Stone Butterfly (24 page)

When Gorman Sweetwater drove up in his beloved new pickup, Daisy Perika was outside waiting for her cousin.
I hope he hasn't been drinking this early in the day.
After Gorman had soaked up a six-pack, he would gaze at her with the droopy-jaw, hollow-eyed look of a certified moron. A glance at the suspect relative convinced Daisy that he was about as sober and sensible as he ever got.
Which ain't saying all that much.

Gorman lowered the window. “When did you get yourself a cat?”

Daisy glanced at Mr. Zig-Zag, who was sniffing at a tiny purple flower. “This ugly fuzz-ball don't belong to me—he's just a stray that wandered in the other day.” That was close enough to the truth.

“Looks like he tangled with a coyote.” The perpetually hungry man eyed a covered basket Daisy had slung over her shoulder. “What's in that?”

She shrugged under the weight. “Oh, just some things.”

The expectant diner licked his lips. “I bet it's a picnic lunch.”

Daisy offered an enigmatic smile. “You might be right.” She inspected the camper shell. “Is the back of your truck unlocked?”

“Sure.” He got out, slammed the door, relieved his cousin of her burden, sniffed at the aromatic hints.
Fried chicken. Baked beans. And some kinda fresh-baked pie.
Another sniff.
Peach cobbler.
He started to open the lid—

“Leave it shut!” Daisy slapped his hand. “That's for Father Raes.”

He exhaled a melancholy sigh, said good-bye to the pie. “Don't he live up at Charlie Moon's ranch since he retired?”

“Sure. And that's where you're taking me.”

“Oh.”
Well, it'll be nice to see the priest again.
He stowed the basket in the back of his pickup, and was about to shut the camper shell door when Daisy shouted orders to the contrary.

“Leave it open.”

“You want me to load some more stuff?”

“Not right now. You can have your breakfast first.”

His spirits somewhat restored, Gorman followed Daisy and the cat into her home, all the while assuring himself that this would be a profitable day. In addition to the free meal, but he'd make sure Daisy didn't “forget” her promise to fill his gas tank. Almost an hour later, having enjoyed the excellent breakfast, the appreciative man thumped his chest and presented his host with a complimentary burp.

Because her cousin was an obnoxiously odorous man, as likely to expel gas from one orifice as another, Daisy was grateful for the limited nature of this expression of culinary approval.

“We'd better get goin',” Gorman said. “I got to be home before dark.”

“Why's that?”

Realizing that he still had some room under his belt, Gorman buttered a made-from-scratch biscuit. Never one to avoid a tasteful pleasure, he added two heaping tablespoons of strawberry jam. “It's because of my eyes.”

She stored a heavy skillet in the oven. “What's wrong with your eyes?”

Gorman took a bite of the biscuity confection, attempted to recall the technical term.
Cattle-racks? No, that's something you put on a truck. But it's got something to do with driving. Oh, now I remember.
“My eyes has the Cadillacs.”

She slammed the oven door. “The
what
?”

He explained in that tolerant, though mildly condescending manner which the well-informed reserve for relatively ignorant relatives: “It's a eye-problem that makes it hard for me to drive at night. That's why I got to be home before dark.”

Daisy blamed herself for asking.
After all these years of him spouting nonsense, I shouldn't expect the old knot-head to make any sense.
She grabbed a damp dish towel, gave the table a series of vicious swipes.
I hope whatever's wrong with his brain don't run in the family.

He spooned sugar into the coffee cup. “But my optimist says he can fix it.”

She stopped in mid-swipe, her mouth gaped guppy-fashion. “Your
what
?”

Though tolerant with those less blessed than himself, Gorman was beginning to run short on patience. “Why d'you keep saying ‘what-what-what'?” He set his jaw. “Ain't you never heard of how some old people get Cadillacs in their eyes? And don't you know that a optimist is a eye doctor?”

“No, I didn't know those things.” Daisy sighed. “I guess I'm just not as smart as you are.”

Disarmed by this candid confession from a woman who never, ever admitted to having the least shortcoming, Gorman softened his tone. “It's not your fault, Daisy. Why anybody else who lived out here all by theirself for years on end, with no way to keep up with what's goin' on in the world—they'd be even dumber than you.”

Barely resisting the temptation to swat him with the dish cloth, she thought:
It's a good thing I didn't have that cast-iron frying pan in my hand.
“Thank you so much for understanding.”

Out of sympathy for the deprived woman, Gorman changed the subject. “Anyway, like I said, my doctor's sure he can fix what's wrong with me.”

“Then he is for sure.”

About to take a sip of Daisy's famously strong coffee—which was rumored to have melted stainless steel spoons and caused strong men's eyeballs (Cadillacs and all) to eject from their sockets with a loud popping sound and hang limp on their cheeks—Gorman paused, stared at his cousin over the brim of the cup. “He is for sure
what
?”

She smiled. “Your doctor is a sure-enough optimist.”
If he thinks he can fix what's wrong with you.

Well, at least we finally got
that
straight.
The family scholar downed a swallow of the shaman's potent brew.

Daisy pattered her cousin on the head. “You know what I think?” This being a rhetorical question, she did not wait for a response. “I think you oughta trade in that shiny new pickup truck.” This being an ambush, the crafty old bushwhacker waited for him to ask for what.

“Trade it in for what?”

“Why one of them long, red Cataract convertibles!” Her body shook with laughter.

Gorman stared at the peculiar woman, made an instant diagnosis.
Al's Hammers—that's what it is.

Gorman took a gander at the things his elderly cousin had loaded into the bed of the GMC pickup while he was having his breakfast. A big canvas laundry bag, evidently stuffed with clothing. Several quilts and blankets, a fluffy feather pillow. And Daisy wasn't finished. At her instructions, he carried out three heavy cardboard boxes that were filled with canned goods, everything from vegetable-barley soup and great northern beans to peach halves (in heavy syrup), old-fashioned SPAM and candied yams. There was also a box of Saltine crackers and two bags of chocolate-chip cookies.

The better to look askance at this load of freight, the curious man cocked his head. “You figure the Father'll eat all of that?”

“Sure. That skinny little priest puts food away like a starved grizzly.” She pushed a plastic grocery bag of miscellaneous items into the truck bed. “I've always had a suspicion that he's got a tapeworm.” The self-assured diagnostician wiped her hands on a cotton apron.
And he especially likes cookies.
She added this to an already long list of medical clues.
Next time I get the chance, I'll fix him some of my tapeworm medicine. But first I'll need to get me some kerosene and about a pint of castor oil…

Gorman glanced at his cousin. “Is that it?”

“No, but what's left I'll put up front.”

Daisy's cousin lifted the heavy tailgate, slammed it into place. “I've heard some talk about Charlie Moon's big lake—they say it's so chock-full of trout that a man can walk across the water on their backs. Barefooted, without getting his ankles wet.” He lowered the shell door, snapped it into place, shot Daisy a hopeful glance. “I got some fishin' tackle in the cab. You reckon Charlie might let me drop a hook in the water?”

“Maybe.” She looked doubtful. “If I put in a good word for you.”

Gorman watched her toddle back into the house.

Daisy returned with the cat cradled in her arms.

The driver looked down his nose at the creature. “You thinkin' of takin' that scabby-lookin' chewed-up animal with us—in my brand-new pickup?”

“I'm not just thinking about it—I'm
doing
it.” She placed Mr. Zig-Zag in the cab, then got in herself. Once she was settled, Daisy turned her glare on the reluctant chauffeur. “Gorman, I got news for you—you'll have to crank this thing up. It won't go by itself.”

During the long drive north, Daisy busied herself with removing a final few burrs from the cat's fur. It was a monotonous task, much like knitting a sweater or applying tiny colored beads to soft buckskin moccasins—the sort of work a woman does when she needs to think. And Daisy had quite a lot to think about. So much that she had no intention of wasting these precious minutes gabbing with her addle-brained cousin.

As mile markers passed like lonely soldiers retreating to the rear, Gorman endured the silent treatment—but he could not understand his relative's reticence to chat about this and that. The man had his feelings. And they were hurt. As they were entering the southern edge of Granite Creek, he could no longer contain the pent-up store of words that had been building up behind his lips, and decided to break the ice by bringing up a subject of wide and general interest. “GMC sure makes a first-class truck.”

Daisy removed the last sticky seedpod, put it on her knee with the others.

“This one's got an after-market CD player. And satellite digital radio. And six speakers. And—” He winced as his cousin stuffed the cluster of cockleburs into the pickup's immaculate ashtray.

The grateful animal purred like a finely tuned model motorboat motor. And looked up at Daisy as if on the verge of making a thoughtful comment. Or, perhaps, to ask his benefactor a question.

“D'you want to hear some music?” (No, this was Gorman speaking.)

“If I do,” Daisy snapped, “I'll let you know.”

This response—which he took as negative—caused a gray cloud to pass over Gorman Sweetwater's craggy face. But a determined conversationalist does not throw in the towel when he has taken one on the chin. Bobbing and weaving past the sensitive subject of music, he readied a heavy counterpunch. Horsepower. “This model's got the finest V-8 engine ever to come out of Detroit City.” Knowing she would be staggered by this, he followed up with a bone-jarring uppercut. “And computer-controlled all-wheel drive.”

Daisy's face was like granite.

The driver slowed for a stoplight. “And high-tech brakes that—”

“And a big air bag at the wheel.”

The lightweight glared at his passenger. “What?”

She offered him the wide-eyed innocent look. “An air bag on the driver's side—ain't that what you told me when we was talking on the phone last night?” She reached over to pat her relatively slow-witted relative on the arm. “I bet you thought I'd already forgot.”

The light changed, he drove on—but with a nagging suspicion that he had been knocked off his pegs. He just couldn't figure out how she'd done it.

By high noon, Gorman Sweetwater had passed through the main Columbine gate, and was tooling along the miles-long ranch road.

As they approached the foreman's house, Daisy barked an instruction. “Slow down.”

He meekly followed his cousin's order.

Dolly Bushman was on the front porch, mercilessly beating a dusty throw rug to death.

I don't want her to get suspicious.
Daisy grinned crookedly, waved. “Hello, there!”

The foreman's kindly wife returned the gesture, smiled, yelled back: “Hello yourself, Daisy. It's nice to see you. Charlie's still not back yet but—”

“Then I guess I won't be staying long.” She addressed Cousin Gorman out of the corner of her mouth. “I'm through talking to White-Eyes—step on the gas!”

Dolly watched the pickup lumber off, listened as it rumbled across the bridge over Too Late Creek.
Well now I've seen everything—Charlie Moon's grouchy old aunt is behaving almost like a normal human being. She must be feeling good today.

Daisy Perika was feeling good. Today, things were definitely going her way.

Gorman slowed at the ranch headquarters—where Charlie Moon hung his hat and Daisy had a downstairs bedroom reserved for her occasional visits.

The tribal elder reached over to jerk at her cousin's sleeve, which caused the pickup to swerve. “Keep right on going.” She pointed. “Take the dirt track around that big red barn—it goes over the ridge that has all the spruce, and then to the cabin. That's where Father Raes stays when he's not off running all over Europe or South America.”

The fisherman had his own priorities. “Where's the lake?”

“Not too far from the cabin.” Daisy watched the Columbine hound appear from under the wraparound porch, raise his nose to sniff the air.
I wonder if he can smell the cat.

When they arrived at their destination, Father Raes's old Buick was nowhere in sight. Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank goodness he's not back yet.
But she knew that he never locked his cabin door. On the Columbine, there was no need for the sort of precautions that town folk had to worry about.

Unless, of course, Daisy Perika came calling.

Having parked in the inky shade of a blue-black spruce, Gorman opened the camper shell, lowered the tailgate, unbuttoned his shirt-sleeves.

“Just take in those heavy boxes, with the canned food—then you can go fishing.” Daisy had the whining, squirming cat clutched in her arms. “I'll tote the rest of this stuff in myself.”

His eyebrow arched itself. As if to say:
When you act all goody-goody nice, I am naturally skeptical.
The eyebrow was entirely justified in its suspicions.

After Gorman had completed his appointed task, Daisy pointed toward the alpine lake. “Now take your fishing pole over there—see if you can catch yourself a ten-pound trout.” Having disposed of Mr. Zig-Zag, she reached for a small bag of groceries. “Fish for an hour, but not a minute more. By the time you get back, I'll be ready to go.”

He did and she was.

When Gorman returned with a fourteen-inch rainbow, he found Daisy waiting in the pickup. The ecstatic angler waved the wriggling catch in her face. “Caught him on a red-eyed grasshopper!”

“That's a pretty fish.” The old woman glanced at the cabin, where she saw the cat's face in the window. And, for a fleeting moment, that
other
face, which looked as if it might weep forever. Daisy turned away. “Let's get going.” She added: “When we get to Durango, I'll top off your gas tank.”

And so they drove away.

If it was not the best of days, it was certainly not the worst.

Consider Gorman Sweetwater. He had enjoyed a free, top-notch breakfast, pulled a fine trout from Charlie Moon's private lake, and drove home with a full tank of gasoline in his brand-new red GMC truck with the genuine fiberglass shell on the back. Per diem, the take had been more than adequate. A sensible man should not expect any more of a day than that.

Consider Daisy Perika. The tribal elder had accomplished her immediate objectives—laid down her burdens, one might rightly say. She had left that pesky cat in Father Raes's log cabin. And that wasn't all she'd left there, but the old woman tried not to think about that unfortunate aspect of the matter. Daisy was not proud of what she had done, but neither did she feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. Under the extraordinary circumstances, the Ute elder had very few options—none of them pleasant to contemplate. She consoled herself with the thought that this unfortunate business was now her nephew's problem.

It was well past midnight, and Daisy was tossing and turning in her bed as troublesome thoughts pounded in her head. She wondered what would happen when Charlie Moon found out what she'd done. And what would happen if Father Raes found out first. Daisy desperately wanted to confide in someone—someone who would understand why she had felt compelled to take this course of action.
I can't very well talk to Louise-Marie LaForte—that old biddy couldn't keep a secret if you sewed it onto her skin.
The sleepless woman wondered whether Marilee Attatochee was lying wide awake in her bed, worrying herself half to death over what had become of Sarah Frank.
I bet she's looking at the walls, just like me—and can't sleep a wink.
She rolled over for the thirty-third time, stared at the telephone by her bed.
I could call her up and tell her that Sarah
…But that made no sense at all.
I'd be a silly old woman to do such a thing.
Daisy was not silly. Far from it.

But she kept looking at the telephone.