shoot through there.”
“You mean walk.”
“Burros. Walk. Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t think she gets your jokes,” Ralph Graver said.
“Probably not,” Paul Morrison said. The belts above their navels made their abdomens swell a little, almost as if they were women. “I shouldn’t joke about Bataan. Lost a friend there.”
“You did not.”
“I did. Ralph, I did.” The man who was Paul Morrison walked over and gave his partner some of the gummy stuff from his vest pocket and when they moved apart, a third man was standing there, right behind them, as if he were the finale of their magic curtain trick. Beth realized right away the magically appearing man was an Indian.
Well, things were looking up. An Indian. She loved Indians.
“Looks like Harry’s gone and given himself heatstroke,” Ralph Graver told the Indian.
“My God, he did that before,” Paul Morrison said.
“Last year just about this time, wasn’t it, Joe?”
Joe the Indian nodded. Beth watched as the Indian’s eyes somehow focused on her mother though his line of vision was pointed elsewhere. The two men were also taking her in. They tried glancing elsewhere to disguise their stare, but a stare was what it was. Her mother’s hand started toward her hair again but stopped. She probably didn’t want the men to think she was trying to look nice for them.
“Check Harry’s front seat. Bet his canteen is full. He filled up at our camp. Bet he didn’t take a single swig. Thinks he’s a camel.”
“Harry and his seasonal heatstroke.”
“Lots of polygs do. Ever since Hole in the Rock they think they’re camels.” Paul Morrison shook his head again, then spat out a black thread.
“Or Navajos. Harry might be trying to out-Navajo you, Joe. Look out.”
By way of acknowledgment, Joe’s eyes closed and opened slowly. Suddenly Ralph Graver scratched hard at his eyebrows as if he were a cat.
“And I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Paul Morrison said to her mother.
“Jean Waterman.”
“How do you do.”
“How do you do.”
“And that would be Mrs. Jean Waterman.”
“Yes.”
“And would Mr. Waterman be around?”
“Mr. Waterman is deceased.”
“I’m sorry. Truly sorry, ma’am—Mrs. Waterman.”
“Thank you, but it’s been many years.”
“But you’re so young, forgive me for intruding.”
“Well, sometimes fate doesn’t take that into account.”
“I don’t imagine.” Paul Morrison checked behind him, nodded toward Joe, who had not moved a hair, then put his hands on his hips. His glance caught Beth a fraction before she had removed her stare from the Indian. She was hoping he hadn’t caught her, but she knew he had.
All her attention had been on Joe. She couldn’t help it. After all her books, he was the first Indian she’d seen in person, except for the ones posing by their resplendent colorful tepees next to trading-post luncheonettes and filling stations. He was a Navajo, too. She liked Navajos. She looked at Joe and believed he was standing there listening to the things the white man couldn’t hear.
“Little girl, did you know Ohio is Indian for Good morning?” Paul Morrison asked her. “Joe knows all right. He knows you came in from Ohio.”
Her mother’s eyebrows rose.
Paul Morrison nodded toward the Rambler. “The license plates. You’re pretty far from home.”
Beth still couldn’t pry her eyes off Joe. She knew he was keeping track of her even though his gaze was off to the side. Despite the heat, he wore a long-sleeved shirt—a red shirt, although the actual colors varied from orange to clay to something almost yellowish. In the end everything red had been sunned out of it, yet it remained a red shirt. Why was it still red? Exactly. Read her next book report to find out. She’d been wanting more than anything to add some philosophy to her reports.
“So you’re here alone. You have children. Two of them.” Paul Morrison filled in the bits of information as her mother failed to. “A boy and a girl.” He took a preparatory breath. Instead of speaking, his face went through a variety of expressions. He winced, then nodded with his eyes opening wide. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen this, too.”
Her mother stood calmly. They had probably guessed already she was stubborn.
“That mother and her three boys, last year? Ralph, remember? You were the one found them.”
“Jonas,” his partner corrected.
“Jonas found them? How come you’re the one with all the nightmares?” They both chuckled. “They were a little farther up here.” His hand flagged toward a direction.
Her mother didn’t respond.
“We warned them just like we’re doing you. Didn’t listen to us. They died.”
“Gotta correct you, Paul. The oldest boy lived, I believe.”
“You’re right. Thank you, Ralph. Of course what good is his life now, his whole family gone, an orphan in one of those orphanages.”
“Well, at least you warned them,” her mother said. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“Okay. Well, you’ve caught on to me pretty quick.” He turned to his partner for acknowledgment.
“I guess she does get you,” Ralph Graver agreed. “But it’s a little lie that illustrates a bigger truth.”
“That’s well put, Ralph.”
“Thank you.”
“But I have seen all kinda things happen, ma’am. Maybe this particular thing didn’t happen quite this way—”
“Or not at all,” her mother said.
“—Or not at all. Maybe not at all, but the idea see is true. It could happen, especially the way things are going and getting out of control. Which I’m sure you have noticed. It’s dangerous see in all kinda ways and that part’s true.” Paul Morrison turned serious. “And people do get into trouble. There’s been a murder or two.”
“That’s true,” Ralph Graver said. “That’s the God’s truth.”
“Yes, it’s true,” Paul Morrison
