Ride the Rainbow Home (12 page)

They stepped outside and Raymond pointed out his brother's hogan; the roof showed above a stand of willowy tamaracks nearby. Jim said the appropriate good-byes and Meg did some nodding which she hoped was appropriate, and then Jim walked ahead of her down the trail, carrying their sleeping bags.

"Is this show for them?" Meg asked rather stiffly. "The man walking ahead of the woman, I mean."

"Actually, I'm breaking trail," Jim answered reasonably. "This is the time of evening when the rattlers are out."

"Oh!" Meg quickly closed the distance between herself and Jim until she was practically riding in his hip pocket. A sudden noise made her jump. "What was that?"

"An owl."

Meg sifted her memory. "Isn't there some legend about the hoot of an owl?"

"Among the Navajo, the owl is a harbinger of death."

"Oh, lovely."

"Don't worry," Jim said. "It doesn't mean anything as long as it just sounds like a hoot, but if you hear it call your name, your number's up."

"Calling my name, huh? I'll keep that in mind."

They arrived at the hogan and Jim stepped inside, lit a lantern, and carefully examined the floor of the interior before inviting her to enter. He rolled out one sleeping bag on each side of the central fire pit and soon had a small fire going. "Comfortable?" he asked.

"More or less." Meg tried a brave smile. This was not what she'd envisioned when Jim invited her away.

"It's different from what we're used to," Jim said, agreeing with her unspoken thoughts, "but countless generations of Indian families have lived and died this way. It works for them."

Meg felt chastised. "I'll try to be a good sport," she said.

He touched her hair. "You don't have to try. You're doing great."

Meg, warmed through by the simple touch, smiled gratefully.

A short while later Meg asked about bathrooms and Jim took the lantern with them as they walked together to the outdoor privy, again breaking trail by walking ahead of her. Each took a turn inside ,and then they returned to the hogan.

"Is there any water to wash up?" Meg asked, remembering how little water Opal had used to clean up after their meal. "I've noticed there doesn't seem to be any to spare."

"No, there's never any extra water on the reservation. In fact there is very little surface water on the rez at all," Jim explained, "but I think I can find you a little." He went to the covered barrel in the corner and reached deep to retrieve a dipper-full, then covered the barrel again and brought the dipper to her.

"Thank you," she said, using it sparingly as she washed her hands, then cleaned her face and teeth. She felt the grit from the day on the road grind deep into her pores and promised herself she would fully appreciate her next hot shower. "Jim?" she asked, remembering their introduction to the Yazzis. "Why don't the Indians shake hands?"

"They do," he assured her. "You probably saw several of the men shaking my hand today." Meg nodded. "They're just uncomfortable touching you because you're a woman and you're—um, with me."

"I noticed you and Raymond were discussing that." He couldn't have missed her sarcasm.

"It isn't quite as bad as it sounds," Jim tried to explain. He was taking down his hair, brushing it out. "What he said isn't at all vulgar in Navajo, but there are no direct translations into English and the only ones I can think of are, well—"

"Try me." Meg ran a brush through her own hair.

"He asked me if you were my... my woman, and I told him you are."

She raised an eyebrow. "I am, am I?"

Now he looked discomfited. "Word travels quickly on the rez," he said. "I thought you'd probably be more comfortable if any men we meet had already heard you were off-limits."

"Oh." Meg put her brush away and slid into the sleeping bag Jim had not claimed. To her surprise, it was comfortable and her weary body welcomed the warmth. Jim banked their little fire, then turned the lantern out and crawled into his bag. She could hear him moving to position himself for sleep. "Jim?"

"Hm?"

She listened to the quiet for a moment before she asked, "Why did you bring me with you?"

Jim's words were slow, as if he had to search for each. "I wanted you to see how I live, what matters to me. I wanted you to know why I call this place home."

Home. That word again. Then Meg understood. Jim had been to Walnut Creek; he'd seen her condo. But for Jim home was here, amid the hogans and the guttural Navajo sounds, the privies with rattlesnakes lying in wait and the owl waiting to call his name.

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

She'd meant to ask whether there was any hope for them, whether there was any possibility that they could overcome geography and unexpected cultural gaps to find a place that would belong to both of them. She suddenly realized that she couldn't ask. Nothing in their short time since finding each other again had given her the right. "Good night, Jim," she whispered.

"Good night, Meggie."

Meg turned her face into the flannel of her bag, too weary and dispirited even to cry.

Chapter Six

Meg awoke to the off-key crowing of the Yazzis' rooster. In the predawn light the desert seemed less threatening, and the hogan more secure. Jim awoke moments later and excused himself, then returned to find Meg trying to brush her teeth with the remaining water in the bucket. "We'll stop by a well later," he promised.

Meg thanked him, and then watched as he worked his long hair into the traditional style. There was something warm and intimate about the moment, something tangible, heady, potent. The borrowed hogan became filled with the sweetness that gathered about Jim like light around a flame. Caught in its spell, Meg saw again the two hawks circling, drawn into a ritual as old as life, and suddenly she wanted that—wanted it desperately.

Jim worked on, apparently unaffected by the magic she was feeling. He was wearing the white tank and his muscles seemed to flow through the fluid motions as he reached behind his neck, deftly turning his fingers. He finished his hair and looked up, then caught the expression on Meg's face and froze, his eyes fixed on hers. She watched him swallow, saw his lips part, his jaw tense. Meg thought suddenly of a tawny cougar preparing to spring. Her muscles went slack; her heart beat like a hummingbird's. She couldn't have moved if her life had depended on it, if she really were the lion's prey.

Jim leaned toward her. "Meg?" His face, his whole body asked the question.

"Yes, Jim." Her answer was barely a whisper.

Jim suddenly closed his eyes and leaned away from her. She saw him take several deep, composing breaths. When he finally looked back at her, the lion was gone. "We... we'll need to start soon." He leapt up with the grace of a lion. "Be sure to shake out your boots before you put them on," he warned “Scorpions,” he said, not needing to say any more, and left the hogan. Meg sat still for several long moments before she could compose herself enough to move, even to gingerly shake out her boots.

The tension still stretched between them when they joined the Yazzis for breakfast. Meg had doubts about starting the day with pinto beans and frybread, but she nibbled at the tough, tasty bread until she found herself hungry enough to finish her entire meal. The hot food warmed her, and the reality of the commonplace seemed to bring her back to earth. She wondered just exactly what demons Jim was fighting, and why he always seemed to turn away from her.

* * * *

"That was delicious, Opal," Jim said in English.

Meg followed his lead. "Yes, Opal. Thank you."

Opal ducked her head in shy acknowledgment, saying "You're welcome" softly in English, then clearing their plates away. Jim helped her wash up—again Meg noticed the small amount of water—then he spoke to Opal in Navajo. This time there was nothing shy or tentative about Opal's response. Her back straightened and she began to chatter in her native tongue, drawing two small loomed rugs from a chest in the corner. The negotiations were on.

Taking her cue from Raymond, Meg settled into a quiet corner to watch. She'd seen Jim bargain before. He always appeared to get the best of his artists before throwing in a catch to make their work more valuable. As she watched he became the lion again. Though she couldn't understand his words, the expression on his face grew more intense each time he spoke, his voice growing louder with each speech, then sometimes falling off into a sharp whisper as a look of bored disinterest crossed his face. The thought crossed her mind that Jim was toying with Opal, as a cat plays with its prey.

But Opal was not intimidated. She adopted a look of reasoned calm as she ran her hands over the fine weave of each rug. At certain moments, her voice rose in volume and intensity. Other times, she seemed as unconcerned as Jim was, once even rising to put the rugs back into the chest until he gestured to her to bring them back. As the drama played out before her, Meg found herself admiring the skill of both. It confirmed her impressions: Jim belonged here.

The negotiations ended as Jim counted out eight hundred dollars each and carried the rugs to the truck where he packed them both carefully. He and Meg said their farewells and started the pickup back down the trail. "You certainly seemed to be bargaining hard," she observed as they left the homestead.

"I always like to give that impression," Jim returned dryly.

"How did you get into this business, anyway? I mean, you're good at it, but you're no older than I am. How did you manage to jump right to the top?''

Jim breathed deeply. “What makes you think I’m at the top?”

“I googled you.”

"Really?” He looked impressed. “Huh.”

“You’ve made quite a reputation in a short time.”

“You're right if you're suggesting I've been lucky." He steered the truck around a pothole the size of a bomb crater. "I was a senior, working my tail off taking a double major in business and art plus a smattering of ag classes. One afternoon I stopped by the office of my professor of Native American art to ask about a paper. He had an artisan in his office and he was speaking in slow, broken Navajo. When the man left, the professor turned to me and said, 'I wish I could recall the word for horse.' It popped out before I could even think about it."

Jim downshifted to take a rise in the trail. "Dr. Jameson had a small but lucrative side business in Indian art, but he was getting older and wanted someone to pick up where he left off. When he discovered I spoke Navajo fluently and felt at home in the culture, he began taking me around to galleries and cocktail parties." He shrugged. "That was that."

"You left out something," Meg said, thinking of the hunting lion.

"What's that?"

"The talent and hard work it takes to reach the top of your profession at the age of twenty-eight. I was watching you negotiate with Opal a while ago. There's even a fair amount of acting involved."

Jim laughed. "So you're on to me. I always like my artisans to feel like they're bargaining hard, rather than think they got the better of me. It makes them want to work with me again."

"So what are those rugs really worth?"

"It's hard to say with the market fluctuating. The workmanship isn't as fine as that of some artists, but they'll probably bring a thousand or so. Each."

"Then you're doing fairly well too."

Jim's answer was patient. "The eight hundred is a deposit, Meg, a guarantee that Opal's getting paid for her work. After I sell the rugs, I take my commission off the top and bring her the difference."

"And if the rugs don't bring more than you paid for them?"

He grinned. "They will."

The morning lengthened toward noon and Meg alternately dozed and bounced in the truck as they visited two more off-road hogans where Jim dealt with two accomplished leather-crafters. Around midday he kept his promise to find a well and pulled the truck in next to a large overhead rig.

"Water," he announced unnecessarily. "You can drink all you like, even have something of a bath if you want."

"This is quite a setup," Meg said, admiring it as she stepped from the cab.

"It's the way most of the people out here get their water. They pull a truck in under the spigot, then use the wide hose on the end," he said, showing it to her, "to fill fifty- gallon drums, one at a time. They're always careful with the water, but they allow themselves to play a little too. I'll start the generator and fill our picnic jugs. You decide how much you want." Jim opened the door of a small tin shed. Meg heard the rev and sputter as the engine started, then settled into a subdued purr.

Jim picked out their picnic jugs, positioned them under the spigot, then flipped on the power and filled them. Then he stuck his head under the pulsing flow and caught his breath as the liquid poured over. He came up sputtering and shook like a dog. The clean water dripping from his hair sparkled like quartz crystals in the desert sand. "Oh, that felt good! Try it, Meg."

"Sure, I'd like that." She started to shed her outer layers.

"Whoa, girl! Better see how cold it is before you commit to anything. It's pretty chilly under there."