identifying people in terms of their relation to you or by the name that had developed from the person’s personality, a life event, or a character trait. Chee’s Navajo name, for instance, translated in English to “Long Thinker.”
Bernie rushed to the kitchen. She clicked off the burner beneath the frying pan, grabbed a towel to wrap around the handle, and took the skillet out the back door, set it on the ground. She started the vent fan and opened the window. Where was Sister? Keeping Mama safe was her job. If Mama had left the skillet on, if Mama had been cooking her own lunch, that raised one issue. If Darleen had walked off with the stove on, that was something else again.
The kitchen looked as if a dust devil had blown through. An egg carton, sitting open like a cardboard prayer book, had six eggs left. A half-empty bottle of Pepsi and discarded Styrofoam carry-out food containers added to the clutter. Something sticky had spilled and run to the floor. Dirty plates, cups, and silverware sat untended.
When Mama had first moved into the house, when Bernie was in high school and Darleen a baby, she allowed nothing out of place. She organized her home as precisely as a rug in progress, as neat as their grandmother’s old hogan. But because of her arthritis, her heart problems, and the other debilitations of aging—they’d even worried about Alzheimer’s disease—Mama couldn’t do the work herself, so Darleen had promised to pitch in and help. For a while, the plan worked. But lately, Bernie thought, chaos had begun to replace order. Every week she found more to clean and straighten, more mess Sister seemed to expect her to handle.
Bernie and Darleen had agreed that Darleen could leave Mama alone for bits and pieces when she was feeling well. Bernie explained that one fall might mean a broken hip, a trip to the hospital, pneumonia. She had heard too many stories of mothers and grandmothers gone down that road.
Bernie went back to the living room, navigating around piles of clothes and Mama’s walker, on which hung Darleen’s purple baseball cap. Mama looked up at her and patted the couch. Bernie sat, picked up the remote control from the dusty coffee table, and muted the sound.
Mama spoke in Navajo. “You are here now to stay awhile.”
“I’m glad to see you, Mama. What’s new?” She held her mother’s gnarled hand, noticing the coolness of her bony fingers despite the warm day.
Mama talked about a conversation she’d had with her sister, who lived near Crownpoint, recalling every detail. As she told the story, Mama ran her fingertips over the blanket on her lap, a fine rug she had made years before. Mama had been one of the best weavers anywhere. Her mind had relished the geometry of the loom and the interplay of color translated into warp and weft. She had created symphonies of design in gray, white, black, and brown, using wool sheared and spun from sheep they raised and tended at the old place.
Bernie loved the rug Mama had made to warm her and Chee’s bed. It was a gift for their wedding, and the last her mother had completed. Because of the aching and stiffness in her hands, it had taken her more than a year, but Mama kept at it without complaint. Chee teased that Bernie had her mother’s tenacity when it came to working on a police case. “You’re just like her,” he said. “You work on a case, bit by bit, line by line, and you keep going until you figure out what’s what. Spider Woman’s daughter, weaving together the threads of the crime.”
When she’d finished her story about Bernie’s aunt, Mama said, “Tell me what you’ve been doing, my daughter.”
“Oh, busy at work.” Bernie mentioned a call she’d handled, a lost three-year-old she eventually discovered asleep in the back of an uncle’s firewood trailer, how relieved his family was to have him back safely.
“Good,” Mama said. “But something makes your heart heavy.”
Bernie squeezed her hand. She
Bernie rushed to the kitchen. She clicked off the burner beneath the frying pan, grabbed a towel to wrap around the handle, and took the skillet out the back door, set it on the ground. She started the vent fan and opened the window. Where was Sister? Keeping Mama safe was her job. If Mama had left the skillet on, if Mama had been cooking her own lunch, that raised one issue. If Darleen had walked off with the stove on, that was something else again.
The kitchen looked as if a dust devil had blown through. An egg carton, sitting open like a cardboard prayer book, had six eggs left. A half-empty bottle of Pepsi and discarded Styrofoam carry-out food containers added to the clutter. Something sticky had spilled and run to the floor. Dirty plates, cups, and silverware sat untended.
When Mama had first moved into the house, when Bernie was in high school and Darleen a baby, she allowed nothing out of place. She organized her home as precisely as a rug in progress, as neat as their grandmother’s old hogan. But because of her arthritis, her heart problems, and the other debilitations of aging—they’d even worried about Alzheimer’s disease—Mama couldn’t do the work herself, so Darleen had promised to pitch in and help. For a while, the plan worked. But lately, Bernie thought, chaos had begun to replace order. Every week she found more to clean and straighten, more mess Sister seemed to expect her to handle.
Bernie and Darleen had agreed that Darleen could leave Mama alone for bits and pieces when she was feeling well. Bernie explained that one fall might mean a broken hip, a trip to the hospital, pneumonia. She had heard too many stories of mothers and grandmothers gone down that road.
Bernie went back to the living room, navigating around piles of clothes and Mama’s walker, on which hung Darleen’s purple baseball cap. Mama looked up at her and patted the couch. Bernie sat, picked up the remote control from the dusty coffee table, and muted the sound.
Mama spoke in Navajo. “You are here now to stay awhile.”
“I’m glad to see you, Mama. What’s new?” She held her mother’s gnarled hand, noticing the coolness of her bony fingers despite the warm day.
Mama talked about a conversation she’d had with her sister, who lived near Crownpoint, recalling every detail. As she told the story, Mama ran her fingertips over the blanket on her lap, a fine rug she had made years before. Mama had been one of the best weavers anywhere. Her mind had relished the geometry of the loom and the interplay of color translated into warp and weft. She had created symphonies of design in gray, white, black, and brown, using wool sheared and spun from sheep they raised and tended at the old place.
Bernie loved the rug Mama had made to warm her and Chee’s bed. It was a gift for their wedding, and the last her mother had completed. Because of the aching and stiffness in her hands, it had taken her more than a year, but Mama kept at it without complaint. Chee teased that Bernie had her mother’s tenacity when it came to working on a police case. “You’re just like her,” he said. “You work on a case, bit by bit, line by line, and you keep going until you figure out what’s what. Spider Woman’s daughter, weaving together the threads of the crime.”
When she’d finished her story about Bernie’s aunt, Mama said, “Tell me what you’ve been doing, my daughter.”
“Oh, busy at work.” Bernie mentioned a call she’d handled, a lost three-year-old she eventually discovered asleep in the back of an uncle’s firewood trailer, how relieved his family was to have him back safely.
“Good,” Mama said. “But something makes your heart heavy.”
Bernie squeezed her hand. She
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