“Here, take this with you.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a full-color brochure: San Juan County Fights DWI.
She put the brochure on the passenger seat of her unit. Someday, she’d like to feel proud of her sibling, happy for her accomplishments instead of ashamed. Would that day ever come?
Bernie noticed a thrift store as she headed toward the restaurant for the meeting. An empty parking slot beckoned, so she stopped. Sometimes she could find zip-up sweaters or ones with big buttons that were easy for Mama to handle. She didn’t see a sweater she liked, but when she passed a rack of belts, she thought of Mr. Tso holding up his pants with a rope. She invested a dollar in a canvas belt with a D-ring for a buckle so he could adjust it to fit.
She drove toward the restaurant, thinking about the fake stolen car report instead of her talk. It was inconvenient to set your own car on fire in the middle of nowhere and then have to hitchhike. She remembered the ridge, the places where the earth had been disturbed, and the yellow pieces of wood. Miller must have used the stakes to mark the cacti when they bloomed, the easiest time to spot them. She smiled. The pieces were coming together, but many were missing, including Miller himself.
As for Mr. Tso’s apparitions, perhaps he couldn’t see very well. Maybe, as Aaron suspected, his grandfather’s brain had slipped into decline, wobbling between reality and imagination.
She parked in the restaurant lot, noticing that it was nearly full, and picked up her backpack, double-checking to make sure her notes were there. She put on a bit of lipstick, squared her shoulders, and walked into the room where the meeting would be. She felt almost as unsettled as when she’d met Chee’s relatives for the first time.
The sixty-something woman at the door in the gray business suit introduced herself as the program director and the person Bernie had talked to on the phone. “We’re so glad you could join us. You’re younger than I expected. Have you met our president?”
“No, ma’am.” Younger than expected? That didn’t sound like a good thing.
The woman ushered Bernie to a round table, where a man in a business suit and well-polished cowboy boots was talking to a small group of people. The man in the boots extended his hand. “Clayton Sanchez, president of this bunch of rowdies, at least for a few more months. We’re pleased you could come today.” He introduced the other men at the table: a Farmington banker, a gentleman who owned a drilling company, and an insurance broker. Only the banker wore a suit, and he had a bolo with a piece of coral in place of a necktie.
Bernie nodded, wishing she had Chee’s gift for remembering names. Clayton reminded her of clay, and she pictured his boots encased in claylike mud. Maybe she could use sandy clay, whatever that might be, for the Sanchez part. She felt the men watching her while Sanchez spoke.
“Captain Largo and I got to know each other pretty well when I was with the Farmington Police Department. He’s a good cop.” Sanchez talked about a meth case he and Largo had worked together. The man knew his way around a story.
The room had nearly filled. A flock of waiters and waitresses in black pants and white shirts began delivering plates of salad to the tables.
Sanchez interrupted himself. “We better sit so the young lady can eat before she has to talk.”
The salad looked good. So far, being in this room with the Rotary group wasn’t the heart-stopping experience Bernie’d imagined, but the hard job was still to come.
A tall man wearing a white shirt open at the neck and a sport coat approached. Bernie thought he looked familiar, and struggled to place him. He introduced himself to the group just as Bernie’s brain had churned up his name: David Oster.
“I’m the guy working on that big solar project. You all may have heard our radio ads: ‘Harnessing the power of the sun to provide electricity to our families and the rest of America.’”
“The rest of America? That sounds great. Ambitious.” Sanchez winked at him. “Join us here? We’ve got an empty seat.” Sanchez turned toward Bernie. “This is Officer Bernadette Manuelito. She’s our guest speaker today.”
Oster smiled. “We’ve met. Officer Manuelito was the one who had to give me the sad news that the town of Shiprock didn’t have a Starbucks.”
Sanchez chuckled. “We’ve got three here in Farmington. Did she tell you that?”
“No, she didn’t. Your secret is safe with Officer Manuelito.” He sat across the table from her. “It’s nice to see you here.”
“So you’re a Rotary member?”
“I’m with Rotary in San Francisco, and as part of our membership, we have a standing invitation to visit other clubs when we’re in the area.”
“How’s your project coming?”
“Fine. Except for the wind, the weather has cooperated. Once we smooth out a few bumps in the road, we’ll have the perfect site for a large installation.”
“We’ve got plenty of sun out here, that’s for sure. What kind of bumps?”
“Oh, nothing too serious. There seem to be some people who still don’t understand the value of solar power. My contractor and I are working to change some minds, open the naysayers to the possibilities of nonpolluting, renewable energy. Where would we be without the sun?”
“Good question. And good luck with your project.”
“I don’t need luck. It’s a natural, you know—the wave of the future, the way the world is moving.”
Bernie looked at her salad, carefully pushing the strawberries to one side and the pecans to the other. She tried a bite of the lettuce and a little red tomato and found them acceptable. Chee would have appreciated this fancy dish, she thought, but give her iceberg lettuce and ranch dressing any time.
Bernie heard Sanchez pushing his chair back, and she took a breath. Show time on the horizon. She felt her chest tighten.
Sanchez went to the microphone, and everyone stood for an invocation and then faced the flag for the Pledge of Allegiance. When he invited them all to sit and began to read extensive announcements, Bernie moved her plate to the side and took out her notes. One more quick review.
He introduced her, and she walked to the podium, suddenly regretting the salad she’d eaten. She adjusted the microphone, lowering it to pick up her voice. She felt her knees wobble.
“Ladies and gentlemen, yá’át’ééh. Good afternoon. Thank you for inviting me here today. And for the free lunch.”
A few of the attendees chuckled.