The Darkness Rolling (7 page)

Finally, she lifted her head, dignity renewed. Mom wiped her cheeks with her palms. At length she forced words out. “We’re all tired. Let’s go to bed. We’ll eat a big breakfast.”

“Mom, I’ll be leaving at sunup.”

“Then your breakfast will be ready before first light,” she said.

I stood and walked slowly toward the room where I had slept for nearly two decades, turning once to look back at the three of them. Such a display of emotion, of loss, and of hopes gone crooked. My family looked stunned. I felt the same way.

I closed my bedroom door. I thought about my situation. I took a deep breath. I hadn’t said that I got to escort a super-glamorous woman. That part could wait for later. Much later.

Soon it would be dawn, and I would be headed into a bright unknown. And all of this other? It would have to wait, just for a little while.

*   *   *

H
ome is not a place, it’s family.

As the home lights went out, Zopilote stumbled into the darkness, his chest heaving.

Four

Linda Darnell waltzed down the aisle of the dining car, a waiter trailing behind her holding high a bucket of ice with a bottle in it. She smiled, and that smile of hers was a cut-crystal vase, lights bouncing off into rainbows. “Seaman Goldman,” she said, holding out a hand like she expected me to kiss it.

I stood smartly, took the hand, which was surprisingly warm, and helped her into the window seat opposite me. “Miss Darnell.” A bare-boned Southwest landscape whirled past the windows.

I looked quickly behind us and then sat. Since no one else was in the car, my performance was just that.

She nodded gaily to the waiter. The white-coated Negro set a champagne glass in front of her, popped the cork on the bottle, and poured. Bubbles floated up from the glass stem. Then he poured a glass for me. She held her glass up and sang aloud, “To you and all the men who won the war.” Holding the elegant shape high above her head, she opened up and waterfalled champagne into her lovely mouth. Every drop.

I laughed.
She’s going to be fun.

I stood and came back with, “To the spirit that won the war.” I sipped the bubbling wine and took my seat again. Theatrics were new to me.

The waiter poured Miss Darnell a second glass. I covered mine with one hand. She raised hers, drained it, and said, “Seaman Goldman, please step back, so I can see you.”

I did.

“Well, aren’t you the strapping specimen? How tall are you?”

“Six feet six inches.”

She lifted the glass, held it out toward me, and said, “To handsome men in uniform.” This time she let the champagne linger on her tongue before draining the glass.

I sat down, grinning. I was glad I’d worn my dress whites. Foolishly, I murmured my full name. “Yazzie Jacob Goldman. Please call me Yazzie. Seaman Goldman is in the past.”

“To the present,” she said. “Drink up! Champagne is to be consumed greedily, like life.” She tossed down a third glass.

I offered another toast. “To the most stunning woman I have ever seen.”

Her laugh was a glissando.

I wasn’t kidding. Her beauty was dazzling—raven hair, flawless olive skin, and brilliant green eyes—plus I was entranced by her playfulness. Okay, yeah, maybe other movie stars were heavenly. But this one was a merry demon. When she turned her face to me fully, my skin flushed hot.

The waiter still stood at attention. “Miss Darnell, would you care for something to eat?”

“Yes,” she said, “a margarita.” A flash of that demonic smile. Then she gave exact specifications, tequila of a brand I’d never heard of,
a
ñ
ejo y commemorativo,
with fresh-squeezed lime juice, a brand of some liqueur I’d never heard of, and the glass rimmed with sea salt.

“You speak Spanish,” I said. Hers sounded almost fluent.

She nodded. “In high school I got assigned to help a Mexican student with his English, and he taught me Spanish at the same time. We turned into chatter birds.”

I waited. There was more to the story.

“Because of my complexion, people assume I’m Latino. In this movie I’m playing a Mexican dance-hall girl. Actually, I’m not one drop Mexican. My grandfather was Cherokee. My brothers and sisters are light-skinned.”

She gave a
Who cares?
smile.

“So we’re both Indians,” I said.

She chuckled. I felt like she was opening a door, maybe to friendship. “It seems so.” Down went some of that margarita. “You’re an all-American Navajo, Seaman? With a last name like Goldman?”

“My grandfather, Mose Goldman, is a Spanish Jew from Santa Fe. We spoke Spanish, English, and Navajo at the dining table from the time I could walk.”

That really got her laughing. She stopped, apologized, and said she’d just been surprised. “What a combination of ingredients!” And adios went more of her margarita.

I wanted to ask her questions. Where are you from? What’s your family like? Did you grow up rich? How does it feel to be ticketed for superstardom? But I judged I’d better wait for her to volunteer.

When we ordered food, I asked for oysters Rockefeller. At home last night I’d used Grandpa’s encyclopedia to find out the proper name and make sure what they were—oysters baked in a sauce of butter and a secret blend of green vegetables. I’d even memorized the name of the recommended white wine. I wanted to make the right impression.

I soon learned that the Rockefellers were good at making money but not appetizers, at least not to my tongue. Not to hers either. She actually spit the first bite out, right into her linen napkin. She waved the waiter over, and he took the plate away, apologizing as if he’d invented the dish himself.

I could barely keep a straight face as she ordered green chile salsa and tortilla chips instead.

Miss Darnell gave me a look that said,
Well, I’m glad you’re not going to slow down my fun.

No chance of that. Full steam ahead with this woman, whistle blasting.

Zipping the eighty miles toward Flagstaff, we laughed and cut up like old friends and told silly stories. She asked what my service in the war had been.

“A cop,” I said. “Shore patrol. Navy.”

I was afraid she’d think less of me, probably hoping I’d been at Guadalcanal or something. Instead she seemed excited. “Did you carry a gun!?”

I felt acutely conscious of the service .45 auto holstered on the left side under my blouse, which she hadn’t spotted.

I answered, “Also a baton.”

“Did you ever shoot anyone?”

“Not yet.”

She hooted at that one. No shyness in this woman. If it was rowdy, she’d go for it.

Eventually, she tired. “I’m sorry, Seaman Goldman”—apparently she couldn’t get to “Yazzie” yet—“but I must go to my compartment. I need to freshen up for our arrival at La Posada. You needn’t cover my door. Let’s be cautious, but not paranoid.”

*   *   *

I stood in the vestibule while the diesel engines bulled the train up the long climb to Flagstaff. I looked down at the wheels as they powered up the tracks and the steep grade, whipping gravity. I felt the diesel engines lift the cars and passengers, all of us spray on a sea-monster’s back. The energy clacked and rattled through my feet, my legs, my ass, and my spirit with a thousand volts. The whole experience was an amplified drum and bugle corps rising and roaring through my body.

I loved it.

And then I saw the magic. Raising my eyes northward and high, so very high, we climbed the foothills of the San Francisco Peaks. These are the westernmost of the Four Sacred Mountains of Dinetah, which means Navajoland, and they stirred my heart. My spirit and blood were teased by the sacred stories of these mountains.

My mind, though, was dizzy with the vivid experience of my one hour spent with Linda Darnell. The awesome power of the train and the whirlwind experience of the woman blended together into a tidal wave of feelings. She had me transfixed. I was about to leap off a precipice into infatuation. Or lust. Something that was either trouble, ecstasy, or both.

With her crowding even the Super Chief out of my fantasy life, I barely noticed Flagstaff as we zipped through. Looking back at the San Francisco Peaks, I regretted how little attention I’d given them this time. Was I the man Grandpa had raised or someone horse-powered only by hormones?

*   *   *

At Winslow, I helped Miss Darnell down the steps onto the platform. There Julius met us and made sure two porters toted her luggage. I followed her through the formal garden to the famous La Posada Hotel.
My privilege, ma’am.

I thought I’d better own up. “I’ve never stayed in a hotel.”

“Well, I know
all
about them.”

I smiled to myself. Innuendos there?

We paraded along a brick wall toward a handsome fountain. “This must be one of the grand ones.”

“For Arizona,” she allowed.

La Posada was a castle-sized Spanish Colonial, with lots of Southwestern Indian touches. The gardens stunned me, like something you’d see surrounding an Italian palace in a movie. Painted pottery, bright with every color, splashed water into lower pots, down and down, until the water came together and formed a pool filled with large golden fish. Jacaranda and a showy kind of blooming cactus circled the garden, lush with banana plants and some sort of water system that kept everything moist. Rock roses, like the ones at home, were reflected in the pond. I was thinking how much Mom would love to have a garden like this. She fought every spring just to raise up her tomatoes and gourds.

Miss Darnell looked like she was somewhere else, and I decided to bring her back. “Mary Colter designed this hotel,” I said, showing off my knowledge. “Nearly the only woman in a man’s profession.”

Linda nodded, with a hint of,
Another woman, who cares?

“I’ve seen one other building she designed in this area. Grandpa took me there, the Watchtower, in the Grand Canyon. It’s done in the Pueblo style and perched right on the edge of a cliff that juts out over the gorge. You feel as if that tower is a red-tailed hawk, about to launch into five thousand feet of bubbling air.

“Inside, the tower is covered with the paintings of a great Hopi artist, Fred Kabotie. My Grandfather is a trader. He sells that kind of art—he knows all the artists and everything about their work.”

She gave my hand a little squeeze. I couldn’t tell whether she was flirting with me, humoring me, or telling me she’d heard enough.

We walked past the reception desk, where Julius was taking care of registration. To our right stretched a pale turquoise hall, long and high. I’d never imagined such a display of Southwestern Indian art. It was king-size and absolutely terrific. I was at home here. I could tell her all about it.

I led her toward an eagle kachina made by a carver who Grandpa had taken me to meet down at Third Mesa, on the Hopi Reservation. “That—”

Miss Darnell took my hand and squeezed again. A big yawn told me this squeeze meant,
Enough for now.

Julius sidled up and handed her a key. “Your room, Miss Darnell. And a letter for you.” He handed me another key. “Our room,” he said, “next door.”

“I believe I’ll go freshen up,” she said, eyes tired. “Then maybe you’ll give me a tour.” She waved at the art and set off behind Julius and the bellman.

I took advantage of her two hours of getting fresh to check out the art thoroughly. Before the navy, I’d spent my life in a house jammed with Navajo and Pueblo art, selling it to the few tourists we got or toting it to traders in Flagstaff. Still, I had never seen anything like these pieces. They were bigger, more ambitious, and more imaginative than I’d dreamed possible. My first thought had been to sound like an expert to Miss Darnell. Now I didn’t care if I sounded like what I was, awestruck. I found the manager and asked him about the artists, where they lived, what their clan was. He was glad to talk about them.

“Let’s have a drink,” she said from behind me.

After a quick introduction to the manager, I escorted her to the bar, and she went through the same routine with the ingredients of her margarita.

“The same for my friend,” she told the barman.

“No,” I spoke up, “I’m working. I’d better not.” Maybe Mr. John sent me to guard Linda Darnell against a known threat. I ought to ask Julius, who’d spotted himself on a stool at the far end of the bar, where he had a wide range of vision and an open field of fire. Why did Mr. John send two bodyguards, instead of a bodyguard and a driver?

When her second margarita came, I saw her look at the fourth finger of her left hand. She tossed me a devilish smile and slipped the ring off and into her clutch purse.

“You’re married,” I said.

She licked the salt off the rim of her margarita glass and said, “Sort of. You?”

“I don’t see that in my near future. And the way Navajos do it—”

“
It?
You do it differently?”

She knew what I meant. Or didn’t mean. “The way we get married. Real traditional. My mother is set to choose my wife.”

Her eyes danced. “Oh, I see. And how does she do that?”

“It’s got to be someone I’ve never met. Some people are so squeamish about it, that if you drew pictures together when you were five years old, forget it. Plus, you’re not allowed to see each other until the wedding day.”

She whooped at that one. I wished it was a joke. “What happens if the two don’t like each other?”

“That happened with an uncle of mine. One look, he and his new wife hated each other. The family tossed them in a hogan together, boarded up the door, and by the time three days went by? They liked each other very well.”

“And who will your mother choose for you? Any guesses?”

“That custom, it’s not for me. I intend to marry who I damned well please.”

She glinted, she glowed, and I think she thought I was too funny—not in the good way—for words. After another drink, we went in to dinner.

Linda asked for a table where we could look out on the gardens. The ma
î
tre d’ bowed too deeply and said, “Anything for Miss Darnell.” Again Julius took a table with command position.