Missing in Action (17 page)

“That works out okay, I guess.”

Myrna nodded, but she still looked sad, like maybe she was thinking how bad it really was. “You should go home,” she said. “It's not good to run off. You'll miss your family.”

He thought about telling some more lies, but he didn't want to. Instead, he said something that was sort of true. “My dad's in the service.”

“Where?”

He was chewing another bite of his hamburger. He thought he would tell her that his dad was a prisoner of war, and maybe that he was a hero. But he didn't want to do that anymore. “He died,” he said instead. “His ship got sunk.”

“Oh, Jay.”

It felt better, in a way, to say it. But he didn't want her to feel bad. “He wasn't any good,” he said. “He hit me sometimes. And he hit my mom. And he stepped out with other women.”

“Was he Navajo?”

“Half.”

“Things aren't good for Navajo men, Jay. It's not good how they live on the reservation. Too many of 'em drink. They don't know how to be Indians and they don't know how to be white—and your dad was some of both. He was probably a good man, deep inside.”

“He played catch with me sometimes. A couple of times, anyway.”

“See.”

He tried the potato chips. They were sort of stale, but he didn't care. He was hungry.

“You're like me, Jay. You're not anything now.”

He looked up. He didn't like the sound of that.

“I left the reservation to get a job, and I married a white man. Now I don't know what I am. I know everyone around here, and they like me okay. But I'm just an Indian to them. So I'm alone all the time.”

“You have your kids.”

“I know. And my husband loves me. He don't even care if I'm fat. He writes to me twice a week, sometimes more. He tells me in every letter that he loves me.”

Jay didn't like what he was feeling—sorry for her, and for himself. He bit into his hamburger again.

“You need your mama, Jay.”

“I know.”

She waited until he looked up at her. “You need to go home.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

He didn't answer. He couldn't tell her that people had seen him dancing with a Jap.

“Whatever it is, it don't matter. Not so much as you think. You need to be with your mother. She already lost your dad—and it hurts her, even if he did those things.”

“I think she wants to marry a guy she knows.”

“That's all right.” She reached toward him, patted his arm—like she wanted to start making promises. “Maybe he'll be nice to you.”

He shrugged.

“I wish I had my people, Jay. I love my husband, and I love my children, but all my people are over on the reservation, and I never see 'em. It don't matter if you're Indian, or white, or anything else. You need to have your own people, whoever they are.”

“I want to be a baseball player and make a lot of money.”

“Everyone's going to be a ballplayer. Every boy in this country. You can't all be ballplayers.”

He had been thinking that all day, but he kept trying not to. “I've got to figure something out, though. Something.”

“Go back to your mama. She loves you.”

He felt tears coming, but he fought them back. His mom did love him—he knew that—but she hadn't stopped Dad. Why hadn't she made him stop? It was what he thought about more than anything, but he tried not to. “It's like you said. I'm not anything.” He didn't say it, but he was thinking about Dad's word:
worthless
.

“It don't matter. When I get my husband back, I'll be happy. It's the same for you. You've got a mama. But you've got nothin' at all if you run away.” She patted him on the arm again.

But he could see it in her eyes. She didn't like being no one. He didn't either.

Myrna went off to the booths to pick up plates, to ask the people what else they wanted. He listened to all that, sat still, and forgot to eat. He was back to where he had started. There was nowhere for him to go. He did have his mother, but he was seeing everything clearer now. She hadn't looked out for him when he'd needed her.

Myrna came back in a minute and reminded him to eat, so he did. Then he said, “Myrna, I'm going to leave now.”

“What do you mean? Run off?”

“Yes.”

“You promised the sheriff you wouldn't do that.”

“I know.”

“Were you just lying to him?”

He hadn't been. Not at the time. But that wasn't what he said. “Everyone lies.”

“Not everyone.”

“They make promises and they don't keep 'em.”

“Not always.”

Jay got off the stool. “Thanks for lunch,” he said, and then reached in his pocket and pulled out his change. He put another quarter on the counter.

She pushed the quarter back to him, but he didn't take it. “You weren't taught to tell lies, Jay. You were taught to be better than that.”

He didn't know what he'd been taught. He turned and walked to the door. He stopped there, but he didn't look back at her. He tried to think what was right, and he couldn't think of anything. He stood looking through the glass door, watching a man walk by outside—a man holding himself tall, like maybe he was a soldier.

“Don't run off,” said Myrna. But he could tell by her voice that she was still behind the counter, not coming after him. “You promised.”

He reached for the doorknob, but his hand stopped. He stood again, not thinking about it too much, but knowing he couldn't go out. He stood there anyway. All he could think was that every choice he had was a bad one.

“Come back and keep me company for a while. I'll get you a piece of pie.”

He turned around and walked back to the counter. But it wasn't for the pie.

Myrna was standing in the same place. She nodded to him. “I didn't think you would go,” she said.

He slid the quarter to her again. She slid it back.

He sat down at the counter, but he didn't say anything. Myrna brought him some apple pie, and she went on about her work. But sometimes they talked, too, and she told him about growing up on the reservation. After a while the sheriff came back. “Well, Jay,” he said, “my hunch was right. The sheriff up there in
Delta knew who you were. He said your grandpa had stopped by to let him know you were missing. Jay Thacker is your name, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Your grandpa's driving down to get you. Will you stick around here with Myrna until he gets here? I don't want to hog-tie you to this stool or nothing like that.”

Jay nodded. He wanted to stay a long time. He liked the smell of this place, and he liked Myrna. He liked that it was just waiting. Everything would change once Grandpa got here.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.” He looked over at Myrna.

“That's good. Everything will be okay now,” she said.

He didn't think so.

“Do you live with your grandpa?” Myrna asked, after the sheriff was gone.

“Yes.”

“What kind of work does he do?” She was pressing her fingers into her arm again, grasping tight, like she needed to hang on to something.

“He has a drugstore. And he's a patriarch.”

“What's that?”

“He gives people blessings. It's something in our church.”

Myrna nodded. “He's a holy man. That's what Navajos would call him.”

Jay didn't think anyone ever called Grandpa that, but maybe that's what he was.

“I told you, Jay. You're a good boy. You've been taught right.”

He didn't know if he was good or not.

“You keep your promises, Jay. That's the kind of boy you are. It's good to find that out about yourself.”

JAY SAT IN THE STAR
Café for more than two hours. Sometimes he talked to Myrna. She knew some people in his family—not his grandma, but one of Jay's uncles. Jay had heard of him—his father's brother—but he didn't think he'd ever met him. He liked it, though, that she knew some of his people. She said that his uncle was in the war too, in the Marines. She said that lots of Navajos were in the Marines. They used their language to tell secrets and trick Japanese soldiers who tried to listen. They were heroes.

“You come from good people,” Myrna said. “Chiefs and wise men. All the way back from before the white people came.”

He thought about that while he waited. Grandpa Reid was a great man too, like a chief. A holy man. Maybe he could be like that, and like his uncle. Maybe he could play baseball, but if he couldn't, he could do
something else. He did okay in school, at math and reading and everything else. His mother always told him he was smart. Maybe he could have a store of his own, like Grandpa. And maybe people would say that he was the best man in the whole town. Maybe he could bless people.

But he would have to leave Delta and try some other place.

When he got back, he would stay home, or go out to the farm after Ken was gone, and he wouldn't play ball with the boys. He wouldn't go to the drugstore or to church, and he wouldn't talk to anyone. When school started, he would sit at his desk and do his work, and then he would go home right after. He'd do that as long as he had to, and then he would go to college maybe, and study how to run a store or something like that. And he could still practice baseball alone.

Most of the people left the café after they had lunch. Myrna stood by him, but she didn't always talk. She liked him, though; he could tell that. He told her a few more things. He finally told her about Ken and how he had shown Jay how to dance.

“That don't matter,” she said. “Indian men do dances—all of them together, with no women. It's not wrong to do that.”

Myrna didn't understand about Lester and the things he had said. There was no way to explain it to her.

“Look at me, Jay,” she told him. “A heart is good or not good.” She pushed her finger against her chest. “And you have a good heart. If people know you, they'll like you all right. Don't worry about other things.”

Jay liked hearing all that, but Myrna hadn't seen those boys at the dance, the way they had looked at him.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Grandpa finally walked into the café. Jay saw him in the mirror behind the counter, but he didn't turn around. He just waited to hear what he'd say. Grandpa came up behind him and patted his back. “Come on, Jay,” he said in a soft voice. “Let's go home.”

He got off the stool and turned around. He looked up at his grandpa to see how his face looked. He didn't look mad. He looked a little sad, maybe.

“Did they feed you something here?”

“Yes.”

Grandpa looked at Myrna. “How much do I owe you, ma'am?” he asked.

“Nothing. The sheriff paid for it.”

“Let me give you something,” Grandpa said. “You can pay back the sheriff and keep a little tip for yourself.”

“No. He don't want it. I don't either.” The quarter was still on the counter. She pushed it at Jay again.

Grandpa had his wallet out, but he nodded. Jay
watched his eyes. Grandpa understood something. Maybe about Jay and Myrna being Navajos. So he picked up Jay's quarter and told Myrna, “Thank you.”

Grandpa put his hand on Jay's shoulder. He felt the warmth of Grandpa's palm. “Let's go, son,” he said. “You scared your mom half to death this morning—you scared all of us. We had people out in the desert searching for you.”

Jay didn't like to think about that. It was one more thing people would be saying. But Grandpa's voice didn't sound angry. He had wondered what Grandpa would say when he got there, or in the car going back—whether he'd tell Jay he was worthless. But it was in Grandpa's face—he didn't feel that way.

So he said good-bye to Myrna, and she nodded to him, and then he walked out and got into the hot car, sat in the front with Grandpa. They rolled down the windows so the wind made lots of noise, and Grandpa drove north, but not fast, not angry the way Jay's dad had driven sometimes.

“You gave us a big scare,” Grandpa said. “We thought you'd gotten lost in the desert or maybe got yourself bitten by a rattler, or something like that. I've never seen your mom so upset.”

“Is she mad at me?”

“Mad?” Grandpa looked over at Jay. He looked surprised, his eyebrows both raised high. But then he laughed. “She
might be a little by the time I get you home, but she's been crying an awful lot, and she had us all get down on our knees a few times to pray for you.”

He wondered. Mom fussed about things, but he wondered what she would have done if he'd written her a letter and said he was okay, not to worry. Maybe she would have married Hal and figured she was better off.

“We know what happened at the dance, Jay. About Lester Callister saying you were out at the farm dancing with Ken. Is that what got you thinking you didn't want to stay around Delta?”

“I guess so. Mostly.”

“Well, I can understand how that made you feel. But those things aren't so bad as you think. Most people won't give it a thought for more than a day or two.”

“Gordy and the other boys will.”

“Well, I don't know about that. Gordy and Ken went out together looking for you this morning. Ken came into town and told us what happened, about you running off the farm. He said he'd done some looking for a while but didn't know the country. I got hold of Gordy, since he knows that land about as well as anyone, and I sent them out looking for you.”

“Gordy and Ken?”

“Yup. And Gordy recruited some of your other
friends. You know Gordy. He was talking all excited about forming up a ‘search team' and all that—like he was going to be the star of a movie—and I said, ‘Fine, but take Ken with you. You need someone older out there with you, and Ken wants to help.' I thought he wouldn't like that, but he seems to think Ken's quite the fellow—I guess because he plays ball so well.”