Yellowcake (34 page)

Becky feels as if she can't eat enough. She's always hungry, even after eating. It's comforting to come home to the smells of food, to chatter, to the mess of beading all over the dining table. Three nights a week several church women come for craft nights, the living room filling with women who knit and crochet. They always invite Becky to join them. "It's so therapeutic," they'll say, "the making of things," and she does join them many nights, preparing the gourds for her mother, organizing the beads, but mostly eating the delicious desserts, oatmeal cookies, apple pie, almond tarts.

When the women leave in the evening, the smell of sugar lingers. Becky and her mother clean up the dessert things, and it's only when the house is tidy, both of them ready for bed, that they face each other's naked panic. Becky recognizes the wild fear in her mother's eyes, which she suspects reflects her own, a fear of the quiet dark, the absence of his coughing, the tricks on their ears: a middle-of-the night imagined opening of the back screen door; the music of his chanting in the broken hogan. And the horror of severed ties: her grandmother's averted face, the shame of their lies. Becky doesn't see how either of them could have done otherwise, how she could not have stood up for her mother, how her mother could not have stood up for herself.

She runs a minimum of an hour a day, sometimes three hours. It's the only time she can stand to be alone. If she runs to exhaustion, she can almost forget her grandmother walking out of the backyard, Harrison by her side. The memory replays itself all day, every day. Hoping for reconciliation, she and Arnold drive to her grandmother's farm one day. She wants Arnold with her as a buffer. "Use me," he'd said. "That's what I'm for." They bring groceries, enough canned goods, flour, grains, and coffee so that her grandmother won't have to worry for a month. But when they get there, they find a crowd of people and a tepee in the yard. Her grandmother is having a ceremony. For what? Becky doesn't know. "Let's go see," Arnold says, but she wants to hide. She has not been invited, hasn't even been notified. Why are they having a ceremony? For her father? They do not have ceremonies for the dead. Do they? They? Her people? She feels entirely foreign, out of place. "Let's go," she orders Arnold. They turn back and do not deliver the groceries.

She frequently finds herself in a rage that leaves her breathless. The Sunday after the funeral, the newspaper had a full-page account of the plans to renew "uranium cultivation" in the southern part of the reservation, and her name was listed along with a dozen others as a consultant for the tribe. She couldn't believe it. She tracked down Terry Conrad, who was back in town, and ranted at him: "Since when did 'I'll think about it' become yes!" He assured her it was a mistake, that he didn't even know how the paper got the list, which was tentative, only tentative.

She hasn't seen him since. He's probably taken her off his list, which, she tells herself, is good, though it's not going to help her mom pay off her loan.

Harrison doesn't come to the bank anymore. She didn't know how he was depositing his checks until Arnold goaded her into looking at his account, and she saw a deposit at another branch, which made her feel awful, and she snapped at Arnold, as if it were his fault.

She cannot stand herself.

One day she goes home to find the minister and his son at the house. Aunt Pip and Katie are there, too. They are leveling the broken hogan, raking chunks of adobe into a pile. Her mother sits on the stoop, watching, and Becky screams at them all: "What do you think you're doing?"

Her mother buries her face in her hands, and Aunt Katie rushes to Becky, trying to embrace her, but Becky pushes her away. "It was too hard on Delia to have to look at it every day, Becky. It reminds her of him too much." Becky bolts. She gets back into her truck and drives for hours.

When she gets home, her aunts want to talk to her. "This is no life for you," Aunt Pip says. "You need to get back to your own life. Don't worry about your mom. She's in good hands."

She knows they mean well, but she feels as if she's being discarded, as if they are punishing her for losing her temper.

She moves back to town, into a furnished one-bedroom apartment in the new complex near Farmington High School. The apartment has popcorn ceilings and plaster walls painted Navajo white, walls that disintegrate if punctured with nails for pictures. It has a dishwasher, a garbage disposal, a stacked washer and dryer, wall-to-wall carpet, beige, and the front door opens out onto a large communal patio with a gas barbecue and picnic furniture bolted into cement.

Alone in this place, she can't sleep. It's her torment. The only time she can stand being in her body is when she's asleep. She falls asleep easily enough, but wakes moments afterward, heart pounding, mouth dry, in such a rage she feels she will explode. She is furious at Harrison. She keeps thinking about how he just walked away that day. Who does he think he is, judging her? She begins to fantasize about tracking him down at the college. She tells herself she doesn't care if he loathes her, but his avoidance angers her so much. As if she were diseased. She wants to have it out with him. One night, at two
A.M.,
she gets out the phone book to see if he's listed.

Of course he is not. There are five Zahnees, no Harrisons, no initial H. She's tempted to call them all. She can't sleep. Why should they? She looks up San Juan College, but only administrative numbers are listed.

She thumbs through the book, stopping in the Ms, scanning for the name Mahoney, which is listed, right there, number and address: Ryland and Rosy Mahoney.

She stares at the number until her eyes go blurry. She picks up the receiver. She's suddenly shivering. She presses the numbers: 3-2-5-4-2-1-3, listening to the music of the mechanical tones. It begins to ring. She pictures them in their house. Where is their phone? Do they have a phone in their bedroom? She can see the house, the living room, where she sat on a soft sofa, the kitchen, where she sat on a hard chair. Soft, hard. That's all she remembers. She closes her eyes, trying to visualize the phone, which rings and rings and rings until it becomes not a sound but a pulse.

But then he picks up. "Hello?"

She clutches the receiver so hard her fingers throb.

"Hello?" His voice is raspy, weak. Like her father's had been, a voice that slides back into itself. That can't seem to climb out of itself.

"Sam? You there?"

She puts the receiver down on the counter. His words leak up to her. "Buddy? Sam?" She crosses the room to the front door, which is opposite the phone. She stands with her back against the door, then slides to the floor. She can still hear the man's ghostly voice.

She balls her hands and presses her knuckles into her eye sockets. She wonders what the Navajo word for murderer is.

 

On the last Friday of October, Harrison comes to the bank. She sees him immediately, even though the bank is crowded. He doesn't appear to see her. Actually, he seems to make a point of not looking in her direction. He stands in the line for the tellers.

Arnold, at the door, gives her his high sign. He motions toward the tellers' line, his head jerking like a bobble on a spring.

Harrison is wearing a brown corduroy coat and faded jeans, his hair messily braided. He finishes his business with the teller. Halfway to the door, he glances her way, hesitates. Turns and walks in her direction.

"What's up?" he says, sliding into the customer chair.

"Not much. You?"

"Same."

"Haven't seen you in here much," she says.

"No."

An onyx stud in his left lobe gleams like a tiny animal's eye in the artificial light.

"How's your mom?"

"Fine. I guess. I moved out."

"Oh?" Then, "I read about you in the paper. Your consulting job." The edges of his lips are white, and his eyes are nearly black, cold. Hostile.

She opens her mouth to explain, then closes it.

Two customers are sitting on leather couches around a low glass table in her waiting area. Harrison cut in front of them, a young white couple. The guy stares sullenly at Becky; the girl flips through loan brochures.

"What
is
that noise?" Harrison says, clipping his words.

"What noise?"

"Like grinding gears."

"Change counter." She looks at the tellers' line, which has grown way beyond its rope boundaries. "See that little man in the green stocking cap? He came in fifteen minutes ago with one of those roller carts. He was pulling four gallon jars of coins. Stupid. Friday is the busiest day. Everybody needs to deposit their checks. It never fails. Some jerk-wad comes in with some ridiculous business that could be handled any other day of the week and jams up the line, and then the customers lose it with the tellers, but it's not their fault, and it never fails!" She is suddenly furious at the man in the green stocking cap.

Harrison turns, taking in the crowded bank, the tellers' line, the waiting area behind them, the sullen guy, his girl, and now a third sits down.

"I should go," he says quietly. "I'm making your busiest day busier."

"Don't go." She's surprised to hear herself say this. He looks a little surprised, too. He leans back, folding his arms.

"I'm not consulting."

"The paper said—"

"I know what it said. It was a mistake. I'm not saying I wouldn't or I won't, but I'm not. Not yet, not now, maybe not never."

He smiles, his eyes do. He says, "You got real good English."

She tries to smile. Her face feels like it's made of glass. "I thought you were avoiding me."

"
'Aoo'.
I couldn't believe you were working for him."

"I'm not."

"Good."

"I thought it was because of that day. What I did."

"What? At the house?"

She nods.

He shakes his head. "No. That day was tough. I felt sorry for you. I should have called you. But—I detest that guy, and when I read you were working for him..." He shrugs. "You know, don't take this wrong, but you look rough."

She bites the inside of her lip. She's afraid she might cry. She hasn't cried since she saw him last. She looks at Arnold, who is staring at the monitor on his security desk. "Wave to Arnold. He's looking at us."

"He's not."

"He is. See that monitor? He can flip through channels and see every corner of the bank. Right now I bet he's looking at us."

Harrison waves. Arnold smiles. Nods to the monitor.

"See?"

The sullen guy in the waiting area stands up, banging his knee against the coffee table. He says, "Damn it!"

"You still going to Lowry's meetings?" Becky says.

"
'Aoo'.
Last week he went over the budget. We raised five grand at the meeting."

"Not bad."

"Yeah. Then next week we're having a meeting at Naschitti. I figure we'll raise maybe three hundred out there in the boondocks. At this rate, you and I will be elders before there's enough money to get anybody's attention."

"You sound like Terry Conrad. Wait—don't look at me like that. He says it'll be ten years before anybody sees any compensation from the government and that it will just be pennies."

"Oh, is that what he says."

"I didn't say it."

"Yes, you did. Just now." He frowns. She frowns back, and he laughs.

"You know, we should do something some time," he says.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Movie?"

She smiles. "That's three."

"Three what?"

"Three times you asked me to do something. Maybe four, depending on if you count the time you wanted me to take your class. There was the time you wanted to grade me, but that may not count either, since you were mean that time."

"Who was mean?"

"You were."

"
You
were."

She clears her throat. Looks at the ceiling. He laughs. "Anyway, we can definitely count the time you and your dog were going to take me for a ride. One more and I'll know you mean it."

He raises his eyebrows.

"You never heard of the four-times rule?"

"What's that?"

"It's something my dad told me. He said if a Navajo asks you something or tells you something four times, you know he means it. You never heard of that?"

He shakes his head.

"What kind of Indian are you?"

He squints at her, smiling a lopsided smile, holds his chin with one hand, puts his index finger over his mouth, and studies her. He shakes his head slowly, smiling behind the finger. After a bit, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He removes what looks like a business card, stands up, picks up a pen from her desk, and writes something on the card. He slides it, face down, across the desk to her, pinning it with his finger. He smells like autumn. He says,"
Hágoónee
', Becky Atcitty," and turns, walking toward the door.

It is his business card with the college address and his contact information, a little mug shot of him in the corner. At the bottom of the card he has written Home: 327-0693.

"Hey!" she calls.

Halfway to the door, he turns around.

"Is this three or four?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "You tell me."

L
ILY," FRED HAD SAID
when she told him about Sam. "Aren't you a mystery. How many other husbands you got hiding in the woodwork?"

"I could kick myself for not telling you from the very beginning," she said. "It's such a load off my mind. No more secrets."

Given the circumstances, her lawyer thinks they'll have no trouble finalizing the new divorce papers—the circumstances being extortion. Lily doesn't want to put Sam in jail, but now that the secret is out in the open, she can certainly play that card if she likes. She has put it all in writing for her lawyer; should Sam attempt anything like it again, they'll take whatever steps are necessary. For now, he'll draw up papers that don't need Sam's signature, listing abandonment as the grounds for divorce. If Sam doesn't show up again, the divorce will be finalized without him. If he does, the lawyer will have a little talk with him, explaining why it's in his best interest to let things be. He can keep Lily's money. She told the lawyer she doesn't care about the money.