Stealing Fire (7 page)

Then my grandfather, Mose Goldman, rose to his feet. He and Wright looked at each other. Without speaking one word, they recognized each other in ways that common souls do. They got to their feet and patted each other on the back. Grandfather leaned forward and said, “I love your work.” He embraced Mr. Wright. Wright was covered with Grandfather's bear hug in the way that a small child would be wrapped in a blanket. He looked a little embarrassed, and Mose let him go.

Mr. Wright backed up. “Please, call me Frank.”

“Frank, it's not very often that I get to meet someone who is older than I am.”

“And who is still living a big life!” He clapped his hands together as if they were a musical instrument.

Grandpa walked him into the study to share his Indian art. Soon Grandfather's Mahler recording filled the room. It was not what I had expected. I imagined two marvelous creatures vying for power. Instead, they were comrades in this war we call Life. I couldn't have been more pleased.

 

Ten

A peaceful night alone with my wife, deep inside our own covers, our private universe. Sleeping in my own bed, I could almost pretend life was normal.

We'd fallen asleep with our second-floor windows open to the courtyard. Frieda played her viola to the moon, as she does each night before going to bed. Bougainvillea and trumpet vines wound up around the posts to the balcony and then wove through the patterns of the iron railing. Their blossoms were a sweet umbrella over the flagstone below. Soon we would have to close the windows at night. But for now, we enjoyed the beginning of autumn, the sharp scent of last flowers, and the weight of the air as it turned like a dancer in our trees.

My great-grandparents had furnished the house with only the best. The thick mattresses in the Santa Fe house were feathered down. I'm certain there was long-lingering magic that my great-grandmother tucked inside the quilts with those feathers—stories had been passed down about her
curandera
powers. You felt as if you could never have a bad dream within the embrace of her linens and embroidery. That every bed made life brand-new. That any secrets rolling through your body and heart during the night would be held as sacred. That making love in those beds was a form of glory calling for children to be born. Iris and I had been careful in that department—we weren't ready for kids yet. But you sit on the edge of our bed and you feel that life could spring up. That anything was possible. That sex was a silly tale to explain the real story of how people came into this world, of how babies chose their parents, and how much older they are when they are born than their parents. Look into a baby's eyes. It's obvious. Many things, small and large, are obvious when you pay attention.

There is also the kind of magic that happens in the high desert. Sleep under those stars, and you see the constellations dance as they have every night, long before people arose from the center of the earth.

*   *   *

Mr. Wright and Grandpa, who both got up with the sun, sorted through old photographs of early Oljato. I sat in the company room with them, eased onto the couch, tried to be invisible. Seemed like Mr. Wright was in love with stone and rocks and earth. He ran his fingers between the photos, full of wonder, smiling.

“I can't take farm life,” he said. “It's all pulling tits and shoveling manure. But this, this is different.”

“It's real life. Untamed. No sense of time.”

“More than that, it's Nature with a capital
N.
”

“Nature isn't God,” Grandfather said, “but…”

“Everything we can learn about God we can learn from Nature. It is the body of God.”

“I'm not big on God, with a capital
G.
I've lived a long time with people, including my family, who believe in a crowd of gods.”

“But couldn't all of them be part of one God?” Wright said.

“If you could get everyone to agree on all the gods and stitch them together, maybe. But everyone has different ideas about who the gods are.”

“Interesting.”

“Puzzling,” Mose said.

“Maybe we pick the gods we need.”

“For protection from what we're most afraid of and for help with what we want most,” Grandpa said.

“And maybe if you put them all together, yes, then that makes God.”

I looked at Grandpa. “Maybe,” he said to Wright.

We'd had conversations with every sort of religious person that came through the Southwest. Navajo medicine men, Mormon traders, Jewish businessmen, Catholic priests, Episcopal priests, missionaries of every stripe. After a short time in the desert they'd leave dismayed, convinced we were all going straight to hell, do not pass go. If they stayed for a longer period of time, they began to wonder about their own faith. They began to wonder if it could be broader.

Myself, I thought there was plenty of time to figure this stuff out after I was dead. Being alive, and doing it right, is tricky enough. I do believe in healing ceremonies, in plant medicine, and I believe in white-people medicine, too. All are helpful to the patient if they have an open heart. And for some things, there is no cure, but there is a healing. The healing is peace and acceptance. That's true for everyone.

My mom helped bring a few children into the world. My grandmother brought more than a few, but that was before I was born, so I can't say how many owed their lives to her. One life is enough to save. Then you are even. Healing the heart? Hardest of all. Often you bring the roiling pain of fire into your own life, and it's you, yourself, who are responsible for cooling the flames of your misery. A medicine person can show you the path, but you're the one who has to walk it.

Mr. Wright and my grandfather could talk for a century or more. My thoughts drifted in and out with theirs. Frieda came in and dragged Mr. Wright out of his chair. It was time for the concert at St. Michael's. The only tussle we had was right before they left. Mr. Wright was not allowed to wear his cape with the purple lining. I was hard about that.

I dropped them off, found security, asked them for a few favors, said I'd be back fifteen minutes before the concert ended.

Mom prepared Mrs. Wright for the Indians selling from their blankets. She schooled her on how to act aloof, not to act too interested in any one piece of jewelry, and to have a price set in her mind that she would not go above. Maybe Mom would take her to Acoma later, a place where the sky is a bottled blue like no other. It truly sucks the breath right out of your chest. I promised Mrs. Wright I would take her when her life had settled down. Not now. Indian blanket-shopping, and looking for unique jewelry, would be okay, just a few blocks away. And I couldn't have stopped her from going to the plaza if I tried. In the beginning of autumn, Navajos and Zunis would make good bargains, and there is often dancing. A small vacation from Mrs. Wright's real life.

As soon as I got home from St. Michael's, I walked into the hall and made a phone call. One I didn't expect to need or use, but I thought it would be handy to have in my back pocket.

*   *   *

At the train station Mrs. Wright and that snazzy little Jewish woman had climbed into a car. Wright clambered in after, but not the tall Indian. There were words, and he rousted the driver.

I really was worried about that man. A wild card. Unexpected.

“Taxi!” I called. “Follow that car!” I liked the sound of that. It was just like being in the movies.

Easy drive, no detours. I'd been worried about their route. We drove about an hour, went into a town, and ended up in front of a gorgeous home. No one designed or built them like that anymore. The craftsmanship, the artistry … so gentle, so fine. Every floor plan basically the same. When something is perfect, no need to change it. That was something Mr. Wright would never understand.

I sat in the cab and waited. Yes, they all got out. They were together. I asked the cab driver to take me to the nearest hotel. La Fonda, right on the square. Also delicious. I wished I could just stop time and sit in the center of it. But there were things to do.

The next morning I walked from the hotel to the beautiful home. Did the Indian live there? Hard to believe, but it was possible. Most of them had left the house. While a maid hung laundry in their backyard, I tiptoed inside—this would have to be quick and quiet.

I looked for a way to leave my calling card. A way to change their plans. To get them off balance.

There it was, next to the piano, and I knew exactly how to set the next phase in motion.

 

Eleven

It was late afternoon when Mom and Mrs. Wright got home from the Indian arts market. I picked up Frieda and Mr. Wright from the concert in our old pickup truck and drove them home. They were in high spirits, laughing when they walked in the door.

“I wanted to go in through the back of the auditorium so Frank wouldn't cause a disturbance,” said Frieda, “but, no, he wouldn't have that.” Her cheeks were colored pink and happy.

“Of course not,” said his wife.

“So we walked right in through the front door, and no one recognized him! Do you believe it!”

I believed it. “The best way to be invisible is to blend in, maybe wear a plain hat or jacket, be part of the larger crowd. Trying to hide makes you obvious.”

Iris kissed me. “How did you get to be so smart?”

“From living with you.”

“You know all the right things to say, don't you?”

To my wife, yes. She loved to be loved. That was easy.

Mom had put dinner together before they'd left that morning, so it was just a matter of heating up one of her extraordinary stews, and throwing together a pan of green chile corn bread. We had fresh honey from our neighbors. The smells coming out of the kitchen were mists struck by sudden shards of heaven. I felt full, and I hadn't eaten yet.

We sat comfortably around the company room another thirty minutes until dinner, according to Mom, so we all chattered away, and I made sure everyone was there. Like a guard dog, I was doing my best to keep everyone in sight, and I admit—it was making me a little dizzy.

Dinner was ready, and so was the dining room.

There was good silver at every place on the table. None of the curlicue stuff I saw in Chicago's store windows. These pieces were hammered and shaped by hand, heavy and gleaming. We also had pottery made by an artist near Oljato. Nice china from my great-grandmother, so thin you can see through it, and so clear it sounds like a bell, sits in the cabinet. Mom prefers her own, gods and rabbits running around the edges. Creamy colored, burgundy designs made from squawberry dye and baked in an earthen oven for days. These were her particular prize. Nothing that was handed down.

After a meal that sent groans of satisfaction all around, we ambled back to the company room. Mr. Wright sat at the piano and knocked out a piece that was fast and bright.

Grandpa wore a puzzled look.

“Don't try, Mose,” said Mr. Wright. “I made that up on the spot.”

We cheered. I was getting to like the man. Frieda reached for her viola case and some sheet music for a duet. She cherished her instrument, kept the finish just so with her own combination of oils and waxes. Changed her strings and the hair on her bow often. She and her viola have belonged to each other for almost fifty years. She opened the case.

The head of the instrument hung from the neck. Frieda fell back into her chair as if she had seen a murder. For her, it was the same.

I ran over to her, Mom went to get a cold cloth, and Iris sat, stunned. Inside the case, swathed in blue velvet, was a note.
Hope you enjoyed the concert today.
I grabbed it.

Grandfather motioned me and Mr. Wright into his office.

“Yazzie,” he said in a hard tone, “this is your business, I understand, but it's our home, our sanctuary, where we're supposed to be safe. I'd like to see the note in Frieda's viola case.”

He read it. He waved the paper in the air. “What do you make of this?”

“Here is what we know for certain.” I turned to Mr. Wright. “Whatever your troubles are, they have come into our home. We can't have that.”

“I thought we were going to use me as bait.”

“Use
you
as bait, not Frieda. I underestimated the danger to my family. I'd figured on a few days to hide you out here and then safely escort you to Taliesin West.”

“Are you quitting? I am in danger!”

Very self-absorbed. If he hadn't been an old man, I might have slugged him. I felt like it.

“Mr. Wright,” I said, “we can be friends. I'd like that. But I can't protect you.”

“What will I do without you?”

“It doesn't seem to me I've done a very good job so far.”

I breathed deep, calmed myself down. “I'll get another man for the job, hire a car for you, and you can get a good start in the morning,” I said. “You'll be all right.”

And then a lightbulb, a ridiculous lightbulb considering the situation, went on over my head. I had an idea and we three talked it over.

If they agreed, the women would stay here. I could probably get a detective friend to be available. Meanwhile, I would take Mr. Wright somewhere no one could follow us. And if they did, it would be the best possible outcome. I'd be able to take care of the situation on my terms.

“Mr. Wright, I'll stay on this,” I said, “because some of my family thinks you're the eighth wonder of the world. I made a commitment to you, and I don't like to walk away from that. Plus, my grandfather feels we owe it to you—I have no idea why.”

“Because he's an elder,” said Grandpa. “Sometimes our choices aren't entirely rational, but they should be respected.”

I looked at Mose. “You just like being around someone older than you.”