Stealing Fire Read online

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  Dedicated to all those who walk through fire to create beauty.

  —With love to you, Meredith & Win

  Healing Chant

  Taken by Coyote and Healed by Rain

  The Red Rock house grows,

  Tsĕnitsíhogán laté,

  And I am there.

  Sĭlatáni yáyegó.

  Halfway in,

  Énisháe yáyegó,

  And I have arrived.

  Tsánoháni yáyegó.

  At the Blue Water House life grows, too.

  Thá’dotlĭzhogán laté.

  Now Coyote is at the door.

  Kat Maii’ notániyá.

  Coyote, He enters me,

  Maii’ Níhylínya yá,

  At the place inside the fire.

  Yúna yá.

  He traveled for me, I think.

  Hastséayuhi nagáne sĭnisá’.

  Then the rain descends, the rain descends.

  Sihiwáne, Sihiwáne.

  And now, in old age, wandering, I walk a beautiful trail.

  Kat Sananagaí bike hozógo bénasoie.

  It is I, I who I walk with.

  Nĭslíngo bénasoie.

  Translated by Meredith Blevins

  One

  We were waiting for the Super Chief in Chicago’s Dearborn Station and dressed to the nines. You’ve got to live up to the train, to the entire experience. For me, a lot of that is about the rhythm, the jostling, the wheels clacking steady as a drum. It’s also about looking good and eating well.

  I love the electricity that juices up a city, and we’d had a terrific vacation, but I was ready to go home.

  The place I was raised is as different from Chicago as can be imagined. Navajoland feels like a Stone Age bowl. Rimmed by varnished mesas and four sacred mountains, the bowl holds every thought and scent, whisper and cry that has rolled through the Southwest since the first dawn. Year after season, all those things have gathered beneath our land, forming freshwater springs. And below those springs? It is said there’s an underground pool, wriggling with wind-blasting, wild creation spirits. I don’t know if I believe that or not. In Chicago, wild spirits quiver on every corner. I prefer them underground.

  Railroad adventures begin with a buzz circling the passengers. It’s the anxious hum of people ready for the train to depart. After World War II, trains were no longer worn-out cars with faded carpets, carrying soldiers to their death or high-flying heroics. Trains took on an air of luxury, especially the Super Chief. Iris and I were waiting, no different than anyone else, heading to Santa Fe in style.

  After a few days in the family’s Santa Fe home, I’d take off and Iris would get back to her painting. I would go with my grandfather to check out our trading post, the place I was raised. We had been too long gone, and I was looking forward to the trip. Mostly looking forward to time alone with my grandfather Mose.

  Iris and I had traveled to Chicago during my time off so she could visit art museums and I could enjoy her happiness. We had been married one year. Not every day was a honeymoon, but it was pretty close. She was not only my partner and lover, she was my best friend—a best friend is harder to come by than a wife. We two had the entire package. I was a lucky man, and I knew it.

  She wore a sage green suit, sewn of light wool, that cost more than she’d earned on the sales at her last gallery showing, and I wore a suit that really fit. Brand-new, custom tailored, from a swanky shop in Chicago. Iris, petite and exotic and covered with turquoise. Me, well over six feet tall, every inch up one side Navajo, and every inch down the other a desert Jewish trader. I have to say, we got plenty of looks. It embarrassed me, but Iris ate it up.

  We were sitting on a bench, reading, when we heard voices rise up behind us in the depot. Some commotion going on that was starting to bubble over the pot.

  Iris turned her head. “Oh, my God. Yazzie, look!”

  I did look. What I saw was two men having a disagreement that was getting large and loud. Iris saved my place on the bench, and I walked toward them. A detective hired by the railroad, it’s my job to handle trouble. This was a pleasure trip, but anytime we rode, I was ready. I moved my hand to my backside, a reflex, and there she was, my .45.

  One man, elderly but with the energy of a mountain lion, was roaring. The other man was ugly, and his face was misshapen—I knew his type. They were scattered around Chicago, Las Vegas, New York, some parts of L.A. Other places, too. I looked to Iris. She was getting off the bench and starting toward me. I gently motioned for her to stay where she was and hold our place. I didn’t want my wife anywhere near trouble. Although telling her that usually doesn’t work, which is part of the reason I love her.

  I got up close, and the two men were so locked in conversation that they didn’t notice me hovering nearby.

  The ugly one said, “You borrowed it, and you’ve gotta pay it back.”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “Jake Fine, you remember?” said Ugly. “Owns his own private little Wall Street? I work for him.”

  I didn’t know what this old man had gotten into, but Fine was a name familiar to many. A hard man to pin down, but he seemed to have rough people working for him in every corner of the country.

  The old man turned whiter than I thought a human could get.

  “Okay, I see you do remember him.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “The money, with interest, is past due, Mr. Wright.”

  “Oh, go talk to Wes. He handles my money.” And he whisked the air in front of the man as if he were a fly. Bad move.

  Mr. Fine’s employee turned red. “Mr. Wright, you have just met Mr. Wrong.”

  “Clever.”

  A lot of times, those gangsters at the lower end do sound like a dime novel. Still, they’re to be taken seriously. I moved in closer. The old man was kind of kooky looking. His hair was too long … some eccentric who’d gotten mixed up with an artsy crew.

  “Problem here?” I said to them.

  Two words, but suddenly I was visible. It was time to head this off. No one rides on the Super Chief to be in the middle of a hood pressuring an old man.

  “Let’s move back from the passengers,” I said. “Give us all a little privacy.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” That was the guy who worked for Fine.

  “And I do not intend to be bullied into missing my train.” Mr. Wright lifted his chin in defiance.

  Sometimes you’ve got to make yourself more visible than you might like. I opened my jacket and they both saw the .45. They both looked up at me. They both moved over to a corner of the station. A woman on the
nearest bench smiled at me for a moment, snapping her gum and showing off her pretty knees.

  “Sir,” I said to the elderly man, “why don’t you get back on the platform? The train will be here soon.”

  “I refuse to be pushed around.”

  God, he was stubborn.

  “Listen to me, and listen good,” said Ugly to him in a low voice. “The world may think it owes you a living. Mr. Fine disagrees.”

  The little man pulled out some uneasy charm. “I understand, calm down—it’s just money. I have a large commission check that will be waiting for me at Taliesin West. I’ll send you the full amount owed as soon as I get down there.”

  “With interest, that’s twenty-five grand.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I hope not. We can find you pretty easy.”

  “I’ll have Wes write you a check.”

  “Make it a cashier’s check.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Are we finished here?”

  Fine’s man looked like he had something more to say, but he couldn’t figure out how to put the words together.

  The old man turned his back on us and started toward the train. I held the goon, but I couldn’t keep him from yelling. “You’re gonna have many Mr. Wrongs infesting your desert home if you don’t come through. Think of us like scorpions—we can get in anywhere.”

  I pushed Ugly back. “Be quiet and leave.”

  “I’ve got a job to do for a man who has a genuine beef with that guy.”

  “Understood. Handle it somewhere that’s not in the realm of the Super Chief.”

  I put a heavy arm around his shoulder, walked him over, hand inside my jacket, and handed him off to Ferguson. He was security for the train at the station. Retired cop.

  “Fergie, would you get this guy out of here?”

  “Hey, you got no right,” said Fine’s man.

  I looked down at him. “No right? I could have you arrested on a number of charges. This isn’t the place for a civics lesson, but I’m giving you a break. Take it.”

  “Civics? What’s a red nigger know about civics?”

  His voice was loud enough that it carried halfway across the station, causing plenty of turned heads. I was going to have to start keeping a roll of tape in my left pocket to quiet down stupid people. The guy was really getting to be a pain.

  “I learned about rights and decency during World War II. I was fighting for you,” I said, “while you were fighting for a crooked buck. Don’t push.”

  He didn’t. Ferguson walked him out.

  Actually, I’d been stationed on Shore Patrol in San Diego during World War II, but I do know all about being called a red nigger. I had just become Jake Fine’s personal Mr. Wrong.

  Two

  The train was boarding. I wasn’t in a panic, but I could have gotten there pretty quick.

  Iris is not easy to spot in a crowd. As I said, she is petite. In attitude she is about ten feet tall, but it’s hard to spot attitude in the midst of a milling mob.

  People were picking up their bags. Porters were calm, helping them up the few stairs into the train, making them feel pampered before they’d even boarded. All I saw on the platform was heads, hats, hands waving good-bye or hello. No Iris.

  Then I thought about what I would do if our places were reversed. I turned around and walked inside the station. I saw her, sitting on a bench, looking a little nervous, not much, reading a book.

  I was flooded with relief. “I couldn’t find you!”

  “Did you think I’d leave without you?”

  “I thought maybe you’d figure I was already on the train.”

  “You know what? We’re going to miss the train if we keep talking about where we thought the other person was. Let’s get going!” she said.

  I grabbed our bags and held her elbow, moving through the line of people to the front. I flipped open my ID, and we were escorted onto the train. One of the perks of the job. We had a first-class drawing room, and I couldn’t wait to get Iris alone.

  “Hey,” she said, before we’d even settled in. “Let’s go to the dining car.”

  “I thought maybe we’d check our sleeping quarters first. You know, make sure it’s good enough for you.”

  “Right … Do you ever have anything else on your mind?”

  “Around you? Not very often.”

  “You want to tell me about that fracas in the station?”

  “After I clear my mind. Relax.”

  “That was Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  “Yes?”

  “The elderly man in the middle of the big stink. He’s the preeminent architect in America.”

  “Anyone who walks around carrying three names has got to be important.”

  “When he was young, I think he was just Frank.”

  “And then his life got complicated.”

  “Very.”

  I opened the door into our compartment. It was the plushest we’d had yet.

  “Yazzie, feel these sheets! Egyptian cotton.”

  We tumbled onto the sheets and felt the cotton. It was exquisite. I learned the real meaning of that word from my wife.

  * * *

  Life wasn’t going according to plan. Usually the old man traveled by auto caravan with his group of interns from Wisconsin to the desert. It would be easy to move in and out among them on a long road trip. Easy for things, even important things, to get lost, even to make it seem accidental. Easy to urge someone toward behavior that would get them kicked out of the group.

  But the train? He had chosen his favorites to go with him.

  I cornered Mother before they left and made up some romantic hogwash about having to be on board.

  “You ask too many favors,” she said, “and he’s about had it with you.”

  “Tell him I’ll work on the color elevations. That we’ll get a head start if we have those finished by the time we hit Arizona.”

  She looked doubtful. I felt like throttling her, but she was key. I knew her button, her soft spot. I would humiliate myself.

  “You’re my true family. I can’t bear to be away from you.”

  She stroked my hair. “No one understands better than I what it’s like when life deals you a cruel blow,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I kissed her cheek, I kissed her hand. I even cried. I was blanketed with gratitude.

  But just like that, a gangster showed up at the train station before we left, almost ruining everything before the trip started. Wright didn’t remember how he’d met him—that was a relief.

  In the confusion I got on the train. My investment in the ticket was worth it.

  I went inside that calm place to keep the world from spinning. Everything was all right. All right. This wasn’t much different than changing the structure of a building to support the design. The important thing was the design.

  I felt lucky. Might even be better, I thought. It usually works out that way for me. And I stayed inside that still place, reveling in the peace, designing a few new plans.

  I caught the eye of a sassy young woman who had just boarded. She was with a man. Why not take a chance? I winked at her, her mouth made an O, and she returned my smile. So many possibilities.

  Three

  We had dinner reservations at six thirty and went to the dining car early to do some people-watching. The tables were full.

  Iris ordered a martini with an olive stuck on a toothpick. I don’t get near booze unless it’s champagne for a special occasion. Too many neighbors and relatives on my Navajo mom’s side have fallen off the road of their life because of drink. You see that enough times, and booze doesn’t have much appeal. Iris and I chatted, and held hands, and made comments that weren’t very nice about other passengers. We made up names for them. We were in a great mood, and I came up with a name for the lady in the next booth that made Iris laugh so hard tears ran down her cheeks.

  And then? The most famous architect in America and a tall woman with her hair pulled back
stopped talking to a couple of young men a few tables up from us. They walked our way. Iris just about ripped the seams in her stockings, she was jiggling her legs so much.

  “Yazzie, I can’t believe we’re on the same train with Frank Lloyd Wright, and he’s coming toward us!”

  “Even people with three names go places, Iris.”

  She looked at the old man and glowed.

  “He’s really that big a deal?” I said.

  “Huge.”

  And then the huge-little man spotted us, motioning like Could we join you? The seats at our table were the last of four in the car. I nodded, Sure. I was interested in him. His energy was different than most old men’s. He reminded me of my grandfather Mose Goldman, the man who is my hero, who raised me. Who loved me into manhood.

  “We meet again!” he said. “This is my wife, Olgivanna Wright.”

  She was taller than Mr. Wright when they stood together, younger than Mr. Wright by a decade or two. She wasn’t what you’d call beautiful, but she had presence. Style, Iris would say.

  “I am so proud and privileged to meet you, Mr. Wright.” Iris dove right in. “Yazzie, oh, this is my husband, Yazzie Goldman, and I’m Iris Goldman.”

  “Delighted.”

  “I almost lost my husband at the train station!” Iris said. “Hope everything got ironed out.”

  Wright’s wife looked at him and cocked her eyebrow in the way only a wife can.

  “Oh, it was nothing, nothing. Tempest in a teapot.”

  “Frank?” his wife said.

  “A person who wanted to talk design collared me. I don’t do consultations for free.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Mr. Goldman here—”

  “Yazzie, please,” I said.

  “Yazzie moved him along.”

  Mrs. Wright thanked me. Mr. Wright thanked me. So very much polite chatter.

  Iris had finished her first martini and was tossing back her second. “Mr. Wright,” she said, “I am about to embarrass myself, but I am a huge fan of your work. When we go to Chicago, I see you everywhere. Your work everywhere, I mean.”