There was a small pause, then the driver nodded. “Oi g hihm,” he said.
Literally translated, “Oi g hihm” means “Let us walk.” In the everyday vernacular of the reservation it means “Let’s get in the pickup and go,” and that’s exactly what Gabe did—-climb in—-but before he did so, he took off the spine--riddled blanket and tossed it into the bed of the pickup, where it landed on a tarp--covered load that was most likely several cases of illicit beer.
Squeezed into the backseat between two massive men, Gabe had no choice but to sit there and suffer. There were still sharp bits of cholla spines stuck in his jeans that made squirming in any direction an agony.
To his immense relief, the drive into Sells was done in almost complete silence. Without a stranger in their midst, the men had been jovial and talkative, but now Gabe’s presence seemed to have stifled any desire to talk. As soon as they crossed the low pass just before Sells, Gabe broke the silence.
“Ihab,” he said, meaning “Let me out right here.” The truck pulled over at the road that led to the high school. From here it was probably a mile or more to the house, but on the off chance one of these guys did know Gabe’s parents, Gabe wanted to be dropped off as far as possible from both his father’s garage and the Ortiz family compound.
Gabe was warm when he climbed down from the cab of the truck, but that soon changed. He retrieved his prickly blanket, but even with that slung over his shoulders, he was cold within a hundred yards or so. By the time he reached the house, he was shivering.
With all the windows dark, the house was forbidding rather than welcoming. Gabe wasn’t at all surprised that his parents weren’t home yet. As part of Delia’s duties as tribal chairman, she tried to attend at least one village dance each weekend. The long hours of sitting around fires, dancing, and standing in food lines at feast houses allowed Delia to stay in touch with her constituents, the ordinary -people who weren’t necessarily sitting on the tribal council. Most of the time, Gabe would have gone to the dance with them.
Gabe stepped onto the poured concrete slab that served as a front porch and walked forward, ready to slip his key into the lock. Before he reached the door, however, he tripped over something and almost fell. Righting himself, he reached down and picked up a small paper bag. When he carried it inside and switched on a light, he saw that the bag held a Costco--sized jar of Skippy peanut butter. Since peanut butter sandwiches were his father’s lunch--pail favorite, Gabe’s first assumption was that his mother had asked someone who was going into town to pick up a jar for her. At the bottom of the bag, however, Gabe spotted a hand--scribbled note:
Please keep this for Carlos. I’ll explain later.
Tim
Gabe stared at the note and then at the jar of peanut butter. It made no sense. Why would Carlos need him to keep that? After a moment, he put down the note, picked up the jar, and opened it. It had been opened before—-the foil seal had been peeled away. The problem was, the label on the jar said the peanut butter was creamy style rather than crunchy, but this was definitely lumpy rather than smooth.
Dance of the Bones
J. A. Jance's books
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- The English Girl: A Novel
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