“Yes,” the woman said. “I just unloaded my kiln the other day so I’ve got several, but those go fast.”
“I’ll bet,” Lacey said. She held one bowl and found she was loathe to let loose of it.
“Are these artifacts?” Sam asked. He stood beside another display of what looked like ancient pre-Columbian pottery. Lacey glanced over and saw how they bore a resemblance to his traditional works, but they actually looked very old.
“No,” the woman said. “These are made by a local man. He’s an anthropologist, and takes his inspiration from the many ancient cultures of this area, and recreates their designs with respect and authenticity.”
Sam nodded, fingering one bowl. “Yes, he does,” he said. Glancing up at the woman, he added, “I’m a potter. And Navajo.”
“Oh.” The woman’s smile faltered a bit, as if she were not quite sure how this conversation was going to go.
“He’s very good,” he said finally. “Accurate in the traditions.”
The woman beamed. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Some get… aggravated to see Native American designs used by whites. The same old story of non-natives co-opting the ancient practices, you know.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of designs,” he said. “Nature’s full of them. It’s not like he’s going to use them all up and leave none for the Native Americans. No, there’s room for both.”
The woman happily stuck out her hand. “I’m Mariah Quinlin.”
“Sam Firecloud,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Firecloud?” she repeated. “Like the fireclouds on pit-fired pottery?”
He nodded. “My family has always been master potters.” He ran a finger over a darkened spot on one bowl, a testament to pit firing.
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’d love to see some of your work.”
Lacey stepped in then and handed Mariah one of her cards with Sam’s web address written on the back. “You can see them here, at www.samfirecloud.com. We’re still adding to the web page, but we do have some examples up.”
“Oh.” She took the card and hesitated, torn between two courses of action. “Would you mind if I…” She pointed to her phone on the counter.
Lacey laughed. “No, go ahead. We’ll just look around.”
Mariah scooped up her phone and typed in the web address. While Lacey and Sam continued to look at all the beautiful and fascinating artwork around them, Lacey couldn’t help but hear Mariah’s quiet “oohs” and “ahs.”
“Oh, my,” she said finally, coming around the counter with her phone. “These are stunning.” She flashed the phone at them, revealing the wedding vase glazed in midnight blue and flaming orange. “What an extraordinary way to combine the old with the new. What glazes are you using?”
Lacey smiled to herself and continued to drift through the store, leaving the technical talk to the two potters. Maybe this was a good idea after all, although she still kept tabs on Sam’s cough and color. He was doing his best to keep his throat clear, but when he went into another coughing jag, he couldn’t stifle that.
“Uh, oh,” Mariah said. “Are you getting sick?” She grabbed a tissue from behind the counter and gave it to Sam. He turned away and coughed into it.
“I’m afraid he is,” Lacey said, not going into paranormal specifics. “We probably should go. We’re driving to Tuba City.” She put the dragonfly bowl on the counter. “I’ll take this.”
Mariah took her place behind the counter and wrapped the bowl in tissue paper, bagged it, then rang up the sale. “Luckily that’s not a long drive,” she said. “Is that home?”
“His family’s home,” Lacey said. “We live in LA.”
Mariah nodded and handed Lacey the bag. “I’m so glad you stopped in. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” Lacey smiled. They shook hands across the counter. Lacey was surprised to realize Sam stood near the door, ready to go.
“Thank you,” he called to Mariah. “I don’t want to… you know.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, acknowledging the possibility of contagion. “I hope you feel better.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Back in the car, Sam sagged gratefully into the seat and leaned his head against the headrest. He coughed again, half-heartedly, then shoved his hands into his peacoat’s pockets.
“Here,” Lacey said. She grabbed a bottle of water out of the small cooler in the back seat and handed it to him. “Dig around in my pack and find my Tylenol. It’s in a purple plastic case.”
At first she thought he might argue, but after a moment he pulled his hands from his pockets and did as she asked. He found the pills, took two and knocked them back with water. He set the bottle in the cup holder and returned his hands to the warmth of his pockets.
“I’m just heading straight up I-17 to Flagstaff, right?” she asked. At his nod, she started the car. “Why don’t you put the seat back a little and see if you can sleep? Let the Tylenol work.”
Again he hesitated, and she really hoped he wasn’t going to try to tough it out when there was absolutely no reason to do so. Finally he reached for the lever beside the seat and lowered the seatback a little. When he relaxed into the more horizontal position, Lacey knew he would sleep.
He was softly snoring before she even reached Cottonwood.
~~~
FIFTEEN
Little more than an hour later, they were in Flagstaff. When Lacey steered off the freeway and stopped at the first red light in town, Sam sat up and pulled the seatback up behind him. He rubbed his eyes and looked around.
“How you feeling?” she asked.
“Like shit,” he murmured.
“Think you can eat a little lunch?”
He thought about that. “Maybe a little.”
It was all the encouragement she needed. She pulled into the first restaurant she saw. No fast food; they weren’t in any hurry. It would be hours before Gabe and Roxanne got home from work.
Sam ordered a bowl of soup and a half sandwich. Lacey got chicken strips and fries, and realized that she’d never seen Sam eat soup before. She mused that perhaps it was comfort food; any time she felt crummy, her first inclination was to have chicken noodle soup. That was her mother’s favorite remedy when Lacey had been a child.
Rather than hover over him, which she felt sure would not be appreciated, she thought back to their morning’s work.
“It felt good to free those women,” she said. “I can’t even imagine what that life had been like for them. But you know what I noticed?”
“What?” he asked between slow spoonfuls of soup.
“How independent they all were. I mean, sure, they worked for a madam, but they weren’t beholding to any man, to the normal customs of the day. They were the epitome of strong, courageous pioneer women.”
“You know what I noticed?” Sam asked.
Lacey shook her head.
“How both Michelle and Cookie were trying to get out of the life, saving up their money, hoping to find something better, yet Shorty ran to the life. I think for the first two, it was a temporary thing, a means to an end, but for Shorty, it was the end. She reveled in it.”
“Isn’t that amazing?” Lacey said. “I’ll bet she shocked the socks off her husband. She must have been so stifled by her former life that she had to break away. No woman leaves a home, a husband, and a family for a lark.” She thought more about it as she chewed a bite of food. “But I can see his side of it, too. Left flat with all the responsibility, no doubt shamed and embarrassed. That would be tough for any man, I think.”
Sam nodded, lost in thought. Lacey watched him, thinking his color looked a bit better now that he had some food in him. Or maybe she was imagining it. He’d only eaten half the soup, and hadn’t touched the sandwich.
“I was thinking about Mariah’s pottery,” he said abruptly. “Did you notice the old traditional designs that she used? But she used them in a … modern way. Like
taking one motif and using just that, instead of combining so many design elements in the same piece.”
“I didn’t think about it at the time, but you’re right. She… simplified the designs. Had more open space around them. It gave them a cleaner look, I think.”
“I think so, too,” he agreed. “I like that.”
Lacey grinned at him. “More ideas for new designs?”
He smiled with one side of his mouth. “Probably.”
“Maybe we ought to dig more clay while we’re on the reservation?”
Now the smile widened. “Excellent idea.”
Sam opted to drive the rest of the way to Tuba City and Lacey reluctantly gave in. It wouldn’t take long, and maybe later he could catch up on his sleep at Gabe’s. She hoped so. The tired look he’d been wearing was not one she cared for.
As they figured, they arrived at Gabe and Roxanne’s a good three hours before anyone would get home.
“I don’t know if they leave a key anywhere,” Sam said. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. “Aw, hell, let’s go to Grampa’s.”
Lacey was torn. She’d love to see Ben, but she worried about her car on the “road.” The path to Ben’s was undoubtedly the worst road she’d ever been on in her life. When Blanche, her little white Hyundai, had gotten totaled in a drive-by shooting in Vegas, she’d gotten Red, the Rav4, complete with four-wheel drive for this very reason. She was still uneasy about it, but decided her car had to take a backseat to Ben.
“You’ll be nice to her, won’t you?” she asked Sam as he put the car into gear and headed for the dirt track.
“Of course,” he said. “It wouldn’t do us much good to get all the way out there and find the drive train busted or the pan cracked.” He angled a look at Lacey. “We don’t want to have to walk back.”
That was a little comfort, she thought. But very little. Sam guided the car over the sandstone hills behind Gabe’s house and found the steep track that descended into the wide, dry wash at an alarming grade. Lacey braced one arm against her door, the other against the dash and gritted her teeth as her car shimmied and jounced down the road. The tires spun up small rocks into the undercarriage, or dropped with a thud into pot holes, but the little car kept going. At the bottom of the wash, Sam gunned the engine and sent the car skittering across the sandy bed, then when the tires found purchase on rock again, he slowed and let the car climb more moderately up the opposite side. By the time they got to more level ground and Lacey could see Ben’s hogan coming into view, she blew out the breath she’d been holding.
“See?” Sam said as he parked in front of the hogan. “That four-wheel drive makes it a piece of cake.”
She could agree—partially—but gave her car a pat on the fender as they walked to the front door of the hogan.
The rectangular doorway framed the wooden door—the winter door—and Sam rapped on it, calling out at the same time in the Navajo language. They waited a moment, hearing scuffling noises from inside, then old Ben pushed the door open.
His nut-brown face was split in a wide smile, his dark eyes almost lost amid the roadmap of wrinkles. He hugged Sam, speaking in kind, then turned to Lacey and hugged her, too.
“Come in,” he said, backing into the dim interior.
They both ducked under the low doorway and entered the octagon mud hut. Lacey let her eyes adjust to the cool, dark interior, then followed Sam and Ben to the wooden table and chairs set to one side of the small wood stove. The hogan looked as she remembered: colorful rugs on the dirt floor and a few on the walls, an array of shelves holding ceramic pots, a camping lantern, sacks of flour and beans.
“Good to see you,” Ben said in his soft English. He covered Lacey’s hand with his and she squeezed the gnarled fingers. He was so obviously happy to have them here, his wide smile showing the brown nubs of his worn-down teeth, yet when he looked to Sam, the smile faltered.
“How are you, Ben?” Lacey asked. She was still patently amazed that in his mid-eighties he was still living out here alone.
“Good,” he said, letting his eyes slide from Sam to Lacey. “You are well?” he asked.
“Yes.” She hesitated, wondering how much to push. “We’ve been in Jerome,” she said. “Do you know Jerome?”
At that, his eyes cut back to Sam. He spoke to his grandson in Navajo, and Sam responded in the same language. Lacey didn’t mind. She knew there were some subjects that Ben could articulate better in his native tongue. Sam would fill her in later.
The two men spoke quietly for a few moments, Ben asking questions, Sam replying. She saw Sam motion to the south, then saw Ben hold his hands up, framing Sam’s body with them. When Sam began to cough, Ben got up and poured some water from a plain ceramic pitcher into a small handleless cup. He brought the cup back and pushed it at Sam.
Sam drank. The cool water seemed to soothe his throat, and for that Lacey was glad. It could do nothing to alleviate the dark circles under his eyes, however.
Ben sat down heavily and began to speak. He pointed to Sam, motioned to the unseen sky above them, then tapped a finger on the table. To Lacey, it looked as if he were reciting a list of things, but she had no idea what.
Sam listened gravely, then nodded. Another coughing fit attacked him, and Ben watched him struggle to clear his throat. Lacey watched Ben and realized she did not like the concern she saw in his dark eyes.
It scared her.
Ben refilled the cup with more water, and Sam sipped it carefully between coughs. When the fit finally subsided and Sam set the cup down, Lacey could see the toll it had taken. He looked exhausted.
He asked a question of Ben and the old man nodded and pointed behind him.
“Let’s take a walk,” Sam said to Lacey.
“Walk?” She wanted to protest, but saw the soft pleading look in Sam’s eyes. She looked to Ben and he nodded.
“Not far,” she insisted.
“No, it’s not far,” Sam said. “Come on.”
Outside, the sun was angling down toward the western horizon and a chill breeze had sprung up. Sam buttoned his peacoat up and Lacey zipped her jacket. Ben, in his perennial flannel shirt, barely noticed.
“Where are we going?” Lacey asked. She took Sam’s hand and threaded her fingers between his.
“Grampa found some more clay,” he said. “We can dig some tomorrow.”
Clay, Lacey huffed to herself. Sam looked like hell and he was talking about digging clay? She’d hold off until she saw how he felt tomorrow, but if he hadn’t improved, no way was she letting him do hard labor.
Ben led the way over some rounded hills of sandstone, pointing and talking as he went. Lacey heard the grit under her tennis shoes, felt the possibility of losing her footing on the thin layer of shifting sand grains. She concentrated on keeping her feet, noticing Sam had no trouble in his soft moccasins.
On the far side of the sandstone mounds, the rock sank down into a smooth, dry watercourse, carved out over the years by monsoon rains. A wider collection area below the wash was floored with what looked like thick gray tile, irregular and curling upward at the edges. The “tiles” were a good inch thick, and more gray soil was visible beneath them.
Sam hunkered down at the edge of the collection area and picked up one piece. Using both hands, he broke it in half and examined the inside. He and Ben had a lengthy discussion, Ben motioning to somewhere downstream, Sam nodding. Finally Sam dropped the pieces of clay and stood.
“Yeah, this is good clay,” he told Lacey. “We can fill a couple buckets tomorrow. Grampa said there’s some clean sand further down.”
“All right,” she said. She turned her back to the breeze but felt it lift her hair and touch cold fingers to the back of her neck. She resisted the urge to hurry them along.
Luckily Ben started back the way they’d come. Relieved, she held on to Sam’s hand as they navigated the sandstone. The sun was settling on the horizon, and long, blue shadows stretched before them.
&nb
sp; Back at Ben’s, he veered off toward his fire pit under the rustic shelter of half round lodge poles. Lacey had seen the fire pit in action, mounded with wood and dung to fire Ben’s pots. Today it was cold and dark. He stooped down and tossed a few sticks of wood into the bottom. Seemingly satisfied, he led the way to the hogan, but didn’t go in.
“We’ll come back later tonight,” Sam told Lacey.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Grampa wants to work some medicine on me.” He seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, sliding his gaze away from her. She turned to Ben and found him smiling at her. She thought it was genuine; hoped it was.
“Okay, let’s go,” Sam said. He turned toward the car.
Lacey stepped up to Ben and gave him a careful hug. He felt so frail under her hands, but he hugged her back with gentle strength.
Sam started the car and backed away at an angle before turning on the headlights so they wouldn’t blind Ben. As they wheeled around, the old man waved and slipped inside his hogan.
“Okay,” Lacey said, “what’s up?”
Sam didn’t answer right away. “Grampa said he can feel… residuals around me.”
“Residuals?” she echoed. That was not a word she was expecting. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t look over, just kept his eyes on the road. “Apparently some of the souls in Jerome weren’t… content to have me leave them behind.”
Lacey turned in her seat. “They’re still with you?”
Sam nodded, concentrating on the road. “It happens,” he said.
Lacey fumed. His casual remark reminded her of someone saying, “I stubbed my toe.” Stubbing her toe “happened.” Having ghosts attach themselves to a living person did not.
“Are they why you’ve been sick?” she asked, keeping a tight rein on her emotions.
He began the slow crawl down into the big wash, and didn’t try to answer while he was avoiding rocks and potholes. At the bottom, he scooted across the sand and started up the opposite side.
“Yeah.” He focused on the bouncing cones of the headlights ahead of them, and on the obstacles they revealed on the climb out. “They drain my energy, compromise my immune system,” he finally added.
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