Chee stood by the door, upwind from the cigarette smoke, aware of the jagged energy between the men, of the discomfort and awkwardness in the exchange. He was ready to intervene, and hoping he wouldn’t have to.
He called Bernie, hoping to hear her voice, but she didn’t answer. He left his usual message: “Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you. Everything is OK here. Call when you get a chance.” Chee watched the younger man kick at the dirt a couple of times, then storm off. The mediator crushed the cigarette butt under the sole of his boot and glanced at Chee. “Aren’t you cold and bored out here?”
“What were you and that young guy doing? The bomber is still on the loose, and you’re a target, man. Don’t put yourself at risk.”
“No need to fret. No explosives involved except a few choice adjectives. Like I said, give me some privacy once in a while. I’ll have to fire you if you keep breathing down my neck. Don’t worry so much.”
He resented Palmer’s attitude and his words left Chee uneasy. Whenever someone told him not to worry, that usually meant there was something to worry about.
9
As the delegate statements continued, Chee noticed the people in the audience growing quieter. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear someone snore. If those in attendance had expected fireworks after last night’s uproar, they must have been disappointed.
Then the big doors that led to the hallway opened with a screech. The person at the microphone, a woman representing Arizona’s Office of Tourism, stopped in midsentence. Many of the audience, startled by the sound, turned toward an embarrassed-looking Cowboy Dashee.
Chee took a step toward him, and Dashee motioned with his chin toward the hall. Chee eased the door closed.
“A lady was raising a ruckus outside and then collapsed by the front door. She says she won’t get up until she can come into the meeting. Maybe you could talk to her.”
“What about Silversmith or Redbone? Or the Arizona Highway Patrol guys? I’m supposed to keep an eye on Palmer.”
Dashee reached into his pocket and handed Chee a card. “She gave me this when I told her she had to leave. Whatever she wants, I thought you might like to keep it in the family.”
Chee saw the official Navajo Public Safety logo and the police crest along with the station number in Shiprock. The name read “Officer Bernadette Manuelito.”
Dashee said, “I’ll babysit for you.”
“What else do you know about this lady?”
“Well, when the guard told her the meeting was full, she started yelling and then beating on him. That’s when he called me.”
“Was the guard hurt?”
“Only his pride.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He put Bernie’s card in his pocket.
A small crowd of demonstrators and latecomers had gathered at a respectful distance to gawk. Chee made his way to the uniformed man who squatted next to a Navajo woman on the pavement. The guard told him the woman was Mrs. Nez. When he wouldn’t allow her into the meeting, she argued with him and then collapsed.
Chee lowered himself onto his heels. She was a gray-haired lady wearing traditional Navajo garb—a blouse of deep red velvet ornamented with three silver-and-turquoise pins. She had a sand-cast concho belt at the waist of her long skirt and a wide silver bracelet on both wrists. She looked pale, he thought, pale and shaken.
“Grandmother,” he said in Navajo, “they say you aren’t feeling so well.”
She looked at him, then quickly away. “My heart.” She put her hand on her chest.
Chee said, “We can call the ambulance to take you to the hospital, where the doctors can give you medicine to help you feel better.”
“That bilagaana pill won’t do no good. You help me stand now and we will go into the meeting.” She looked him over. “You’re a strong one. Pull me up.”
Chee said, “Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”
She shook her head. Chee motioned to the guard. “Could you please bring this lady some water?”
The guard came back with a bottle of water and a bag of peanuts and gave them both to Chee, who nodded his thanks.
The woman pushed herself to a seated position with a little grunt. She looked at the guard. “You go on now.” She spoke in Navajo, and her gesture reinforced her words. “Bother somebody else. This man is the one I want to talk to.”
Chee started to hand the woman the water, then pulled back to twist the cap loose first.
The woman put the bottle down next to her without taking a drink.
“Why are you here, Grandmother?”
“I need to go to the meeting to give somebody something. But that man over there”—she glanced toward the guard at the metal detector—“he told me I couldn’t do it. Help me up.”
Chee hesitated to put his hands on an elderly stranger, both because of fear of hurting her and the ingrained Navajo sense of personal privacy. “Can you stand if I give you my arm?”
She nodded.
He stood, and she gripped his forearm with her right hand, clinging to him for balance as she pulled herself to her feet. After a moment she took a shaky step forward. “Let’s go.”
They wobbled along until Chee could usher her to a wooden bench in the hallway.
“Please sit a moment, Grandmother, and talk to me.” To his relief, she complied, using him to steady herself and settle onto the seat. She sipped the water. He sat next to her and offered her the peanuts, but she declined with a wave of her hand.
Chee said, “The room is full. No one can go in. Every seat is taken.”
“What about you.” It was a statement, not a question. “You got a uniform.”
“Why is the meeting so important to you?”
She reached into a pocket of her voluminous skirt and pulled out a white envelope. “I have this.”
Chee noticed that someone had written “Mr. Blankenship” on the outside. He recognized the name, the delegate he’d tangled with in the meeting room before the session opened.
“What’s inside?”
She shrugged off the question. “My grandson left this.”
Chee said, “Why didn’t he come with you?”
“He could not.” Chee heard the catch in her voice and then silence. Diné grandmothers didn’t show their emotions, especially to strangers.
“Are you sure that meeting is full?”
“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.”
The woman studied the floor for a moment or two. Then he felt a cold, bony hand squeeze his arm again. She held the envelope toward him.
“You take this.” She put the envelope on the bench and slid it toward him. “Give it to this man in there. Promise to do this for an old woman. Then I can go home.”
Chee noticed that the flap was tucked, but it wasn’t sealed. “I’m not sure it’s safe for you to drive, Grandmother.”
The woman took another sip of water. She gave him a look that reminded him of the sharp rebuffs he’d received from his own shimásani. “I am going to my sister’s house when I leave here. She’s out past the dinosaur tracks, not too far. She’s waiting for me now.”