began on a wide paved highway, the main route for trucks hauling cargo up to Cortez or south to Gallup. Then she turned onto a decent dirt road, and finally onto the Navajo Nation route that led to the house where her mother now lived.
Today, since she was starting from Window Rock, she took the quieter scenic route, which hugged the New Mexico–Arizona border, climbed over Narbona Pass, and then dropped into the open landscape of the reservation. Normally she loved the panorama of scenery, the play of shadows along Black Creek Valley a bit west of the sprawling town and the vast, empty country that stretched east—shades of brown, gold, and red meeting the dome of blue sky. The cool ascent into the Chuska Mountains brought the vanilla fragrance of the ponderosas through her open windows and, on a clear day, climaxed with a view of Dinetah from the top of the pass.
Today, though, instead of the beauty around her, she noticed how her old Tercel struggled with the climb to the summit. Her brain replayed the lieutenant’s shooting, her conversation with Mrs. Benally, the last turbulent confrontation with her sister Darleen.
Bernie hadn’t felt sleepy when she left Window Rock, but now she could hardly keep her eyes open. She pulled over near the top of the pass, where the road widened. The wind had stirred up so much dust and haze that she could barely see Tsoodzil, known as Mount Taylor in English, rising into the clouds. It was the home of Black God, Turquoise Boy, and Turquoise Girl, a sacred marker of her homeland.
The sun shone in through the windshield, sweet as honey. Bernie pushed her seat as close to horizontal as it would go. Enjoyed a deep breath of the fresh mountain air. Closed her eyes—just for a minute, she told herself. Beyond here the route snaked down out of the mountains to connect with 491 at Sheep Springs. She’d head north another twenty minutes or so to her mother’s house. Almost there.
She gave in to sleep before even unbuckling her seat belt.
T he vibration of the phone in the vest pocket of her uniform shirt woke her. She looked at the caller ID. Darleen.
“You were supposed to be here hours ago. I texted you, and you didn’t even answer. What happened? Where are you?”
“Sister. Hi. I got delayed. Long story. I’ll be there in about half an hour. ”
“You always do this to me. It smells.” Darleen hung up.
Bernie climbed out of the car with that tight feeling in her belly she noticed more and more now when she talked to Darleen. She walked to the edge of the overlook, shaking the cobwebs from her brain. She saw ravens circling, heard the deep purr of a truck in the distance. Then she remembered Louisa’s cat.
She looked in the backseat. The cat carrier, door open, was empty except for the towel. She peered under the seat. No cat. The front windows were wide open, easy enough for a cat to climb out. She searched around the car, checked underneath. No cat resting in the shade. And lots of places for a cat to hide. Too many for her to search. Her gaze swept the highway, east and west. At least no dead cat on the road.
Good luck to you, Louisa’s cat, she thought. Watch out for the owls and coyote. I’m sorry I didn’t take better care of you. She’d failed the cat, just as she’d failed Leaphorn.
She s tarted the car and headed on to her mother’s house, wondering if the day could get any worse.
Bernie smelled greasy smoke as soon as she opened the front door. Mama sat on the couch, wrapped in her favorite blanket despite the heat. A nature show blared on TV.
“It’s me, Mama.” She spoke in Navajo.
Mama looked up and smiled. “Sit down here with me, sweet daughter. You look tired.”
“I will in a moment,” Bernie said. “Is Sister here?”
“Not right now,” Mama said. “That one said she’ll be back soon.”
Mama never called her Bernie, only the more formal Bernadette. But she rarely used anyone’s English name, preferring the traditional way of
Today, since she was starting from Window Rock, she took the quieter scenic route, which hugged the New Mexico–Arizona border, climbed over Narbona Pass, and then dropped into the open landscape of the reservation. Normally she loved the panorama of scenery, the play of shadows along Black Creek Valley a bit west of the sprawling town and the vast, empty country that stretched east—shades of brown, gold, and red meeting the dome of blue sky. The cool ascent into the Chuska Mountains brought the vanilla fragrance of the ponderosas through her open windows and, on a clear day, climaxed with a view of Dinetah from the top of the pass.
Today, though, instead of the beauty around her, she noticed how her old Tercel struggled with the climb to the summit. Her brain replayed the lieutenant’s shooting, her conversation with Mrs. Benally, the last turbulent confrontation with her sister Darleen.
Bernie hadn’t felt sleepy when she left Window Rock, but now she could hardly keep her eyes open. She pulled over near the top of the pass, where the road widened. The wind had stirred up so much dust and haze that she could barely see Tsoodzil, known as Mount Taylor in English, rising into the clouds. It was the home of Black God, Turquoise Boy, and Turquoise Girl, a sacred marker of her homeland.
The sun shone in through the windshield, sweet as honey. Bernie pushed her seat as close to horizontal as it would go. Enjoyed a deep breath of the fresh mountain air. Closed her eyes—just for a minute, she told herself. Beyond here the route snaked down out of the mountains to connect with 491 at Sheep Springs. She’d head north another twenty minutes or so to her mother’s house. Almost there.
She gave in to sleep before even unbuckling her seat belt.
T he vibration of the phone in the vest pocket of her uniform shirt woke her. She looked at the caller ID. Darleen.
“You were supposed to be here hours ago. I texted you, and you didn’t even answer. What happened? Where are you?”
“Sister. Hi. I got delayed. Long story. I’ll be there in about half an hour. ”
“You always do this to me. It smells.” Darleen hung up.
Bernie climbed out of the car with that tight feeling in her belly she noticed more and more now when she talked to Darleen. She walked to the edge of the overlook, shaking the cobwebs from her brain. She saw ravens circling, heard the deep purr of a truck in the distance. Then she remembered Louisa’s cat.
She looked in the backseat. The cat carrier, door open, was empty except for the towel. She peered under the seat. No cat. The front windows were wide open, easy enough for a cat to climb out. She searched around the car, checked underneath. No cat resting in the shade. And lots of places for a cat to hide. Too many for her to search. Her gaze swept the highway, east and west. At least no dead cat on the road.
Good luck to you, Louisa’s cat, she thought. Watch out for the owls and coyote. I’m sorry I didn’t take better care of you. She’d failed the cat, just as she’d failed Leaphorn.
She s tarted the car and headed on to her mother’s house, wondering if the day could get any worse.
Bernie smelled greasy smoke as soon as she opened the front door. Mama sat on the couch, wrapped in her favorite blanket despite the heat. A nature show blared on TV.
“It’s me, Mama.” She spoke in Navajo.
Mama looked up and smiled. “Sit down here with me, sweet daughter. You look tired.”
“I will in a moment,” Bernie said. “Is Sister here?”
“Not right now,” Mama said. “That one said she’ll be back soon.”
Mama never called her Bernie, only the more formal Bernadette. But she rarely used anyone’s English name, preferring the traditional way of
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