Chee had spent more nights than he cared to remember driving the back roads of the reservation, responding to calls about family fights, meth kitchens, runaway children, or stolen cattle. That went with the “serve and protect” oath he’d sworn as a member of the Navajo Nation police force. But this assignment grew from politics as much as Palmer’s safety. It bugged him.
Chee liked to drive in silence, using the time on the road to think. Tonight, as he moved his duffel bag from the passenger seat of his truck to the trunk of his Navajo Police unit, he realized he’d probably have to make conversation with a stranger. Perhaps Palmer would fall asleep. But the guy was a lawyer, and Chee assumed he’d want to talk. The drive would take about three hours. The anticipation made him grumpier still.
Palmer climbed in, put his fancy leather bag on the floor, and fastened the seat belt. They rode in silence for a while through the night, the rhythm of the tires on asphalt, the darkness that surrounded them taking hold. Normally, Chee’s evening shift involved late-night driving in search of miscreants, witnesses, or people with complaints who wanted him to sympathize. They might mention a stack of discarded tires as a landmark to help him find the turnoff for their place. Navigating to Tuba City was easier. Boring, but easier.
The quiet minutes became a half hour. The heater kicked in. Chee kept the unit a few degrees colder than comfortable to make sure he stayed alert. Even so, his eyelids began to feel heavy. He considered pulling over, getting out into the cold to revive his brain. He glanced at his passenger.
Palmer stared out the window. Now that the car had warmed, Chee noticed the smell of the man’s sweat. Palmer glanced away from the darkness outside and patted his jacket pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Yeah, I do. Not in the unit. That’s not good for you anyway, man.”
Palmer said, “Let’s get this straight. Your job is to try to make sure no one does anything to me that interferes with the mediation. It’s not to meddle in my personal life. Clear?”
“Clear. I don’t like this any more than you do.”
Palmer said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“OK.” Conversation might wake up my brain, Chee thought. Maybe Palmer would say something interesting.
“Do you know the Navajo officer who was there at the school tonight? The woman? She wore jeans, so I guess she works undercover.”
Chee smiled. “Bernadette Manuelito?”
“That’s the one. I remember her from high school. A sweet girl, smart as they come, kind of shy. I never pictured her growing up to be a cop. She did a good job.” Palmer chuckled. “I could tell she was frustrated when the FBI agent came in, pushed her aside, and took charge.”
Chee thought about telling Palmer Bernie was his wife. Decided to save that information and changed the subject. “Do you come back here, I mean to Navajoland, very often?”
“No.”
“So, it took the game to bring you home?”
“A coincidence actually. The schedule to start the mediation coincided with the game, so I figured, why not? It gave me a reason to get in shape.”
Chee watched headlights ahead coming toward them considerably faster than the speed limit but not swerving. He turned on his light bar. The truck slowed. Then the empty highway rolled on, the darkness outside the patrol unit’s windows unbroken.
“You’re lucky you weren’t in that car when it blew.”
“I loved that car. I dreamed about owning a car like that when I was in high school and most of the boys wanted pickups. When I got my first job out of college and finally could afford to buy an old clunker, I kept visualizing a sleek BMW, the car of my fantasies. I finally bought it last year. Why would somebody blow it up?”
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea.” And Palmer fell silent.
Traffic was light, the night clear and still. In homes all across Navajoland, it had been a fine evening for stories, Chee thought. These long, cold November nights when the snakes slept made him miss the man mainstream society called his uncle but whom he knew as shidá’í, his Little Father. He longed for the wonderful way the old man had of bringing stories alive, retelling tradition with enriching details as he helped Chee grow from a boy to a man. His uncle built a world with words the same way other men could create beauty from the raw materials of silver, stone, or wood. He missed his shidá’í always, but especially this time of year.
Chee remembered Bernie’s kindness toward Hosteen Nakai and his wife, now gone, too. Before he realized that Bernie would become his partner for life, she helped him kidnap his uncle out of the hospital against doctor’s orders so the old healer could die as he wished beneath the open sky and his chindi could float free.
Chee said, “So what’s it been like for you to go away and then come home?”
“It’s sad. Strange and sad.”
Most lawyers he’d been around were talkers, Chee thought, but a conversation with Palmer was closer to an interview. The effort made him more alert.
“Sad how?”
“Well, the landscape speaks to me, brings back memories. My mother and my grandmothers are gone, and most of their generation, too. I visited with my aunt, but she didn’t recognize me. A lot of friends I went to school with moved away like I did.” He laughed. “I met my wife when we were still in high school and that cut back on the time I spent with the guys.”
The comment made Chee curious. “Did your wife come with you back to Shiprock?”
“Oh, we split a long time ago.”
Chee steered into the darkness. One hundred seventy-two miles, more or less from Shiprock to Tuba City, a trip that usually required about three hours. With the light traffic he hoped to arrive a little sooner, tuck his passenger in for the night, text Bernie, and go to bed.
“So what does a mediator do? I’ve heard about mediation, but I’ve never been involved with a session.”
Palmer exhaled. “We help people with disagreements resolve them. Usually, the meetings are private, confidential, limited to people directly involved in the conflict. But because the Grand Canyon belongs to America, as they say, the resort development issue is complicated. I will devote the first session or two in Tuba City, in advance of the delegates getting down to work, to public comment.”
“How did you get picked for this job?” Fully awake now, Chee turned up the heat.
“I worked with the Forest Service on another Grand Canyon case and also with the Navajo Nation on a couple other major issues and with the state of Arizona. That might have helped. The Tribal Council recommended me along with some others. When I applied, I didn’t know if being Navajo might work in my favor or go the other way.”
Palmer had not bragged, and Chee gave the man credit.
“Have you been following the issue?” Palmer asked.