Stealing Fire Page 18

  I closed the door and heard them yakking like a couple of school kids.

  Mose yelled to me through the door, “Hey! Don’t walk under any balconies!”

  There are no words to say how much I loved them both right then.

  Forty

  I wandered around the movie set. I was nonchalant. I found the person I was looking for seated in a chair just to the side of the set. I stood tall next to him. The crew was setting up the cameras, using doubles to get the lighting just right. The scene would be shot on an area of rippled tumbleweed and sand. I looked at the man. He was avoiding me. Trying not to feel me. And then he looked up.

  “Hi, Mr. Goldman,” Finnerty said. “Sorry about last night.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  “Sure there is. Your grandfather’s no spring chicken. I was supposed to be watching him, and instead we both got soused.”

  “My grandfather,” I said, “can be very persuasive.”

  “True, Mr. Goldman.”

  “We’re around the same age. Just call me Yazzie.”

  “And you call me Rick.”

  We shook hands.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I shouldn’t have paid any attention, you know, too much drink for both of us, but some of the stuff your grandfather said about the Irish really set me off.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Talkin’ like I’m no true Irishman because I enjoyed Belfast. Sure I did. Same as any big city, a young man finds ways to have a good time.”

  “No explanations necessary.”

  “Well, there is one thing … I’m the one who took that big spider and stuck it in Wright’s shoe. Honest to God, I woulda rather got your granddad, but you were hovering over him, and there was that spider, and it was so easy to reach right under the old man’s bed.”

  “That’s why you were all over Wright, straightening out those covers.”

  “Trying to get that spider, I was. Just a joke, you know?”

  “Well, you scared the pants off Wright, I’ll say that.”

  He laughed. “Worked pretty good, but when I saw him, God help me, I thought he was headed straight to the grave, and I’d sent him there. I was ashamed and scared and I turned tail and run.”

  “He’s edgy. When his wife arrives, he’ll feel easier.”

  “His wife’s coming?”

  “Yes. She’s worried about him. Probably has a right to be.”

  “No more problems from me. Promise.”

  “Good to know. He has plans for the work of a lifetime. He’s added more drafts for the project, so he probably wants to see what she thinks before they run them by the board in New York.”

  “Seems like I stepped in a hornet’s nest getting near that man.”

  “He doesn’t know you’re the one who planted that tarantula.”

  “You’re not telling him?”

  “Can you think of a reason why I should?”

  “I didn’t know he was such a big shot,” Finnerty said.

  “Even big shots get spooked.”

  He rubbed his chin. Looked me up and down. “You’re an Indian, aren’t you?”

  “Navajo and Jewish.”

  “Boy, that was some hand you got dealt.”

  “Happy about who I am.”

  “Every right to be, I’m sure. But I was just thinking that you Indians are kind of like the Irish. You got pushed and pushed to the edge of decent land by everyone and his brother, and then over the edge.”

  “Can’t argue with you there.”

  “Quiet on the set!” came the call. I knew Mr. John would follow with the orders “Lights! Camera!…”

  Finnerty got up. “Well,” he said, “glad we’re on good terms. I’ll make my apologies to Mr. Wright after his wife gets here. I’m sure there’ll be quite a fanfare.”

  I watched him walk away from the camera and from me toward one of the big tents for the crew. After a couple of takes, he came out wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Too hot for long-sleeved khaki. Wearing his holster, pistol in it. The tent flap fluttered in a faint breeze. He looked up the hill and waved to me. I waved back, and then he was lost in the crowd. Everyone was taking their places on the set.

  I walked toward the Gouldings’ house, and then backtracked past the set, walking quiet just behind the piñons. I lifted up the back door of the tent, spotted the cot where the shirt he’d taken off was lying in a crumple.

  I poked around. Not much space, but enough for gear and a few what-nots. When I lifted the mattress off his cot, the only thing that surprised me was that I was not surprised by what I’d found. I put all the covers exactly as they’d been, and crept out through the back. I had no intention of telling anyone, including Iris and Grandpa, what I’d seen.

  * * *

  I had a very good talk with the oddity called Yazzie Goldman. We apologized to each other. We trusted each other. These things happen. Someday this would be funny. Wright was a very important man—like I needed Goldman to tell me that.

  It had all been a mess, but life cannot be planned. In the end, things might not work out the way a person thought they would, but if you pay attention, there is always the opportunity to make them work out even better than you thought possible.

  And I liked this movie business.

  Maybe after this was over, I’d get a job on a set. Maybe turn into a star. Helen could be a set designer. I thought she’d enjoy that.

  Forty-one

  There he was, I’d almost forgotten about him, the Ute looking for me, Yazzie Goldman. He was waiting on the porch of Goulding’s trading post, leaning against a pale blue Lincoln. He shook my hand, Indian-style, gentle as the wings of a moth.

  “Hey, you want to sit down? Still warm in this sun, October or not.” He patted a bench in the shade.

  I didn’t think it was the Ute we’d seen at Hambler’s, but I couldn’t honestly say. I have trouble telling one Ute from another. This man was in better shape than that guy had been. He had soft, warm eyes, spoke well. Snazzy dresser, wearing white-man clothes.

  I couldn’t imagine what his story would be. I waited for him to start talking, feeling like I was going to be taken for a ride. That’s the bad part of my job—trust starts wearing thin. The railroad is good pay, but it sure wasn’t enough to make up for all the troubled people who had come in and out of my life, and home, during the last week.

  The Ute introduced himself. He said to me, “I’m Tony Wopsock, Bear Indian Ute.”

  “I’m Yazzie Goldman, born to Bitter Water—”

  “You can skip all that. I know who you are. It’s why I’ve been trying to have a meeting with you.”

  A meeting?

  “Let me ask you something first,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I was threatened up northwest of Gallup by a Ute who was all boozed up. Worse than that, he threatened an elderly white man in his trading post. Hambler’s. The Ute was holding him hostage, actually, and I don’t know if Hambler would still be alive if we hadn’t showed up.”

  “Are you asking if that was me, and now I’m all cleaned up and have some devious plan I want to work on you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “That guy wasn’t me. I wonder what a Ute was doing down there.”

  “Family trouble,” I said.

  “Intermarriage?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Doesn’t usually work out—the extended family’s fault, mostly. Lots of Utes, those who’ve stayed on the rez, can’t tell one Navajo from another.”

  What was there to do about that, but laugh? We did. I went inside and got us a couple of Cokes. We sat on his bench out of the sun. Doesn’t matter what color your skin is—we’re all animals whose insides and outsides dry up when we don’t have enough to drink and the light is fierce.

  The bench was a smooth, peach-colored stone. On one end, a sculpted Navajo woman rose up, carved blanket over her head, h
olding a jug that created a thin fountain, water spilling into another jug below.

  “Wait,” he said. “The man at Hambler’s trading post … Charley Buck?”

  I searched back in my memory files. “Hambler may have mentioned the name Buck.”

  “I see him at powwows. He’s bad business, always in a gray mood. He depends on his daughter now, but his son-in-law doesn’t go for him.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s not a Ute-Navajo problem. The man is a problem, always has been. His family has had healing ceremonies for him—no luck.”

  “Some people, you can’t fix them, no matter what,” I said. “You have to avoid them.”

  “Or let them go. Now, my proposition for you.”

  We sipped our Cokes and looked at the sky. You don’t want to jump into any conversation that involves help or money—just let it float for a time. We talked about the new tourists, and we talked about how much we liked Mike and Harry Goulding.

  “I don’t know them that well,” he said. “I have a nephew who sells them hand-carved flutes. He can’t keep up with the orders. He also plays for folks when they go on camping trips with Harry.”

  “You live around here?”

  “I grew up on the White Mesa rez.”

  “That’s a sorry little band of folks—no offense intended.”

  “None taken. It’s not like the other Ute tribes. Poor as dirt. I moved to Salt Lake City.”

  “Uintah is mighty, goes almost right there.”

  “My mother has plenty of family there, and I was hungry for a big city and opportunity to make money,” he said. “Went to college. Had a well-off roommate who was smart about money. He taught me how to keep mine straight and how to make it grow. Taught me about business. Best thing that ever happened to me.

  “And now?”

  “My mother is old, my father is gone, my brother has a pile of kids and grandkids that he’s taking care of, plus he’s on the tribal council. It’s too much for one man.”

  “How do I figure into this?”

  “I’ve made my money, and I want to get out of the city. Not that anxious to move back to the rez, but sending money to my family every month isn’t enough. They need hope. Help. They need a profitable business.”

  “You thinking of starting a business at White Mesa? That won’t get off the ground long enough to go broke. Not enough traffic.”

  “I’d like to ask you about buying your trading post.”

  You could have slammed me backward and knocked me off my feet. I had no words. I sat with that for a while. A Ute running a trading post in Oljato?

  “I know,” he said, “it sounds ludicrous.”

  “It’s a surprise. I don’t know what to say. And there’s one large problem—a Ute, well, no one, can own land on the Navajo reservation unless they’re Navajo.”

  “That’s a loophole we could get around,” he said, “but let’s look at the big picture. Do you think the Navajos would trade with us? I know white people will, you’re ideally situated, but what about the off-season? Would Navajos trade for flour, coffee, sugar, bring their wool? Get what they need?”

  “No ready answers. I’m having a hard time letting this sink in.”

  “I don’t want to buy your store and have people go without everyday necessities. They’ve got to feel comfortable with us.”

  “That’s a tall order,” I said, “but the truth is, my cousin has only been running the trading post now and then. They’re getting some necessities at Goulding’s. For others, they go as far as Teec Nos Pos.”

  “That’s a long way to go for flour.”

  “Can you honestly imagine,” I said, “that Utes and Navajos are going to meet up in your store, trade with each other, and everything will be smooth sailing?”

  “Give me a little more credit than that. As I said, I grew up on the Ute rez. I’m all too familiar with issues that existed then.”

  “And still do. In the town of Bluff there are two bars, one at each end of town. One’s a Ute bar, one is a Navajo bar.”

  “I’ve been there. A fight between the two bars every weekend,” he said.

  “Exactly. New owners come, and then they go, but the fights go on forever—it’s a mess.”

  “But I’m not going to be serving alcohol. That’s what fuels the animosity. Imagine how much better the families would do if they could share grazing land, become a larger group of people.”

  I sat back and looked at him. All light and kindness. “You’re an idealist.”

  “I can afford to be.”

  “I think your money gives you some guilt, and maybe you feel like you have to be.”

  “There’s some truth in that.”

  “Sharing is the core of Navajo spiritual beliefs. Generosity.”

  “Our beliefs are not so different,” he said.

  “So, you want to make yourself the magnet for these things to get ironed out, things over hundreds of years.”

  “It’s a rough way of looking at it, but that’s basically it.”

  “We still remember that the Utes sided with the U.S. against the Navajos in several skirmishes. Hard to get past that.”

  “All happened around 1863. Mr. Goldman, both tribes need to let that go. It doesn’t do either of us any good.”

  I agreed with him about that.

  “My grandfather built that trading post from nothing and with nothing. He’s got strong ties to it and strong relations with my mother’s family.”

  “So his help, introductions to your people, would be invaluable.”

  “Necessary, actually.”

  “And that would be part of the sales price. I’d rather not toss my money down the drain, but if it doesn’t work, I will have tried. I know I need help smoothing the way, and I expect to pay for it. Your grandfather’s help? We’d call it a consulting fee.”

  “We know what white tourists buy from the Navajos. What do Utes have that tourists would buy?”

  He opened his briefcase. “What do you think of this?” He held it beneath the bench, where we had some amount of darkness, and shook the gourd rattle. Sparks flew and light came out. It felt like looking at creation.

  “What is that?”

  “These are rare, and they are valuable. It’s an Uncompahgre Ute Buffalo ceremonial rattle. It’s filled with quartz crystals. When you shake the rattle in the dark, it stresses the crystals and they create light.”

  “They’re a miracle,” I said. “I can’t believe I never saw one.”

  “There are lots of Ute things unfamiliar to you. We also make pipe bags and carve smooth pipes from stone. Flutes. You see, none of these things compete with Navajo art. They create a larger picture of Indian art. More items will create more business, and that will be good for the Navajos here, too.”

  I couldn’t argue with him on that, either.

  “And our religions have become similar,” he said. “A lot of us are members of the Native American Church. We perform ceremonies that use peyote. You can see it in our art. We’ve been in the area for over one thousand years—so many rock carvings in those mystic orange arches came from our ancestors.”

  “Is there a Native American church in Salt Lake?” Hard to imagine people who don’t drink coffee using peyote.

  “Hardly. I’m a Mormon. Also a member of the Native American Church. Both. You?”

  “I grew up believing there is some good in every religion.” That was as far as I was going on that subject. Like politics, it’s uncomfortable territory.

  “Neither one of us likes touching wood struck by lightning,” he said.

  “I don’t think that similarity is enough to make a business fly.”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “Yazzie, I was joking.”

  We looked at the sky. I couldn’t imagine all the work Grandfather had put into the place being handed over to a Ute family. I could only see it bringing trouble, and we had enough of that already. We lived mostly in Santa Fe, yes, but how would t
his be for my mother’s family, for our friends? For my grandfather’s legacy?

  “I’ll talk to my grandfather, but don’t hold your breath.”

  We stood and shook hands. “I’m staying in one of the cottages just up around the first bend.”

  “The Ya’a’the Inn?”

  “Yes. I’m leaving tomorrow, maybe the next day,” he said. He handed me a business card that looked like marble. “I’m heading back to Salt Lake to square away my businesses. Then I’ll be in White Mesa building a new house. I may be moving back to the rez, but I am never using an outhouse again.”

  He got into his car, the height of pale blue luxury with fine leather upholstery. We hadn’t even talked price for the trading post. Typical of me. Not the best trait in a modern world.

  I went back to the cabin to talk with Grandpa. Figured I might as well get it over with while things were relatively calm. I knew our small slice of peace would end when Mrs. Wright and Helen Fine arrived.

  The calm ended sooner than I expected, and Mr. Wopsock’s proposal was left hanging in the wind.

  Forty-two

  She arrived like a frigate in full sail, with a lovely young woman carrying her bags, juggling a portfolio, and dangling several square 36″ tubes on straps from her shoulder. I walked to their car, an elegant yellow convertible with etched side-view mirrors. Mr. Wright’s extravagance … He probably could have paid off Mr. Fine with that one car alone.

  I shook hands with Mrs. Wright. I introduced myself to the young woman, and she introduced herself to me. Helen Fine.

  Iris was stashed away, but then I thought, Let’s see Helen’s reaction when she sees Iris. I also wondered how she would act watching Iris and me together, holding hands, smiling, and friends of both the Wrights. I bounded upstairs and got Iris and Grandpa.

  Iris, Helen, a killer around somewhere—a powder keg waiting for a match.

  The tall guard and Finnerty jockeyed for the chance to carry the load for the two women. Their attention was not on Mrs. Wright, and I didn’t blame them. As Iris had said, Helen was a real dish. Finnerty tried to take all her bags, and he pushed the other guy aside. She gave him a long look. Unpleasant. He was too forward. The other guard hefted a couple of bags and trailed after them.