Stone Butterfly (20 page)

While rubbing the tingling left elbow, Daisy cocked her head.
What was that yelping?

(No, she does not refer to her own yelping—the tribal elder is elderly, but not senile. What Daisy's thought alludes to is the coyote-chasing girl's war-whoop, though she does not realize that Sarah is the whooper in question, or even that the girl was chasing a coyote.)

Daisy had not heard Sarah's shout with her ears, but the shaman was gifted with seven other ways of sensing startling events. Number five (not her favorite) was initiated when Daisy's elbow flashed red-hot, her arm jerked with an unpleasant sensation identical to an electric shock—and the alarming sound appeared in her mind.

Sarah Frank stepped smartly along, the rising full moon at her back, Mr. Zig-Zag securely in her backpack, the sturdy stick in her hand. The skinny girl was no longer weary. She was, in fact, fairly bursting at the seams with pent-up energy—enough to run all night, chasing the cowardly coyote over rocky ridges, through patches of brush, down into deep arroyos—all the while shouting insults and threats. Exultant in her newfound powers, she promised herself that from this time forward, she would never, ever be afraid. Not of anything.

Bless her soul. The valiant little girl had not the least notion of the terrors awaiting her. The first (and least) of them was only sixteen seconds away, when she turned off the rutted dirt road into what passed for a driveway. She followed the almost invisible pair of tire tracks through the small forest of piñon and juniper, into the clearing.

There was no trailer house.

It was as if Daisy Perika's familiar home had been snatched away, the old woman with it. The venerable Airstream had been replaced by a solid-looking little house, constructed mostly of stones, and wearing a cocky pitched-roof hat that glistened brittle in the moonlight.

A single, dreadful possibility presented itself:
Aunt Daisy must be dead. They've taken her old trailer away. There's no telling who lives here now, probably some mean old Indians who hate children and if I knock on the door, they'll probably call the tribal police and—

Though she had not made a sound, the front door opened. It framed an elderly, stooped figure. “Who's out there?”

A flood of relief washed over the girl. “Aunt Daisy—it's me!”

Daisy Perika's mouth gaped.
my Lord in heaven—it must be Sarah—half-grown and looking like a scarecrow draped in a feed sack.
“Who's ‘me'?”

“Sarah. Sarah
Frank.
” She wrung her hands. “Don't you remember me?”

Daisy appeared to think about it. “Hmmm. Yes, I guess maybe I do.” She cocked her head. “You're Provo Frank's orphan daughter. Your mother—she was one of them desert Papagos from down yonder at the bottom of Arizona—what
was
her name…” This, she actually had forgotten.

“Her name was Mary. Mary Attatochee, before she married my father.”

“Oh, right. Good ol' Mary What's-her-name. I remember her now.” Daisy looked the skinny girl up and down. “Since the last time we met, you've grown a couple of feet.”

Sarah straightened her back as she approached the porch. “I'm going on fifteen.”

“As old as all that,” the tribal elder muttered. “Isn't this a big surprise—you showing up at my place.” She tilted her head back, looked past the girl. “I didn't hear a car pull up.”

The footsore pedestrian slipped off her backpack, released the cat from its confinement. “I walked.”

“Walked?”
Surely not all the way from Utah.
“From where?”

“I had a ride to the bridge over the Piedra.”

Pitiful little thing footed it all that way—and by herself.

Sarah stooped to rub her finger along the cat's spine.

The animal fixed its amber eyes on the aged woman, emitted a thin whine.

How about that—uppity Mr. Zig-Zag still remembers me.
The Ute woman frowned at the gaunt-looking feline. “So—how's old Rag-Bag doing?”

Though knowing Daisy's game, Sarah pretended to be unaware of the devious old woman's mischievous machinations. “I guess it's hard for you to remember.” Her pitying tone suggested that being old as Moses's great-grandmother might have something to do with it. “His name is Mr. Zig-Zag.”

“Zag-Zig, is it?” Daisy snorted. “That's a funny name for a cat.” She waited for a correction that didn't come, then: “I never cared much for cats. Or dogs. All they do is eat and—”

“You don't have to worry about feeding Mr. Zig-Zag. Or me.” Sarah reached for the small parcel hidden under her blouse, quickly lowered her hand. “I've got some money.”

The old woman arched a doubtful eyebrow. “Have you now?”

The uneasy guest nodded. “I'll pay for our food.” Her stomach growled. “And we don't eat much.”

I can believe that—you're skinny as a garter snake.
“Come on inside. I'll fix you something that'll stick to your ribs.”

A wide-eyed Sarah Frank followed the tribal elder into her home. “It looks brand new.”

Daisy closed and bolted the door. “It's not quite a year old.”

“What happened to your little house trailer?”

“Child, that's a too-long story, and I'm way too tired to gab about it tonight.” She switched on a floor lamp. “Tomorrow, we'll have plenty of time to talk about what's been happening in my life.”
And in yours.

In the parlor, a particular piece of furniture caught the runaway's eye. “That's a
really
big TV set.”

The old woman nodded. “Yes it is.”
And I know what you're thinking.
“From time to time I watch some of those other educational shows, like
Oprah
—but nothing much else.” She added slyly: “The news is all so bad that I hardly ever turn it on.”

Relief flooded over Sarah.
Then she doesn't know anything about what happened back in Utah.

Practically reading the girl's mind, Daisy cut her a slashing sideways glance. “So how's things back in Arizona?”

The little fugitive shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, okay I guess.”

“So what are your Papago kin up to these days—sittin' around chompin' cactus-apples and dried lizard and whatnot?”

Sarah sniffed a delicious odor. “They mostly eat hamburgers. And pizza.”

“Well, you'll get none of that junk food here.” Daisy waddled over to the stove, lifted the lid on a charred pot. “Everything I serve up is rich in vitamin P.”

Sarah knew she was expected to ask which vitamin
that
was, and so she did.

“It's the best of 'em all.” Daisy made this assertion with an utterly serious expression. She stirred the leftovers, watched plump chunks of beef float up through the greasy brew. “It sharpens up the brain and strengthens the liver—but most of all it gives a person that's slow lots of get-up-and-go.” She lifted the cedar spoon to her lips, tasted the frothy broth. “Mmmmm—it's a good thing those lazy Papagos never discovered vitamin Perika.” Daisy winked at the recent arrival. “Why they might have come up here and stole all the Utes' horses, and chased us off to North Dakota!”

While the famished girl consumed two bowls of green chili stew, and the cat lapped up a saucer of milk, Daisy and Sarah chatted about scary encounters with coyotes, about how a little dab of flour thickened stew or posole just right, about how to keep squirrels and bats out of your attic, what foods one should never feed a cat, and so on and so forth. But the old woman—who was a long way from being a fool—did not press the girl about the reason for her unexpected arrival on the Southern Ute reservation. When Provo Frank's daughter was ready to talk about her recent troubles, she would. The way Daisy saw it, there was plenty of time to wait. The tribal elder was mistaken.

After Daisy had switched off the lights and tucked Sarah Frank under a colorful Pendleton blanket on the couch, the weary little girl waited until she could be absolutely certain the old woman was asleep. After considerable ticking and tocking of the clock, rhythmic snores began to drift from Daisy's bedroom. Sarah reached under her blouse, put her hand on the canvas wallet that was suspended from her neck on a nylon cord. She checked to make sure the zipper was firmly fastened, then pressed her fingertips on the packet to make sure the precious object was still inside. It was, of course. Plus some cash money.

The cat curled up by her pillow, purred like a small, precision motor.

Sarah removed her hand from Ben Silver's neck-wallet, reached out to stroke Mr. Zig-Zag. “Don't be afraid,” she whispered, and made her pet a solemn cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise: “Whatever happens, we'll
never
be poor again.” In no mood for sleep, the runaway mulled over what had happened since yesterday morning. Finally wearied of thinking, she willed the moonlight spilling in the window to fill up her eyes. This was quite pleasant, but such rapturous sweetness visits only briefly, then slips away.

It was not so very long before a horde of bison-clouds came thundering across the sky-prairie; the silver satellite was trampled under flinty, spark-kicking hooves. When a light rain began to patter against the glass pane, she drifted off into that shadowy domain…where dreams and insanity abide side by side.

A bright tide of sunlight streamed over the sleepy land, washing away the clinging residue of night. The rain-cleansed air was tonic enough to raise the sick from their beds, the sparkling symphony of birdsong sufficient to cheer the most dismal soul. Except for Daisy Perika.

The tribal elder grunted and groaned her way from under the Amish Lone Star quilt (a Christmas gift from Charlie Moon), slipped a blue flannel robe over her nightgown, gave the sleeping girl a glance as she passed through the parlor, padded into the kitchen (the most important room in the house) where Mr. Zig-Zag was sniffing at the floor, in search of a tasty tidbit that some thoughtful human being might have left there for a famished creature of the feline persuasion.

The old woman made a halfhearted kick at the cat. “G'way, Rag-Bag.” Well aware that there was no danger, the animal rubbed against her ankle, whined hopefully.

“Don't go cuddling up to me, you spotted-face, flea-bitten moocher.” Daisy measured out two heaping tablespoons of Folgers' finest into the perforated basket, then—remembering her guest—added two more.
I guess Sarah's old enough to drink coffee.
She held the stainless steel percolator under the tap until icy-cold well water reached the four-cup level. Then another quarter-cup for the pot.

The fourteen-year-old subject of Daisy's thoughts appeared in the kitchen, rubbing at her eyes. “Are you making breakfast?”

Food, that's all children and cats think about.
“Not yet.” Daisy went to the propane range, placed the coffeepot on a back burner, turned a knob to ignite a cheerful ring of blue flame. “Coffee first, then food.” She shot a gimlet-eye look at Provo Frank's presumptuous daughter. “That's the way I've always done it, that's the way I'll do it 'til the day I die.” The maestro's tone made it abundantly clear that even the slightest variation on this theme was unwelcome in the extreme.

Stifling a yawn, Sarah came to stand by her side.

In silence, they waited. Time passed so terribly slowly, as time always does while one awaits and anticipates some desired end. But watched pots do eventually boil, and by and by, the water under the hollow base began to bubble, thence to surge up through the stem, whence the percolator proceeded to do its work, which is to perk.

Blip.

Long pause.

Blip.

Shorter pause.

Blippity-blip.

Blippity-blip-blip.

Daisy closed her eyes, sniffed. As she had become aged and jaded, most of the ordinary pleasures had faded. A few had vanished altogether. But every morning that God gave her, that first aroma of fresh coffee was a special blessing. Well worth forcing her old bones out of bed for.

Sarah had her coffee as Charlie Moon preferred, which is to say—excessively sweet.

Half an hour later, they were seated at Daisy's kitchen table.

The guest did not speak until she had cleaned her plate of the last scrap of scrambled egg, the final morsel of pork sausage. Sarah wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “That was very good. Thank you.”

Despite her grumpy self, the cook smiled.

The spotted cat, who was under the table working on the remnants of a can of tuna, added a whining comment which might have been a compliment.

Sarah thought so; she wiggled her toes at her pet. “Mr. Zig-Zag thanks you too.”

Busy adding blackberry jam to a hot buttered biscuit, Daisy responded with a dismissive “hmmph.”

The girl was pleasantly surprised when the Ute elder offered her the biscuit. She accepted the treat, began to eat as if she had been starved for weeks.

The wily old woman watched. “Next time you want to visit, you might give me a telephone call—let me know you're comin'.” She added: “I might have been away when you showed up.”

“If you had been, we'd have stayed in Spirit Canyon 'til you got back.” Sarah offered the furry half of the team a quarter of the biscuit.

Being a roughshod product of the Great Depression—and having intended to eat the tuna herself—Daisy cringed inwardly at this additional extravagance. But letting it pass, she repeated last night's question: “So how're things amongst your Papago folks on the res?”

“I don't know.” Sarah looked her inquisitor straight in the eye. “I've been staying with one of my cousins who moved off the reservation. Her name is Marilee.”

“Marilee Attatochee?”

The girl's eyes popped. “Do you know her?”

The old woman nodded. “She was at your parents' wedding in Ignacio—at St. Ignatius.”
Tough-looking little woman—and meaner than a pit bull with a nose full of porcupine quills.
Daisy had instantly taken a liking to Miss Attatochee. For a moment, Daisy couldn't think of anything else to say. But like other moments, this one would pass.
I can't just up and ask her if she came here because she stole some stuff from an old white man in Utah and killed him.
“Everything all right at your cousin's house?” After a wary glance from the child, she added: “I hope you and her was getting along okay.”

Sarah twisted a paper napkin into a tight little rope. “Marilee's nice.”
But Al Harper is horrible.
“And school wasn't too bad.” She looked out the window, where a mountain bluebird had landed on a spindly juniper branch. “But I decided I'd rather be in Colorado.”

Daisy nodded. “Colorado is lots better than being in—” She barely caught herself before she said
being in jail.
“Better than most places.” She reached for the pot. “You want some more coffee?”

Sarah, who had rarely touched the stuff, was feeling very grown-up. “Yes.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

Well, at least she has nice manners.
She poured the girl a half-cup of the potent black brew.
But from what they say, so did John Dillinger and Baby-Face Nelson and lots of them other cold-blooded murderers.

As has been mentioned, the front windows of Daisy Perika's home provide a spectacular view of the mouth of
Cañón del Espíritu.
That long, meandering, and rather deep canyon is defined on one side by the stately form of Three Sisters Mesa—which serves as a pedestal for the trio of petrified Pueblo women—and on the other by another, somewhat less distinguished mesa known simply as Dog Leg, so-called because of an abrupt bend about halfway along its length which, if one's imagination leans toward anatomical analogies, might well suggest a canine leg joint.

Now, consider what may be seen
behind
the Ute elder's home, where she seldom bothers to gaze. The earth in her outback is cut with red arroyos, bulging with rocky ridges, dotted with piñon, juniper, and prickly pear cactus, plus an occasional cluster of pointy yucca spears. The distinguishing feature of this otherwise common-as-dirt vista is a flat-topped pillar of sandstone which, for some obscure reason, is known locally as Mule Shoe Butte. There is no record of a shoe, mule or otherwise, having ever been associated with the spot. Such are the mysteries of rural place-names. The more relevant point is this: While Daisy and Sarah were enjoying their breakfast, a determined young man had attempted to conceal his automobile among a cluster of red willows that had found root in a shallow arroyo about fifty yards off the dirt road. He was now atop Mule Shoe Butte, stretched out on his stomach, watching Daisy's house. The stranger removed an antique brass telescope from his coat pocket, did a squint-eye at the Indian woman's home.

The spy in the prone position was Deputy Sheriff Tate Packard, who had driven all the way from Tonapah Flats in hopes of finding the Ute-Papago girl who was wanted for questioning in connection with the Benjamin Silver homicide. A less intelligent, not-so-experienced deputy might have simply walked right up to the Ute elder's door, knocked, smiled at the woman of the house, introduced himself as a representative of the Tonapah Flats Sheriff's Office, inquired whether Daisy Perika had any notion of the current whereabouts of one Sarah Frank. But Tate Packard was, as Sheriff Popper had often said, an uncommonly clever young man. And having served seven years with the BIA police, Packard knew his way around the Navajo and Hopi reservations, and though the differences in culture and character of the various Native American tribes was more remarkable than their similarities, the deputy sheriff had concluded that the various groups had certain characteristic in common, two of which particularly applied to the situation at hand. (1) They mistrusted outsiders (especially lawmen) and (2) they protected their own (especially from lawmen). And so here he was, watching the old woman's home, hoping Sarah Frank was inside, waiting for the runaway to show her face.

When the astonishing thing happened—and it had not occurred with such force since she was a little girl—Sarah was putting away the breakfast dishes. At first, what she saw was merely a small, clearer-than-air spot on a varnished cabinet door. A spot that was
not
really there. The better to see it, she closed her eyes. The phantasm was much brighter now, and took on a rectangular shape, resembling a window—a portal into those dark places where ordinary mortals cannot see. For the oddly “gifted” girl, this not an unfamiliar sight. Much of the time, the picture was a blank canvas. Just as often, she would see an amorphous form that was hard to identify. This morning, it was different.

What she saw was an enormous
eye.

The eye was staring at her.

Daisy, who was storing an iron skillet in the oven, started when the child dropped a heavy platter on the floor, where it shattered.
She's standing there with her eyes shut—no wonder she dropped the plate!
She waited for the girl to mutter an apology.

Sarah watched the huge eye blink. “I have to go.”

Daisy bent to pick up pieces of the platter. “Go where?”

She opened her eyes, stared at the knotty-pine wall as if she could see through it. “Away.”

Daisy cocked her head at this. “Why?”

The girl scooped up her cat. “There's a man. He's come to get me.”

“What man—who is he?”

The girl clutched Mr. Zig-Zag to her neck. “I don't know. But I have to go away.” She turned an oddly calm face toward the old woman. “He's got a gun.”

The tough old Ute straightened her back. “So've I.” There was a double-barrel 12-gauge in her closet. “And I know how to use it.”

Sarah knew this was true. Several years ago, when the elderly woman lived in the metal-skin trailer, she had watched Daisy empty both barrels at a UFO which had been within a few yards of her front porch. “It's not you he's after. If I leave before he gets here, maybe he'll go away.”

A stubborn person herself, Daisy recognized the determination that had hardened the girl's thin face. She made an instant decision that would shatter lives in ways that could not be repaired. “Go hide in Spirit Canyon. When you get to that pointy red rock on the Three Sisters side—the one that looks like a stubby carrot—take about a dozen more steps until you see a deer trail going up the slope. Up near the top, in a place where the rock is dark brown, there's a shelf along the cliff—and a little cave. When I was a little girl, I used to hide up there.” She put the leftover biscuits into a plastic bag, gave this to Sarah Frank. “If you've got to go, do it—don't stand there gawking at me like some pie-eyed heifer!” Daisy waved both hands. “Hurry, now.”