Spider Woman's Daughter (5 page)

Today, though, instead of the beauty around her, she noticed how her old Tercel struggled with the climb to the summit. Her brain replayed the lieutenant’s shooting, her conversation with Mrs. Benally, the last turbulent confrontation with her sister Darleen.

Bernie hadn’t felt sleepy when she left Window Rock, but now she could hardly keep her eyes open. She pulled over near the top of the pass, where the road widened. The wind had stirred up so much dust and haze that she could barely see Tsoodzil, known as Mount Taylor in English, rising into the clouds. It was the home of Black God, Turquoise Boy, and Turquoise Girl, a sacred marker of her homeland.

The sun shone in through the windshield, sweet as honey. Bernie pushed her seat as close to horizontal as it would go. Enjoyed a deep breath of the fresh mountain air. Closed her eyes—just for a minute, she told herself. Beyond here the route snaked down out of the mountains to connect with 491 at Sheep Springs. She’d head north another twenty minutes or so to her mother’s house. Almost there.

She gave in to sleep before even unbuckling her seat belt.

T
he vibration of the phone in the vest pocket of her uniform shirt woke her. She looked at the caller ID. Darleen.

“You were supposed to be here hours ago. I texted you, and you didn’t even answer. What happened? Where are you?”

“Sister. Hi. I got delayed. Long story. I’ll be there in about half an hour. ”

“You always do this to me. It smells.” Darleen hung up.

Bernie climbed out of the car with that tight feeling in her belly she noticed more and more now when she talked to Darleen. She walked to the edge of the overlook, shaking the cobwebs from her brain. She saw ravens circling, heard the deep purr of a truck in the distance. Then she remembered Louisa’s cat.

She looked in the backseat. The cat carrier, door open, was empty except for the towel. She peered under the seat. No cat. The front windows were wide open, easy enough for a cat to climb out. She searched around the car, checked underneath. No cat resting in the shade. And lots of places for a cat to hide. Too many for her to search. Her gaze swept the highway, east and west. At least no dead cat on the road.

Good luck to you, Louisa’s cat, she thought. Watch out for the owls and coyote. I’m sorry I didn’t take better care of you. She’d failed the cat, just as she’d failed Leaphorn.

She
s
tarted the car and headed on to her mother’s house, wondering if the day could get any worse.

Bernie smelled greasy smoke as soon as she opened the front door. Mama sat on the couch, wrapped in her favorite blanket despite the heat. A nature show blared on TV.

“It’s me, Mama.” She spoke in Navajo.

Mama looked up and smiled. “Sit down here with me, sweet daughter. You look tired.”

“I will in a moment,” Bernie said. “Is Sister here?”

“Not right now,” Mama said. “That one said she’ll be back soon.”

Mama never called her Bernie, only the more formal Bernadette. But she rarely used anyone’s English name, preferring the traditional way of identifying people in terms of their relation to you or by the name that had developed from the person’s personality, a life event, or a character trait. Chee’s Navajo name, for instance, translated in English to “Long Thinker.”

Bernie rushed to the kitchen. She clicked off the burner beneath the frying pan, grabbed a towel to wrap around the handle, and took the skillet out the back door, set it on the ground. She started the vent fan and opened the window. Where was Sister? Keeping Mama safe was her job. If Mama had left the skillet on, if Mama had been cooking her own lunch, that raised one issue. If Darleen had walked off with the stove on, that was something else again.

The kitchen looked as if a dust devil had blown through. An egg carton, sitting open like a cardboard prayer book, had six eggs left. A half-empty bottle of Pepsi and discarded Styrofoam carry-out food containers added to the clutter. Something sticky had spilled and run to the floor. Dirty plates, cups, and silverware sat untended.

When Mama had first moved into the house, when Bernie was in high school and Darleen a baby, she allowed nothing out of place. She organized her home as precisely as a rug in progress, as neat as their grandmother’s old hogan. But because of her arthritis, her heart problems, and the other debilitations of aging—they’d even worried about Alzheimer’s disease—Mama couldn’t do the work herself, so Darleen had promised to pitch in and help. For a while, the plan worked. But lately, Bernie thought, chaos had begun to replace order. Every week she found more to clean and straighten, more mess Sister seemed to expect her to handle.

Bernie and Darleen had agreed that Darleen could leave Mama alone for bits and pieces when she was feeling well. Bernie explained that one fall might mean a broken hip, a trip to the hospital, pneumonia. She had heard too many stories of mothers and grandmothers gone down that road.

Bernie went back to the living room, navigating around piles of clothes and Mama’s walker, on which hung Darleen’s purple baseball cap. Mama looked up at her and patted the couch. Bernie sat, picked up the remote control from the dusty coffee table, and muted the sound.

Mama spoke in Navajo. “You are here now to stay awhile.”

“I’m glad to see you, Mama. What’s new?” She held her mother’s gnarled hand, noticing the coolness of her bony fingers despite the warm day.

Mama talked about a conversation she’d had with her sister, who lived near Crownpoint, recalling every detail. As she told the story, Mama ran her fingertips over the blanket on her lap, a fine rug she had made years before. Mama had been one of the best weavers anywhere. Her mind had relished the geometry of the loom and the interplay of color translated into warp and weft. She had created symphonies of design in gray, white, black, and brown, using wool sheared and spun from sheep they raised and tended at the old place.

Bernie loved the rug Mama had made to warm her and Chee’s bed. It was a gift for their wedding, and the last her mother had completed. Because of the aching and stiffness in her hands, it had taken her more than a year, but Mama kept at it without complaint. Chee teased that Bernie had her mother’s tenacity when it came to working on a police case. “You’re just like her,” he said. “You work on a case, bit by bit, line by line, and you keep going until you figure out what’s what. Spider Woman’s daughter, weaving together the threads of the crime.”

When she’d finished her story about Bernie’s aunt, Mama said, “Tell me what you’ve been doing, my daughter.”

“Oh, busy at work.” Bernie mentioned a call she’d handled, a lost three-year-old she eventually discovered asleep in the back of an uncle’s firewood trailer, how relieved his family was to have him back safely.

“Good,” Mama said. “But something makes your heart heavy.”

Bernie squeezed her hand. She wasn’t ready to talk about it.

Mama squeezed back, then gave Bernie news of her niece, a sweet girl Mama actually considered another daughter. She was expecting a baby later that summer. Mama never directly brought up the idea of Bernie becoming a mother, but Bernie felt the unasked question lurking in the corners of their conversations.

When Mama said she had to use the bathroom, Bernie took her arm and eased her from the couch. She was as light as old bones baked in the sun. Mama shuffled along in her socks, using Bernie to keep her balance. Bernie had asked Darleen to make sure Mama put on her shoes to reduce the risk of falling. Where was Darleen?

Bernie helped Mama with her pants and left her to her privacy. Down the hall, the door to Darleen’s room stood open. Bernie noticed empty beer cans in a corner.

It looked as though a crew of burglars had rummaged everywhere, except for Darleen’s desk, on which she’d neatly stacked papers, drawings that reminded Bernie of the art you’d see in comic books. She looked at the one on top, a nice sketch of a young man and young woman. Funny that her sister was so messy, but her artwork so meticulous.

Bernie heard the crunch of a car’s tires on their gravel road. She walked back to the living room just as Darleen came in.

Darleen looked pale, puffy in the face. She frowned at Bernie. “I see you finally made it.”

“Sister,” Bernie said. “I thought you’d be here with Mama.”

When Darleen walked closer, Bernie smelled alcohol.

“I thought
you’d
be here,” Darleen countered. “You told me you’d drive up right after breakfast. I had things to do. I was counting on you.”

“We almost had a fire on the stove.” Bernie glared at Darleen. “I think Mama was cooking and forgot to turn off the heat.”

“You told me you’d be here sooner.”

“Something happened at work,” Bernie said. “I had to—”

Bernie noticed a stoop-shouldered young man standing in the doorway, watching them. She looked at him, back at Darleen.

“He’s my friend.” Bernie waited for more. When nothing came, she turned to the man, probably in his midtwenties. “I’m Bernie, Darleen’s sister. Please come in.”

“Charley Zah.” He stayed on the porch, staring at her uniform.

“I drove from work,” Bernie said. She heard the toilet flush.

“Darleen told me you were a cop,” he said. “Cool.”

“Mama’s in the bathroom,” Bernie said. “I need to see if she can use some help.”

“I just came back for my hat,” Darleen said. “And, uh, to make sure you got here okay.” She grabbed her cap from the walker.

“Stay awhile,” Bernie said. “We need to talk.”

“It’s my day off, remember?” Darleen glanced at Stoop Boy. “We made plans.”

“We have to talk, Sister.” Bernie leaned on the
have to.

“You already cheated me out of some of my day,” Darleen said. “If you wanna talk, text me.”

The toilet flushed again. “Quality time with Mama. See you later.” Darleen stomped out the door. Stoop Boy followed.

Bernie wanted to run after her, shake some sense into her. Instead, she went to assist their mother.

“I’ve been thinking about the old days.” Mama told wonderful stories, enriched by the complicated rhythms of her Navajo words. Bernie felt honored to have Mama all to herself. It was a rare gift, and she was grateful. “I’ve been thinking about this special rug. I don’t think I ever told you about it.” She described the weaving, the white background with the vivid figures. “It was made a long time ago. I never saw anything so beautiful. I wish you could have seen it, my daughter.”

Outside, the wind rattled against the windows, trying to blow the last bits of moisture from the struggling landscape. If the weather followed normal patters, rain might come in July. Until then, hot dust.

“I was a small girl then,” Mama said. “He came to the trading post at Newcomb, and my family was there. They say he made other rugs with other stories of the Holy People. But I haven’t seen those rugs.”

Bernie said, “He? In the old days? I thought women did all the weaving back then.”

“This man was a
hataalii.
He worked at a huge loom. And the dyes for his yarn? All from plants.”

Mama grew quiet. She closed her eyes. Gradually, her head slumped against the back of the couch. Bernie got up slowly and went to the kitchen to get to work. When the wall phone rang, she caught it at first jingle.

“Hey you. I left a message on your cell an hour ago. I guess you made it safely.” She heard the worry in Chee’s voice. Her cell, left in the car with her backpack and the cat carrier. What kind of an officer was she?

“Anything more on the lieutenant?”

“The hospital in Albuquerque couldn’t take him. Full or something. So they flew him into Santa Fe,” Chee said.

“Gosh, what an ordeal. What about the shooter?”

“Nothing yet. Everyone is looking for Jackson Benally. Mrs. Benally certainly did not enjoy being fingerprinted. She told me more about her angel of a son when I drove her home.”

She heard Chee take a deep breath, exhale into the receiver. “How are you doing, honey? Don’t change the subject this time.”

“Well, Darleen is off with some boyfriend. Stoop Boy. The house is a disaster. It makes me furious that she’s so irresponsible.”

“Let it go for today,” Chee said. “Try to relax and enjoy being with your mom.”

She heard noise in the background, then Chee said, “Gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

While Mama napped, she focused on cleaning, taking out her frustration on the greasy stovetop. She reimagined the crime as she scrubbed, worrying over the details, wondering what she’d missed. When she heard the TV click on, she left the rest of the kitchen project for Darleen.

Mama put a bony finger on Bernie’s khaki pants. “What happened here? Did you get hurt?”

Bernie looked down at her legs. Noticed the bloodstains.

“Someone I work with got shot this morning. They took him to the hospital in Santa Fe.”

“Is this his blood?”

Bernie nodded. The cold breath of sadness swept over her.

“Something else happened, Mama,” she said. “I had his cat in my car, and it ran away. I left the window open, and next thing I knew, the cat . . .” She felt the tears welling.

Mama looked at her. “So, you like those bird killers all of a sudden?”

“Well, no, not especially.”

“The one that got lost, was it your friend?”

She had to laugh. “Not exactly. It scratched me when I tried to catch it. It made a terrible noise from the backseat. Yikes. What a racket!”

“So, you’re crying about a cat, and you don’t like cats? And this cat hurt you, and it wasn’t even your cat?” Mama patted her hand. “I don’t think that cat made you cry.”

“It’s been a hard day.”

“Maybe you needed to cry.”

Then Bernie felt Mama’s cool hand on her back, rubbing between the shoulder blades the way she used to when Bernie was a little girl. It was as if that gentle pressure pushed away the strength of her resistance and let the grief and weariness flow out.

“In my room are some clean pants,” Mama said after a while. “When you put them on, roll up the waist a little so they won’t be too long.” Mama had been taller, but now Bernie and Mama stood almost eye to eye.