Stealing Fire (15 page)

Five minutes, ten, Grandfather looked over at me and nodded his head. He stood, and I stood. Wright and Harry stretched. It is a place that is very hard to leave. You do not say good-bye. It would be like saying good-bye to the center of yourself that you knew before your birth. You walk away with awareness of your center. That's all you can do.

Wright broke our silence. “Glad you kept the drawings with you.”

We walked through the wash, and we beat back the bushes. This time of year, no gnats. Some mountain lion tracks. We each put our feet in the tracks and then our hands in the tracks. Then we said, as one,
“Wow.”

Remembering you are part of the natural world puts you in your rightful place.

By the time we'd marched to the truck, Mr. Wright and Harry Goulding were deep in conversation. They liked each other right away. I had learned that with Mr. Wright, there weren't many shades of gray. He loved someone or he couldn't tolerate them. So their immediate friendship was good news, at least for the next few days.

Grandpa decided to sit in the truck bed. I think it made him feel vital to be back there with pistol in hand. He'd stopped hunting when I was a kid. Could not bear the sadness it gave him. Still, he liked target practice, and he loved his old pistol. So these were high times. We had a talk about him sitting back there, and he assured me he'd put on the safety. I could see us plowing over a bed of river rocks, the gun going crooked, and him blasting away part of the truck. Or worse, his legs.

Harry said to Wright, “Mr. Wright, I'd like to know if you're up for an adventure. Please feel free to say no.”

Brother, those were the magic words.

“Nothing I love more. Adventure is my life! What did you have in mind? And please,” he said, “call me Frank.”

“I thought maybe you'd like to watch a movie being filmed. Get behind the scenes, you know?”

I said, “Monument Valley, Movie Capital of the World. When I was a kid we never could have seen
that
one coming.”

“Thank God for John Ford,” said Harry, “or none of us—white people or red—would have made it through those rough years before the war. Navajos were scraping dried corn off old cobs. Mike and I were ready to barbecue our shoes.”

“Mike?” Wright said to Harry.

“My wife.”

“Interesting name for a woman. I like it.”

“Be sure and tell her that. Anyway, they're shooting some scenes right at Goulding's. All over Monument Valley, of course, but Yazzie, I mean right at our trading post!”

“How did you get them to do that?”

“They thought of it all on their own, do you believe it?”

“Between you and Mike, where else would anyone shooting a western want to be?” Absolutely true.

“And get this—they built a stone cabin right next to our trading post and home, that's supposed to be the office for ‘the beleaguered captain,' played by John Wayne. The ‘upstart Lieutenant Thursday,' that's Henry Fonda, isn't treating Indians with anything that resembles respect. Conflict between the two main characters, and there you are,” he said. “Name of the movie is
Fort Apache
.”

I looked at Harry. “Boy, that's getting close to a touchy subject.”

“Cowboys and Indians?”

“No. Respecting Indian people,” I said. “Ford's going to be listed as a subversive if he gets too close to matters of race. It rocks America's boat, and we happen to have a few extra-enthusiastic people in Washington right now.”

Harry nodded in agreement.

“I love the movies,” Wright said, plenty of oomph in his voice. “Absolutely besotted by stars and movies. But John Ford? I'm fascinated by his eye. You can tell he's a Celt. Irish, I know, not Welsh, but the way he sees the world is transcendent. He doesn't move the camera all over the place and make you seasick. He depends on light. He depends on the expression in a character's eyes. Same as windows in a building, and that's where the power is,” he said. “Ford is magnificent.”

“It doesn't mean he won't get into trouble with the government if he gets too embroiled with Indians and their plight,” Harry said.

“Spare me!” said Wright. “Only an idiot can have no opinion on this.” Harry and I said nothing. We didn't count ourselves as idiots, and apparently Wright didn't count us as such, either. He liked Harry, and I was three-quarters Navajo, so at least we weren't on the wrong side of Wright's rant.

“‘We've treated Indian people badly. It's a blot on our honor,'” Wright said. “‘We've robbed, cheated, murdered, and massacred them, but they kill one white man and, by God, out come the U.S. troops.'”

“Did you just make that up?” I said. “It's pretty good.”

“No. I read it the other day. Ford said it. I worry about any man with a conscience. He's a liberal among Republican studio execs, and it's a tough spot to be in. No one knows that better than I.”

“He is loved by this country,” I said, “and Admiral Ford isn't going to get into any trouble with rabid radicals in D.C.”

“I suppose you're right—his bravery during the war will be his savior. But put his words in someone else's mouth and they'd be looking at their career going right down the drain or a move to Europe.”

Harry said, and his voice was quiet, “I heard that a group of kooks is sticking a list together to go before some committee later this fall. A committee about people who aren't real Americans.”

“Well, if they were born here, for heaven's sake, what are they?” Wright said.

“Communists.”

“Bah!” Wright said. He shook his fist toward the deep blue sky, and all the forces that were trying to run and ruin people's lives.

We pulled into the patch of gravel in front of our trading post. Grandpa made a good show of jumping off the bed. I got the pistol out of his hands as soon as I could. And, just as I'd suspected, the safety wasn't on. I looked at the gun. I looked at him.

“Don't give me a lecture,” he said. “What good is a gun if you can't use it when you need it?”

Eno was still locked up from the inside, so he'd have to unlatch. Not even a red ant could have gotten into that house. Grandpa pounded on the door, and hollered for Eno to let everyone in. The tone of Eno's words, muffled, said he wasn't crazy about being penned up. I didn't blame him. I was glad he was safe, and it was the only way I could figure how to keep him that way while we were gone.

*   *   *

Standing beneath a cottonwood with Harry while he had a smoke, I felt like I was in a puzzle within a puzzle.

“I was in the navy,” I said to him. “The armed services fought with Stalin, not against him, and that whole calamity ended just a few years ago. This Americans against Americans thing is too odd for words.”

“Ford has personal politics. Loves Wayne, he's like family, and is disgusted that he didn't enlist for the war. My advice?” Harry said.

“I'm not talking to anyone about politics at your place,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“Same crew of actors and stagehands?”

“Yep—his favorites, John Wayne, Henry Fonda, Ward Bond, all the rest. This time they've got Navajos playing Apaches instead of playing Comanches. Still speaking Navajo, though. People are going to think every Indian speaks the same language.”

“I think that's funny!” And I did.

“If you know about Indian people, absolutely. Funnier if you are Indian. And it's good pay,” Harry said. “Hosteen Yanito took his grandson down to Flagstaff so they could see him in the last movie. Didn't recognize himself worth beans with all that war paint on, but the boy finally recognized his grandfather's horse. Watched it twice through so they could see it after they'd figured out which Indian character Yanito was.”

Harry snubbed out his cigarette, and we found Wright and Grandpa, looking bleary. Mike had sent some stew over. We just had to let it simmer on the stove, and we were set.

Eno ate, mounted his bay, and rode off. I hoped his wife wouldn't send him back.

 

Twenty-three

We woke up early and were gifted with a sublime dawn rimming the east. As always, Wright held his tube of drawings in his lap, cradling them like a baby. I had a plan. I was pretty sure it would work, except for one thing—it seemed too easy. I also pulled together Iris's paintings and supplies, and a few nice rugs as gifts.

I fixed all four of us breakfast, and we headed over to Goulding's for the shoot. I'd be happy to see Mr. John, Mrs. Ford, and the crew. We could put Mr. Wright in the middle of security and have access to a phone.

I got Harry off to the side. “I really have to call Iris,” I said, “and I'm responsible for protecting Wright. So would you do me a huge favor?”

“Sure.”

“Make some calls nearby. The trading post at Kayenta. Cameron. Teec Nos Pos. Ask if a man fitting Jake Fine's description inquired about Wright, or an old man with long white hair or whatever. I want to know how Fine found us.”

“Done.”

Wright was on his feet, plans in hand, ready to go down to where they were shooting. Harry led the way.

“Tell me more about the movie Ford is shooting,” Wright said.

“Well, like I said, there's no Linda Darnell,” said Harry.

“Rats,” Wright said.

“There's Shirley Temple. She's only sixteen and not what you'd call a real looker. A good sport, though. I like her.”

“What's the film about? In a sentence.”

“The old guard fending off the aggressive plans of an inexperienced young officer who's out for power,” said Harry.

“Ahhh … Mythic theme.”

“I guess.”

When we got to the set, it was busier than a beehive. Ford clapped me on both shoulders, welcomed me loudly for everyone's sake, and went back to concentrating on his next shot. Henry Fonda acted like he'd never met me before. Danny Borzage, the accordion player who inspired Ford before every shot with his music wafting through the ancient bluffs, gave me a hug. One by one, I shook hands with a dozen old friends.

Wright wandered off, and I kept my eye on him. He was transfixed. The monuments visible from the set are amazing. They are steep and they are high, colored an extraordinary mosaic of surreal red-orange mixed with neon rust. Wright gazed and gazed at the two enormous rock formations that look like a pair of mittens, left and right. He could have been a child and an ancient medicine man, both.

I gently nudged him away from the sheer wall, waited until Mr. John called, “Cut and print,” and introduced him to John Ford. Each was bowled over by the mere presence of the other. Two artists in love with light, and eyes, and windows, and stories older than their Celtic ancestors.

Ford caught a glimpse of something only he could see. He excused himself and ran to the camera, chewing on his handkerchief, waving his hands, motioning for security to join us. They agreed to take over the care of Wright so I could have peace to think and time to call my wife. I felt as if the babysitters had arrived. Grandpa would follow Wright around with security, so the grand old man wouldn't feel like he was in a foreign country without a friend.

Harry Goulding was pulled in twelve directions at once, but he gave my grandfather the key to the cabin Linda Darnell had used the year before. Mike had fixed up a room for me in their house—I had a good view of the cabin, and it was close. Harry led me to the phone in the kitchen and ran down the stairs.

I got the operator and placed a call to Iris. No answer. I rang again, and this time Frieda picked up the phone.

“Yazzie, thank God. Iris left a phone number for you, and she wants you to call.”

“Where is she?”

“She drove off, left yesterday afternoon, went to some motel. At first, she wouldn't tell me where she was going, saying the less I knew the better,” Frieda said. “She's been watching too many Humphrey Bogart movies.”

“Wait, Harry said she called yesterday to say she loved me and that everything was fine.”

“The world according to Iris,” said my mother-in-law. “That must have been in the morning.”

“Iris left as in walked out the door, took a cab, got a lift, or…?

“Left as in took the railroad's Cadillac roadster.”

“What!”

“I know, I know. I told her that she could get pulled over for driving a stolen car. Would she listen to me? No. You know how she is.”

I know how everyone in my family is. They are impossible.

“Frieda. Where is she?”

“She was heading to Flagstaff and said she'd meet up with you in Monument Valley. Yazzie?”

“I've gotta go.”

“Call me after you get hold of her, all right? You're to ask for Iris Goldman. I told her to use a fake name, maybe Ava Gardner, but again, would she listen? No.”

“I'll call you, sure bet,” I said. “Ava Gardner?”

“What can I say?” She hung up.

I rang the number that I'd written on the pad of paper sitting on Harry's desk.

A woman answered. “Red Stone Motor Court. May I help you?”

“I'd like to speak to one of your guests. Iris Goldman.”

“One moment please.”

Iris picked up on the first ring.

“Yazzie?”

“Yes, yes. Where are you?”

“Flagstaff, at a motor court.”

“But
why
are you there? Iris, what's going on?”

“I had a visitor at the house yesterday morning after I talked to Harry.”

“And?”

“And I decided to follow him.”

If I'd been in a doctor's office, my blood pressure would have broken the machine. I sputtered.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I changed my mind after I talked with him. I waited a little while before I hit the road.”