“Where’s Mrs. McMahon and Kevin?” someone asked.
“Kevin’s on his way.”
“We’ll wait.” They all turned away. That was it.
A few minutes later a plume of dust appeared on the horizon. It slowly resolved into Kevin’s Winnebago. He pulled up and greeted the man with the new pickup. I saw now they were all Indians.
“Are you ready?” asked the headman. “It’s time to go. You have the artifacts?”
“They’re in the back of the truck,” said Kevin.
The headman turned to me. “Open it.”
“Kevin?”
“Go ahead, Finn. This is why we’re here. Open it up.”
I unstrapped the patio table and opened the trailer. The entire last tier, except for some chowder, consisted of dishpack cartons containing the artifacts. There were fifteen of them. The men lined up and put them into the pickups in about two minutes.
“Let’s go,” said the headman.
“OK,” said Kevin. “Finn, will you come with us? I’ve no family here, and I’d like you to come.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve no idea. Please come.”
“What about the shipment?”
“I don’t know. This is why we’re here. No more questions. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to . . . and you won’t be spoken to.”
“OK, Kevin. I’m in.”
Someone directed me to a pickup. Kevin went to the Winnebago and grabbed an urn from inside and got into another pickup. We headed west convoy fashion, with the headman in the lead. I sat in the middle of the bench seat between two Indians. The truck was old and battered, and the springs of the seat were poking through and kept digging into me. There was no air-conditioning, and we drove with the windows open. The dust from the convoy made it hard to breathe or see. Neither Indian spoke, either to each other or me. It wasn’t long before I began to nod off.
We had driven for almost three hours when all the trucks pulled over for a piss call. When I got back to the pickup, the Indian in the passenger seat was gone. I got in, and the driver Indian handed me a bandanna. “Cover your eyes,” he commanded. Then a bit more gently he said, “I’ll answer a few questions on the ride, but you have to wear the bandanna.”
“OK.” I put on the blindfold and we started moving again.
“What are your questions?” asked the Indian.
“Why am I blindfolded?”
“We’re going to a holy place. Nobody outside of our community can know where it is. Nobody from outside our community should even be going there.” My driver, maybe I can almost call him my host, spoke perfect English with a high-pitched, singsong precision, like the Upper Midwest accent.
“Well, that rules out my next question, which was where are we going. What are we all doing?”
“We are carrying out a warrior burial ceremony for Professor McMahon.”
“What’s the big rush?”
“A warrior of our people is to be buried on the sixth day after his death. The ceremony is supposed to start in the morning. That’s why it had to be today and why some were anxious about your arrival. I personally wasn’t worried. You were the wild card because nobody knew you. Once I saw your truck I knew it would all fit together. These things arrange themselves. That’s why you’ve been invited to the ceremony.”
“I was? Nobody invited me. I thought Kevin asked me to come because he was scared.”
“If you weren’t invited you wouldn’t be here. Kevin isn’t scared. He knows exactly what’s going on. Incidentally, if it makes you feel any better, he’s blindfolded too.”
“What about the artifacts?”
“When we bury our dead we provide them with items they’ll need in the next world. As their life on Earth has been broken, so too are the gifts for the next world. That’s why all of the objects are broken. Over the centuries many thousands of our gravesites have been pillaged by you moon crickets. This reflects badly upon our stewardship toward our ancestors’ memories. McMahon recovered many gifts that were lost. Now they’re going home. It’s been a long time.”
“What’s a moon cricket?”
“You are a moon cricket. You have a pale face like the moon and a squeaky voice like a cricket. Also like a cricket, you don’t know when or how to be quiet. I’m not speaking strictly personally here, you understand. Basically, it’s anyone who is not one of us.”
“Why did McMahon bring all that stuff to Connecticut?”
“No more questions.” After about fifteen minutes we came to a stop and I heard doors slamming. The driver reached over and took off my blindfold. We were atop a mesa. The headman had changed from jeans and flannel shirt into some sort of ceremonial dress.
The warrior burial ceremony lasted until early evening. My hosts were explicit that I not divulge any details. I’m not going to.
The convoy dropped us off at the McMahon ranch a little after eight that night. The sun was starting its descent, and that beautiful soft desert red enveloped us. Kevin went into the house and brought out six Coronas, and we sat on the patio. He opened two of them and handed one to me.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers,” I answered. “You know, it was supposed to be me and your mom sitting here drinking Coronas talking about life, the universe, and everything. That’s not happening, but I think she’d be OK with how it all turned out. I tell you, Kevin, this has been the weirdest move I’ve ever done.” We clinked bottles. “What’s next?”
“It’s all going back. Tomorrow. You can start the truck and drop everything in storage at Joyce in Connecticut. It will take me years to sort it all out.”
“You know this will cost you a fortune.”
“I’m not worried about money. I’m an orphan now. Whatever connection I have left to my parents is in that truck, and it’s going back with me. This house is finished for me. The Indian thing was their thing, not mine. I’ll sell the ranch and keep what’s in the moving van. Tomorrow I’ll drop off the Winnebago and fly home. I have my marriage to repair, my kids to raise, my own life to live.”
We finished our beers, and Kevin went back into the house and came out with a sleeping bag. “I’m going to sleep under the stars. I can’t sleep in the house, and I won’t sleep in Mom’s bed in the camper. I’ve run out of options. You can sleep in the guest room if you want. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll sleep in my truck. I always sleep like a baby in there.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Great White Mover. The Indians were really impressed with you. The name helped, of course. They all agreed that you actually were. That was some slick timing. They pretend they don’t care about time, but when it comes to burials, they care only about time.”
“Thanks for telling me. Right now, I’m thinking I am the Great White Mover after all. Good night, Kevin.”
I took the four remaining beers back to my cab, cracked another, and called Willie at home.
“Hey, laddie,” Willie said. “How’s the desert?”
“Dry and hot, Willie. Tell me something: What’s a salesman’s commission these days for booking an interstate job?”