Owen's Daughter (13 page)

This guy was a druggist? Doubtful. With men, everything was generally in plain sight in the place they lived, and she saw nothing medical here. Rocky’s story, for example, came in the form of an equine syringe he used over and over, as if horses didn’t get sick from dirty needles. Joe Yazzi’s interests were apparently historical protests, like AIM, the political movement that had ended long before Skye was born. As long as presidents needed FBI security, Leonard Peltier would never get pardoned. Among Joe’s protest signs:
Payback for Indian Boarding School. Address the Broken Treaties. No Fracking on Reservation Land.
Skye didn’t know exactly what that last one meant, but she didn’t care to find out. She sat at his rickety kitchen table. Spread over every inch were screwdrivers, a hammer, various pincers, a can of WD-40, and the guts of some mechanism she couldn’t identify. She picked up a metal part that reminded her of a Lego. Nothing about it said druggist.

Joe said, “I see you’re interested in my time machine. I’m going to patent it and get rich.”

“I know what you should do with all the money you make,” Skye said.

“What’s that?”

“Redecorate.”

Her dad came into the trailer, the dog by his side. “Joe, stop messing with my daughter and heat up some coffee for your old friend. Also, if you have any hay I could feed my horses, I’d be happy to give you some greenbacks.”

Joe cackled, his voice and appearance aged by cigarettes and booze. “I’m going to call Lefty right now,” he said. “He’ll bring a bale right over. All my mule can eat is Quaker Oats. Once a month I borrow Lefty’s truck and drive to Costco, buy me a pallet.” In the middle of all that junk, he retrieved what looked like the latest-model iPhone. Skye looked around the place, trying to reconcile the fancy phone with the worn-out furniture and dented metal percolator on the two-burner stove. Where had her dad come across such a person, and furthermore, what made them friends? Maybe he’d been in prison, too. The three-legged dog lay down on an old blanket. Stumpy-tailed heeler, the blue variety. Her dad had a dog with three legs? She would have thought he’d put an animal like that down.

Clearly there was a lot more to her dad than she had assumed.

When the men went outside to wait for the hay, Skye found the bathroom, then kind of wished she hadn’t. She shut her eyes while she peed so she didn’t have to look at the filthy towel hanging from a hook on the wall. The bathroom was worse than she’d seen at any bus station she’d ever been stranded in, even outside of Joplin after the tornado. She dug around under the sink for TP, saw a dusty canister of Comet and a sponge, and started scrubbing. When she finished with the sink, a quarter of the cleanser was gone. She opened the gross shower curtain. Men living alone saw nothing but the water coming out of the shower head. Mold was simply not in their visual field. She scrubbed, trying not to see more than one inch at a time. Then she did the toilet.

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 Walmart. 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.”