Blasphemy (10 page)

Screw it, the guy can’t stay in his trailer forever
. Ford sat down.

The minutes dragged on. The wind blew. The dust swirled.

Ten minutes passed. A stink beetle marched purposely through the dust on some mysterious errand, becoming a little black dot as it went off and disappeared. His mind wandered, and he thought about Kate, their relationship, the long journey his life had made since then. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his wife. Her death had wrecked any sense of security he had felt in life. Before, he hadn’t known how arbitrary life could be. Tragedy happened to others. Okay, lesson learned. It could happen to him. Move on.

He saw the faint movement of a curtain in a window, which suggested Begay was watching him.

He wondered how long it would take the guy to get the message that he wasn’t moving. He hoped soon—sand was starting to filter into his pants, work itself into his boots, sift down his socks.

The door slammed, and Begay came stomping out on the wooden stoop, arms crossed, looking mightily annoyed. He squinted at Ford and then shambled down the rickety wooden steps and came over. He extended his hand and helped Ford up.

“You’re about the patientest goddamn white man I ever met. I suppose you’ll have to come in. Broom yourself off before you ruin my new sofa.”

Ford slapped off the dust and followed Begay into the living room, and they sat down.

“Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Begay returned with mugs of liquid as watery as tea. Ford remembered this, too—to save money, Navajos used the same coffee grounds multiple times.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

Begay heaped sugar into his mug, followed by a good pour of half-and-half from a carton.

Ford took in the room. The brown crushed-velvet sofa he sat on looked anything but new. Begay eased himself into a broken Barcalounger. An expensive giant-screen television set sat in one corner, the only thing of any value in the house as far as he could see. The wall behind it was plastered with family photographs, many showing young men in military uniform.

Ford turned a curious gaze on Begay. The medicine man wasn’t what he had expected—neither a young, fiery activist nor a wise and wrinkled elder. He was lanky, with neatly trimmed hair, and looked to be in his early forties. Instead of the cowboy boots most Navajo men wore in Ramah, Begay wore high-top Keds, battered and faded, their rubber toe-caps peeling off. The only gesture to being Native American was a necklace of chunk turquoise.

“All right, now what is it you want with me?” He spoke in a soft wood wind voice with that peculiar Navajo accent that seemed to give weight to each word.

Ford gestured to the wall with his head. “Your family?”

“Nephews.”

“They’re in the military?”

“Army. One’s stationed in South Korea. The other, Lorenzo, finished a tour in Iraq and now he’s . . .” A hesitation. “Back home.”

“You must be proud of them.”

“I am.”

Another silence. “I hear you’re leading a protest ride against the Isabella project.”

No answer.

“Well, that’s why I’m here. To listen to your concerns.”

Begay crossed his arms. “Too late for listening.”

“Try me.”

Begay uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Nobody asked people around here if we wanted this Isabella. The whole deal was done down in Window Rock. They get the money and we get nothing. They told us there’d be jobs—then you people brought in construction workers from outside. They said it would bring economic development—but you people truck in your food and supplies from Flagstaff. Not once have you folks shopped in our local stores in Blue Gap or Rough Rock. You built your housing in an Anasazi valley, desecrating graves, and took away grazing land that we were still using, without compensation. And now we’re hearing talk about smashing atoms and radiation.”

He placed his big hands on his knees and glared at Ford.

Ford nodded. “I hear you.”

“I’m glad you’re not deaf. You’re so damn ignorant of us, I bet you don’t even know what time it is.” He arched his eyebrows quizzically. “Go ahead—tell me what time you think it is.”

Ford knew he was being set up in some way but played along anyway. “Nine.”

“Wrong!” said Begay triumphantly. It’s ten.“

“Ten?”

“That’s right. Here on the Big Rez, half the year we’re in a different time zone from the rest of Arizona, half the year in the same zone. In the summer, when you enter the Rez, we’re one hour later than the rest of the state. Hours and minutes are a
Bilagaana
invention anyway, but the point is, you geniuses up there know so little about us that you don’t even have your clocks set right.”

Ford looked at him evenly. “Mr. Begay, if you’re willing to work with me to make some real changes, I promise you I’ll do all I can. You’ve got some legitimate grievances.”

“Who are you, a scientist?”

“I’m an anthropologist.”

There was a sudden silence. Then Begay eased himself back. A dry laugh shook his frame. “An anthropologist. Like we’re some kind of primitive tribe. Oh, that’s
funny
.” He stopped laughing. “Well, I’m an American, just like you. I got relatives fighting for my country. I don’t like you folks coming out here to
my
mesa, building a machine that’s scaring the hell out of everyone, making a lot of promises you don’t keep, and now they send an
anthropologist
like we’re savages with bones through our noses.”

“They sent me here only because I spent time over in Ramah. What I’d like to do is invite you up to the Isabella project for a tour, to meet Gregory Hazelius, to see what we’re doing, to get acquainted with the team.”

Begay shook his head. “The time for tours is over.” He paused, then asked, almost reluctantly, “What kind of research
are
you doing over there? I been hearing some weird stories.”

“Investigating the Big Bang.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the theory that the universe came into existence thirteen billion years ago in an explosion and has been expanding outward ever since.”

“In other words, you people are shoving your noses into the Creator’s business.”

“The Creator didn’t give us brains for nothing.”

“So you all don’t believe that a Creator made the universe.”

“I’m Catholic, Mr. Begay. In my view, the Big Bang was simply how He did it.”

Begay sighed. “Like I said: enough talk. We’re riding up the mesa on Friday. That’s the message you can take back to your team. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

FORD RODE BALLEW BACK TO WHERE the trail ascended. He looked up at the boulders and crags and cliffs. Now that he knew Ballew could navigate the switchbacks and rough spots, there was no reason to walk. He would ride the old horse.

When they passed through the rock opening at the top of the mesa an hour later, Ballew burst into a trot, eager to get back to the barn. Ford clung to the saddlehorn in a panic, thankful there was nobody around to see what a fool he must look. At around one o’clock Nakai Rock loomed up, and the low bluffs around the valley came into view. As he rode down into the cottonwoods, he heard a harsh laugh and saw a figure walking furiously along the path from Isabella to the settlement.

It was Volkonsky, the computer programmer, his long greasy hair in disarray. He looked haggard and angry, but at the same time he was grinning like a madman.

Ford hauled Ballew to a stop, dismounted quickly, and used the horse to block the trail.

“Hello.”

“Excuse me,” said Volkonsky, trying to dodge around.

“Nice day, don’t you think?”

Volkonsky halted and stared, his face full of furious mirth. “You ask: Is it nice day? And I answer you: Never been better day!”

“Is that so?” Ford asked.

“And why is that your business, Mr. Anthropologist?” He tilted his head, his brown teeth exposed in a grimace of false hilarity.

Ford stepped so close, he could have touched the Russian. “From the way you look, I’d say you’re having anything but a nice day.”

Volkonsky laid a hand on Ford’s shoulder in an exaggerated, mock-friendly way and leaned forward. A wash of liquor and tobacco-laden breath enveloped Ford. “Before, I worry. Now I am fine!” He tilted his head back and roared with harsh laughter, his unshaven Adam’s apple bobbing.

The sound of steps came from behind. Volkonsky straightened abruptly.

“Ah, Peter,” said Wardlaw, approaching down the trail. “And Wyman Ford.
Greetings
.” His voice, pleasant and oddly ironic, emphasized the final word.

Volkonsky started at the salutation.

“Coming from the Bunker, Peter?” Wardlaw’s words seemed laced with menace.

Volkonsky maintained the manic grin, but Ford now saw uneasiness in his eyes—or was it fear?

“The security log says you were there all night,” Wardlaw continued. “I’m worried about you. I hope you’re getting enough sleep, Peter.”

Silently, Volkonsky stepped past him and walked stiffly down the trail.

Wardlaw turned to Ford as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Nice day for a ride.”

“We were just chatting about that,” said Ford dryly.

“Where’d you go?”

“I went to Blackhorse to meet the medicine man.”

“And?”

“We met.”

Wardlaw shook his head. “That Volkonsky . . . he’s always worked up about something.” He took a step down the trail, then stopped. “He didn’t say anything . . .
odd
to you, did he?”

“Such as?” Ford asked.

Wardlaw shrugged. “Who knows? The man’s a little unstable.”

Ford watched Wardlaw strolling off, meaty paws thrust in his pockets—a man like the rest of them, close to the breaking point, only far better at hiding it.

EDDY STOOD OUTSIDE HIS TRAILER, A glass of cold water in his hand, watching the sun sink toward the distant horizon. Lorenzo was nowhere to be seen—he had disappeared sometime around noon, vanished as silently as he had come, without having finished his chores. A heap of unsorted clothing lay on a table and the sand around the church hadn’t yet been raked. Eddy stared at the distant horizon, burning with resentment. He never should have agreed to take in Lorenzo. The young man had been in prison for involuntary manslaughter, plea-bargained down from second-degree murder—knifed someone in a drunken brawl in Gallup. Served only eighteen months. Eddy had agreed to hire him, at the request of a local family, to help him satisfy his conditions of parole.

Big mistake.

Eddy took a sip of the cool water, trying to suppress the hot resentment and anger that boiled inside him. He hadn’t heard yet from the trader in Blue Gap, but he had no doubt he would soon. And when that happened, he would have the proof he needed and could get rid of Lorenzo for good—send him back to prison, where he belonged. Eighteen months for murder—no wonder the crime rate on the Rez was sky high.

He took another sip and was surprised to see the faint outline of a man, walking down the road toward the mission, silhouetted against the setting sun. He stared, squinting.

Lorenzo.

Even as he approached he could see, from Lorenzo’s uncertain gait, that the man was drunk. Eddy crossed his arms and waited, his heart accelerating at the thought of the coming confrontation. He would not let it pass—not this time.

Lorenzo came to the gate, leaned for a moment on the post, then came in.

“Lorenzo?”

The Navajo slowly turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his silly braids half undone, the bandanna around his head askew. He looked terrible, his whole frame stooped, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.

“Come here, please. I’d like to have a word with you.”

Lorenzo merely looked at him.

“Lorenzo, didn’t you hear me?”

The Indian turned and shambled on toward the clothes pile.

Eddy quickly moved and stood in Lorenzo’s path, blocking him. The Indian stopped and raised his head, looking at him. The sour smell of bourbon washed over him.

“Lorenzo, you know very well that drinking alcoholic beverages is a violation of your parole.”

Lorenzo just stared.

“You also left without finishing your work. I’m supposed to certify to your parole officer that you’re doing an adequate job here, and I won’t lie to him. I won’t lie. I’m letting you go.”

Lorenzo dropped his head. For a moment Eddy thought it was a gesture of contrition, but then he heard a hawking sound, as Lorenzo scoured up a gob of phlegm and slipped it from his lips, depositing it into the sand at Eddy’s feet like a raw oyster.

Eddy felt his heart pounding. He was furiously angry. “Don’t you spit when I’m talking to you, mister,” he said, his voice high.

Lorenzo tried to take a step to the side to go around Eddy, but the pastor quickly stepped in his way again. “Are you listening to me, or are you too drunk?”

The Indian just stood there.

“Where’d you get the money for liquor?”

Lorenzo lifted his hand, let it drop heavily.

“I asked you a question.”

“A guy owed me.” His voice was hoarse.

“Is that so? Which guy?”

“Don’t know his name.”

“You don’t know his name,” repeated Eddy.

Lorenzo made another halfhearted attempt to go around, which Eddy blocked. He felt his hands trembling. “I happen to know where you got that money. You stole it. From the collection plate.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. You stole it. Over fifty dollars.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t swear at me, Lorenzo. I saw you take it.” The lie was out before he even realized he was telling it. But it didn’t matter; he might as well have seen him—guilt was written all over his face.

Lorenzo said nothing.

“That was fifty dollars of money that this mission desperately needs. But you didn’t just steal from the mission. You didn’t just steal from me.
You stole from the Lord
.”

No response.

“How do you think the Lord will react to that? Did you think about that when you took the money, Lorenzo? And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.”