“You’re working on something intriguing, I can tell by the look on your face.” She smiled at him. “Good luck.”
Diabetes. He thought about that as he walked back to his office. The disease plagued the Navajo Nation in ways the early Diné could never have envisioned. Indian Health Service doctors attributed the problem to poor diet, obesity, lack of exercise, and perhaps a genetic propensity. As in mainstream America, it often led to amputations, kidney failure, blindness, heart problems, and more. Leaphorn sat at his desk and closed his eyes. He took himself back to little Ricky’s home, before the boy came to live with his grandmother. He smelled the hot rancid air inside the filthy trailer; the stench of unwashed clothes, soiled diapers, and unemptied garbage. He heard the whimpering baby and the woman’s drunken snoring. He remembered the clammy feel of her skin when he tried to wake her.
He recalled how the little boy picked up the baby and attempted to soothe him. He could still hear Ricky saying, “Maybe there’s a bottle,” and see him opening the ice chest, empty except for cloudy water in which floated two oversized cans of high-octane beer. He pictured Ricky standing next to the gurney and his mother, semiconscious, swatting him away. He remembered the boy cringing and moving away to stand next to him, staring at the ground. He could still feel the boy’s little hand as it reached for his.
Leaphorn recalled saying something like, “Get your other shoe and we’ll go to your shimásani’s place.” But his memory found nothing about diabetes.
He stood, stared out the window for a moment, and sat down again. He began to recall the scene at the grandmother’s house. He heard the grandmother’s puzzled yá?át?ééh as she stood outside near the ramada, and saw her look of surprise and concern as she studied the police car. He could still see Ricky running to her, grabbing her long skirt. She had asked about the baby. Not, he recalled, about the mother.
He took his mind’s eye around the ramada, the shelter where the family cooked and slept when the weather was warm and it reminded him of the familiar smells of his own summers away from what people call civilization. He remembered the order and stability of Mrs. Nez’s place, the sound of insects and a horse in the distance, the whine of a dog. He felt the welcome cool of her shade and the smoothness of the plastic cup in which she’d given him water. When he was done, she filled it again and offered some to the little boy. He reexperienced his relief at knowing Ricky was safe.
There was something else about that day, that place. He was sure of it.
He rewound the memory to when he had driven up to the house. He saw a newish pickup with Arizona plates, and he remembered thinking that it was odd for a woman living by her wits and well-honed habits of frugality to have a truck. He remembered asking the grandmother if he could do anything for her before he left. She said, “No. That man cutting wood will be coming in soon. He has to check his sugar.” Leaphorn recalled the racket of the chainsaw.
Then he remembered the second child who was there. A slightly older dark-haired boy wearing glasses and a watch with a green dial similar to Ricky’s.
Leaphorn opened his eyes, aware that Louisa had spoken to him. He felt her warm hand on his shoulder.
“Did you doze off? Would you like more coffee? There’s a little left.”
He nodded yes to the second question.
“I’ll bring it to you.”
On a hunch, he e-mailed Chee and Bernie with a question. He settled in to wait, but to his surprise, Chee responded a few minutes later.
“Strange question, But yes, Palmer has diabetes.”
The man working with Mrs. Nez that day little Ricky Horseman arrived in Leaphorn’s police car was diabetic. The man was Palmer. But the more he learned, the less he seemed to know.
His visit to Mrs. Nez had been almost twenty years ago. It was time for a road trip.
When Louisa came back with the coffee, he showed her his plan for the rest of the day, typed in English so she would understand. He smiled when she volunteered to go with him, just as he’d hoped she would.
22
Never again, Jim Chee told himself. Next time anyone one asked him to be a bodyguard, he was saying no. Even if the person asking was the chief of police himself and even if the person who needed protection was the Navajo president. No way. No how. Hey, even if the Navajo president himself asked him, he’d say no.
He rolled his head from one side to the other to jar his brain awake. Never again. Period.
After typing out a quick response to Leaphorn’s question, he had moved to the back of the room in an effort to watch both Palmer and the characters who’d come to share their views about the development. He thought of Bernie, embarrassed when Darleen told her that she’d run off with the keys to the police unit. He and Palmer caught a ride to the meeting with Dashee. His sweet wife was in for some serious ribbing when he saw her again.
Palmer sat at the table with the delegates. Chee noticed that he’d put his jacket on. The room seemed colder than when the session had started, despite the crowd of people and the abundance of hot air from the speakers. The hefty Anglo woman at the microphone was relating her frustrating experiences finding lodging at the South Rim in the summer, speaking in favor of an additional hotel. Even she wore a sweater.
The most exciting thing that had happened so far had to do with Cowboy Dashee.
Chee had been standing there for more than an hour when he heard the door open. The terrible squeak from yesterday had been fixed, but the door still made a racket. Dashee entered, spotted Chee, and motioned toward the hallway.
From the look on Dashee’s face, he expected a problem.
“I saw a neighbor of the Bitsoi lady when I was driving in this morning,” Dashee said. “The woman said Mrs. Bitsoi plans to take her sheep out to the highway tomorrow, down the hill toward Moenkopi, straight for US 89. The lady said Mrs. Bitsoi told her she plans to get all dressed up, too.”
“It looks like she’s moving her flock like you asked.”