just like always. A bird sang on a lower branch of a nearby tree. His was a lovely song. I rested the flowers against Holly’s granite marker.
My right hand reached for the soft ground and scooped a shallow hole in the dirt. I removed my wedding ring and buried it there. As I bent forward and touched her engraved name one final time, my eyes were dry. Then I walked back to the cab.
The half-full return flight landed at Albuquerque’s Sunport at a quarter past ten. I turned on my cellphone and checked for messages. Just one: Archuleta. I returned his call.
“On vacation?”
“Springtime in New York,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Thought you’d want to know. We tried to locate Carmen’s husband to notify him of her death. Can’t find him.”
“He’s in Los Angeles.”
“Then he must be the Invisible Man. We checked everything, all the aerospace companies, phone listings, post office, credit card records, state and federal tax records. Nothing.”
“What the hell?”
“Last sign we have of him is his dated signature on the sale of the house he and Carmen had in the Northeast Heights. Back when they split more than two years ago. Interesting, no?”
“You’re not going to find him alive.”
“That’s one theory. But then you’ve always been a suspicious bastard.”
“Right. That all?”
“Welcome home, Gabe.”
With no luggage to claim, I was the first passenger into the terminal and first down the escalator toward the taxi stand.
Nai’ya stood at the bottom of the escalator and waved. I looked behind me and then waved back. Her hair was braided, as it had been more than twenty-five years ago when we’d first met.
“Hi there, meeting somebody tonight?”
“He just arrived.” I must have looked puzzled. “I called Rebecca for your flight number. Thought you might be hungry.” She hooked her arm in mine.
“I am. Can we find a decent restaurant that serves at this hour?”
“My kitchen is still open.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
May 1
The dawn chorus of a hundred birds eased me awake. Nai’ya lay on the pillow beside me, her eyes deep and magnetic. Her lips parted and I drew her closer. She moved against me beneath the c
overs and I sensed a need as great as my own. We made slow and tender love, gentle counterpoint to our night before. Here at last, after a month of cruel distraction, I’d found my gold.
Nai’ya and I barely spoke afterward, but it didn’t matter. We would face what lay ahead together. I was home.
Chato and Ricardo were on their way home as well; two good men who brought us closer in a bond of sorrow.
We left for Acoma Pueblo about eleven o’clock. Some of Nai’ya’s Laguna clan members met us there. We assembled our small convoy of All Terrain Vehicles and left for the burial site, some twenty-five miles to the south.
As I drove one of the ATVs over what had so briefly been my land, Nai’ya circled her arms about my waist from behind. She clasped her hands in front of me and rested her head against my back.
Heat from the midday sun rose in shimmering waves from the high desert sand. A trio of ravens sliced through the sky above us. They shadowed us all the way.
During our sad journey, I thought about all that had happened over the past month. Perhaps it had been for a higher purpose. I don’t pretend to have answers to those kinds of questions, but I resolved to live a life of gratitude each day forward.
The burial site felt unfamiliar. A group from Acoma Pueblo had already begun to clear the cabin ruins. The sheep were gone, taken away to join tribal flocks. Site restoration was underway.
Two graves had been dug the day before. Two plain pine coffins and an urn with the ashes of Chato’s dog lay on ground once shaded by a quaking aspen tree.
The Catholic burial service lasted half-an-hour. Nai’ya and I stood side-by-side over the open graves. Her hand clasped mine as Chato and Ricardo disappeared into the ground.
How could it be that I felt so reborn?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After an early fling in the motion picture industry and a long and successful career in Academia, Robert Kidera retired in 2010. With his desire to play major league baseball no longer a realistic dream, he chose to fulfill his other lifelong ambition and became a writer. He is a member of Southwest Writers, Sisters in Crime, and the International Thriller Writers organizations.
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