Three Sisters (12 page)

Red Shoes

Sarah Frank moved expertly about Daisy Perika’s kitchen, flipping fatty beef patties in a blackened cast-iron skillet, taking plates and bowls to the table, hurrying back to the propane range to add a quarter cup of chopped onions and three tablespoons of brown sugar to the bubbling saucepan of beans, all the while promising her mewing black-and-white cat that his portion would be ready before long. Judging by his expression, Mr. Zig-Zag doubted this promise.

Daisy was at the dining table, hunched motionless in a cushioned maple chair. Her form suggested a long-deceased toad whose husk had mummified in the dry, high-country air. But she was definitely alive. For the time being.

Her dark eyes watched the lively girl, who had already packed their bags for tomorrow’s trip to Charlie Moon’s Columbine Ranch, as she prepared a supper of cheeseburgers, garlic-flavored potato chips, and beans from a can. The old woman would have preferred a steaming bowl of homemade green-chili posole and a hot flour tortilla (rolled up tight with butter melting inside), but the fifteen-year-old had, one baby step at a time, taken charge of the household chores. Grateful to have a home where she was welcome, the orphan was showing her gratitude by taking care of “Aunt Daisy.” The tribal elder was aunt only to Charlie Moon, and Charlie was old enough to be Sarah’s father—which did not deter the girl from the notion that, one way or another, even if it took the rest of her life, she would be Charlie’s wedded wife.

Bone-weary from an accumulation of hard winters, Daisy did not object to Sarah doing all the work. But the
realization
that she did not mind was bothersome. For all her life as an adult, which had begun at the age of nine (when her mother succumbed to overwork, underappreciation, and tuberculosis), Daisy had been an independent soul. For almost as long as she could remember, she had made and mended most of her clothing on a pedal-operated Singer sewing machine, cooked squash and pinto beans from her small garden, roasted cottontail rabbit, wild turkey, and mule deer, which—when there wasn’t a man handy—she hunted and killed with her father’s Winchester rifle, or the double-barrel 12-gauge that she kept in the closet by the front door. Now, during the space of only a few months, and largely by her own choice, she had become dependent upon this girl, who was only half Ute.

Sarah brought the aged “aunt” a glass of cold milk and a plastic bowl of potato chips, then a platter with a generous helping of beans and onions and a burger capped with two melted slices of Velveeta cheese. “You’ll like this.” She beamed at the doubtful diner, added in a motherly tone, “And it’ll be good for you.”

“Yes, I hear cheeseburgers does some really special things for the heart.” When this sarcasm washed over the girl without effect, Daisy added, “Beans give me gas and make me—”

Sarah interrupted quickly, “Do you want a dill pickle?”

“No, I’m sour enough already.” Having forgotten what she was about to say about the consequences of gastric gas, Daisy consumed a small helping of the delicious beans, then got to work on the greasy cheeseburger.

While the old woman ate in moody silence, the girl fed her cat and fixed a plate for herself, all the while filling the kitchen with a torrent of words. She hoped Daisy’s cousin (Gorman Sweetwater) would arrive right on time at nine tomorrow morning, that he wouldn’t mind Mr. Zig-Zag riding in the pickup cab—her aged pet would get very lonely in the back, and not only that, he’d try to get into the box of pecan cookies and the two rhubarb pies Sarah had made with her very own hands and was taking to Charlie and how long did Aunt Daisy think it would take Gorman to drive to the Columbine and did Charlie ever mention that pretty white woman (what was her name?) who worked for the FBI—was she still out in California and did they ever talk on the phone and did Charlie have any other girlfriends and do you like your cheeseburger?

From time to time, Daisy would shake her head and sigh.
I don’t know how that girl can talk so much and eat at the same time and I never see her take a breath.

After supper, while Sarah washed the dishes, Daisy hobbled off to her cozy parlor, seated herself close to the fireplace. As flame tongues licked hungrily at tasty morsels of split piñon, the old woman watched the curling swirls of smoke, thought her melancholy thoughts.
My bones hurt. Every one of them! Back when I was in my seventies, I could work all day. Now I sleep half my life away. I’m too old and tired to do anything useful—I can’t even take care of myself.
A long, self-pitying sigh.
Nobody needs an old woman like me.
Unaware that Mr. Zig-Zag had curled up beside her rocking chair because he liked being near her, and that Sarah adored her, and that Charlie Moon’s world would have been much less appetizing without the presence of his salty old aunt, Daisy nodded to agree with what she thought was a ruthlessly honest analysis.
I’m just a burden to Sarah and Charlie Moon.
And what was worse—
I don’t have much fun anymore.
Noticing Mr. Zig-Zag, she made a halfhearted attempt to step on the cat’s tail, but the canny animal always managed to be just out of reach. This failure to accomplish such a simple task did nothing for Daisy’s morale. She scowled at the animal.
It’s time for me to move on down the road, let the young ones run things. Or ruin things, more likely. But that’s none of my business.
Business. The word brought to mind a troublesome detail.
I need to get a will made out, so Sarah gets my house. Charlie Moon don’t need anything I’ve got, but I’ll put him a few things in a box, like that old Barlow pocket knife that belonged to my second husband. And I need to write Charlie a note so he’ll remember that I want to be buried in my nice purple dress.
Which reminded her:
But I need to get me some brand-new underwear and a nice pair of white cotton stockings.
Daisy looked at her feet.
And some pretty shoes.
She pictured herself in the coffin.
Red shoes.

Knowing ahead of time that she would soon “cross that River” had one compensation: A person could look forward to some prefuneral shopping. But what she looked forward to at the moment was a good night’s sleep. And so off to her bedroom she went.

On the way, she stepped on a spider. No, this was not an accident. The deed was done
on purpose,
and with some relish.

To quote Chief Washakie: “Young men sometimes do foolish things.”

What does this Shoshone proverb have to do with an aged Ute woman? Merely this: From time to time, even old women do foolish things. By way of illustration, consider Daisy’s recent encounters with eight-legged creatures. It is one thing to smack a careless spider that falls onto your face—one can hardly be held responsible for a reflex action. However, it is quite another matter to commit deliberate, premeditated arachnicide. Of the first degree. And not even bother to draw the circle, mumble the appropriate lie about how a Navajo was responsible, et cetera. Such behavior reeks of arrogance.

It may be that what followed so closely on the heels of her callous crime was the revenge of the Spider People. Or perhaps it was the cheeseburger.

The Wee Hours

After Sundown, many senior citizens sleep away the dark hours, and are thereby refreshed. Not Daisy Perika. Seven days a week, and all around the clock, she has what could rightly be called “an interesting life.” For one hair-raising example, take tonight.

Miss Daisy was precisely where she wanted to be—on her bed by the window, bathed in the silver radiance of a full moon, adrift on a sea of deep, restful sleep, immersed in a blissful self-told tale wherein things were definitely going her way. Any card-carrying member of the Pessimists’ Club will tell you that such a happy state cannot last for long.

Her dream was interrupted.

Daisy felt something. Something close-by.
In the bed with her
—snuggled up against her side!

Was it Sarah, who’d had a nightmare and come to climb in bed beside Auntie?

No, the teenage girl was larger than whatever this was.

It’s just a bad dream. I’ve got to make myself wake up so it’ll go away.

Hardly daring to breathe, the sleeper opened her eyes.

Nice try.

The thing was still there, a quivering coldness pressed against her ribs. Yes, quivering. Or was it purring?

Must be that damn cat.
Along with a flood of relief, Daisy enjoyed a surge of righteous anger.
I’ll grab that old fleabag by the tail and swing him around a few times and pitch him against the wall so hard he’ll
—But wait a minute.

It occurred to her that there was another, more alarming possibility.
Maybe I forgot to latch the back door. It might be a raccoon that got cold and come inside looking for a warm spot.
Or worse, a skunk. Or worse still, a rabid pack rat. But wait another minute.

Her unwelcome bedmate could not be any of those varmints. Raccoons, skunks, and rabid pack rats are warm, furry mammals. The intruder in bed beside her was cold and clammy as a piece of dead meat. Also hard and lumpy as a bag of brass doorknobs. And now that she thought about it, the whatever-it-was was not exactly quivering—it was shivering.

Discretion was called for.
Maybe if I just lay real still, it’ll go away.
Taut as a banjo string, the plucky woman avoided the least movement. Counted off thirty-six of the clock’s clickety-tickety tocks. Prayed for this nightmare to end. It did not.

But, as she waited, the shivering gradually subsided. And every few heartbeats, the tribal elder fancied that she could hear the creature breathe.
What in the world has gotten into bed with me?
Additional scary possibilities were blooming in Daisy’s fertile imagination when—

Her companion began to snore. But not at all like a skunk or pack rat snores. Like a
man
snores. The evidence was in, there could be only one conclusion:
Some drunk has wandered into my house, crawled into bed with me.
Well, that flat
did
it.
I’ll strangle him with my bare hands!

Daisy raised herself on an elbow, jerked back the covers—stared in astonishment at what she saw in the moon’s vaporous glow. Her companion, curled into a fetal position, was outfitted in a tattered black hat, a faded green cotton shirt, beaded buckskin breeches, and moccasins. And though he was about the size of a five-year-old boy, this was not a child. The intruder was the Little Man, who lived in the badger hole.
So what’s he doing here in my house—in bed with me?
A fair question.

The dwarfish creature shuddered, blinked, fixed pale, yellowish eyes on the shaman. His poisonous expression said it all: How dare she disturb his rest!

Now the
pitukupf
was not the only person who had been awakened. And old folks are apt to be a mite grumpy when their slumbers have been disturbed. Especially by a pushy outsider. The aged woman ground her remaining teeth. Ready—nay,
eager
to commit a violent act, Daisy went with her initial impulse. Strangulation—that was just the ticket. This furious woman—whose Christian mother had named her tiny girl-child after a delicate wildflower—flexed her fingers, anticipated the satisfying feel of his scrawny little neck, the ensuing desperate struggle, her victim’s last gurgling gasps, saliva bubbling from between his lips—But enough of mayhem and violent death.

There are several reasons why it is not possible to provide a precise and accurate account of what happened next. First, the dwarf speaks an archaic version of the Ute language that even Daisy Perika has trouble understanding. Second, the shaman is reticent to share every detail concerning her dealings with the
pitukupf.
Third, there is a strict taboo against revealing certain…Forget third. First and second are sufficient.

A brief summary is called for.

The upshot of the encounter was that Daisy, who recalled the “Thou Shalt Not Murder” commandment, cooled off somewhat. After which, the little man explained the reason for his visit:

(A) The juniper fire on his hearth had gone out.

(B) In the ensuing darkness he could not locate the leather pouch where he kept his flint-and-steel fire starter.

(C) He had come to borrow some matches. Also a candle or two.

(D) He would help himself to these items on the way out.

At the moment, his paramount desire was to go back to sleep, which he could not do with the moonlight blinding him. Imperiously, the cheeky fellow pointed a finger at the window, directing the tribal elder to pull the shade.

Daisy’s pithy response would be unsuitable for a family audience. It would also shock and scandalize drunken Bulgarian sailors, Denver pimps, Juárez drug pushers, and several senior members of the New Mexico State Legislature.

The tribal elder’s verbal assault did not faze the
pitukupf.

Either the little man was as thick-skinned as a Yucatán pineapple or he possessed one of those rare, blessed souls that do not take offense. Take your pick. He proposed a deal: If Daisy would give him time for a few winks and provide the means for making a fire on his underground hearth, he promised to depart before first light. Without waiting to see how she would respond to the carrot, he brandished the Big Stick. (Diplomacy was not the dwarf’s long suit.) If she forced him out into the cold, he would burn down her barn and kill all her horses, sheep, and goats.