The Grey Pilgrim (14 page)

New Year’s Dubious Promise

Tom and Maggie Edgar had a tradition of throwing big, raucous New Year’s Eve parties. J.D. wasn’t really in the mood for it, but he was less in the mood to sit at home and suffer his own company. By way of excuse, it occurred to him that Hank Lewis might be there. Hank Lewis owned an airplane.

The Edgars lived in a fashionable neighborhood on the east side out past the University at the edge of the desert. El Encanto was filled with immense, ostentatious houses with plenty of room for boisterous celebrations of wealth. J.D. liked the Edgars in spite of their showy lifestyle. They had earned it and they damn well meant to spend it. At least they seemed to be having a good time doing so, and they enjoyed dragging a few friends along with them.

Hank Lewis wasn’t there. By the time J.D. established that, he’d had enough drinks not to care so much anymore. Jujul was going to know they were on to him, but he was also going to know that, so far, they hadn’t been able to locate him exactly. There wasn’t any reason to think Mary should be in greater danger yet. That was going to happen when J.D. got the ball rolling and the real search began.

J.D. stood around and contributed meaningless pleasantries to conversations without significance. And he drank too much. He couldn’t get his mind off Mary. It didn’t help that Larry was there and wanted to talk to him about hearing from Mary and the letters getting lost and all. The man was a constant reminder of the inappropriateness of J.D.’s level of concern. He ducked out of the conversation at the first opportunity and spent the rest of the evening avoiding its resumption.

An hour and a half after the new year began most of the more conservative guests had gone home. Tom and Maggie were still serving and it was beginning to look like they’d end up with a number of overnight guests, unconscious testimonials to the success of their party. J.D. was looking for the kitchen with the intent of procuring ice cubes for a drink he didn’t need. He got lost, which was some indication of how badly he didn’t need it, and found himself in a dark hallway at the rear of the house. He opened a door. It led out onto the patio. It was cool and quiet out there. The horns and guns and fireworks that had ushered in 1941 were silent now. Most of Tucson was greeting the new year’s dubious promise sensibly, in deep and oblivious slumber.

An eerie mist shrouded the Edgars’ pool, shifting and undulating gently as an occasional breeze found its way over the six-foot wall that surrounded their artificial oasis. The crisp air helped clear a similar mist from J.D.’s brain and he suddenly realized he’d drunk too much. He poured the contents of his glass onto the base of a magnificent bougainvillea and wished it a silent Happy New Year. He was ready to go home, but not sure he was in any shape to make the drive. It struck him that a brisk walk across the Edgars’ backyard might do him a world of good and provide an accurate measure of the level at which his navigational faculties were functioning. If he could successfully manage a round trip to the rear gate without falling down or getting lost again, he would trust himself at the wheel of the Ford and take himself home.

He made it there all right, but on the way back encountered some shrubbery that wasn’t where it was supposed to be. There was no moon and it was pretty dark so he had some trouble finding a way through it. When he did, he discovered that the pool had also been moved to block his path. He decided he needed another practice lap or two around the yard. He was about to look for a way back through the bushes when he realized he wasn’t alone.

There was a figure on the other side of the pool, man size, but massively bulky and misshapen. It sobered him more than the cold air and walk had done. The figure moved and separated and became two, and J.D. realized it had only been a man and woman embracing. They were dimly backlit from the house but it was obvious they were naked. The small heaps beside them were probably their clothes. They giggled and whispered and weren’t too steady on their feet.

“Come on,” she urged. She had him by the hand and was pulling him toward the mists that hid the pool. She had a silhouette that was pretty spectacular. He seemed reluctant to join her, but she went back into his arms for a moment and did some things that helped persuade him. They slipped into the cloud and descended into the warm water. Gentle waves began to slap at the sides of the pool and the woman crooned with evident pleasure.

It seemed like a good time to leave. They didn’t need company. Fighting back through the shrubs would be too noisy, so J.D. decided to skirt the pool instead, using the fog and their preoccupation for cover. He set off on tiptoe, his destination the dim light from an open door into the house. He would have made it if he hadn’t been watching the mist so closely in order to insure they hadn’t seen him. He tripped over a lounge chair. The empty glass he’d been dutifully carrying flew from his hand and crashed onto the patio tiles. It made quite a racket.

“What the…. Who’s there?” A masculine voice from the pool. The man half raised himself and J.D. could see the outline of his head in the fog, swiveling, searching for the source of the sounds. It was a voice J.D. recognized. It was Larry Spencer.

J.D. scrambled to his feet and headed for the back of the house, no longer slowed by any need for stealth.

“Who is that?” Larry demanded of the retreating shadow.

J.D. decided Larry didn’t really want to know. He went through the door and left Larry something to wonder about.

J.D. found his hosts and said his goodbyes. He drove cautiously home. He had something to wonder about too. If Larry Spencer was being unfaithful to his wife, why should J.D. let an antiquated sense of propriety get in the way of desire? Why shouldn’t he go after the half of the union he wanted?

Maybe by the time he found her he’d have an answer.

J.D. never noticed when the patrol car fell in behind him. He was driving with exaggerated care, slower than the speed limit, traffic, or conditions, except possibly those of the driver, warranted. He was lucky it was Jesus who had drawn the short straw and was assisting the City of Tucson in its New Year’s eve drunk patrol.

They drove west on Speedway, right on Fifth, then J.D. swung left on Helen. Jesus slowed and stopped at the corner as he watched J.D. make a u-turn in front of his house that went a little wide and left the Ford with a front tire up on the curb, looking as if it was delicately checking to see what it might have stepped in.

J.D. emerged with the same exaggerated care he’d used driving. He had a prodigious capacity for alcohol, the kind only years of practice and a troubled soul can produce, but with it came rigid control. He went up his walk and through his door without the slightest hint of a stagger.

The Plague of Plumbers

At a few minutes before six on New Year’s morning there was a break in the plumbing of the Imperial Japanese Consulate in San Francisco. Due to the holiday and the early hour, lots of plumbers were called and offered substantial bonuses to respond to the emergency. Most of them did. Eventually, nine plumbers got in each other’s way while combining to fix broken pipes beneath a kitchen sink. All the plumbers were paid in full for the repairs and each was additionally rewarded with a healthy bonus. They departed together, universally pleased by the easy addition to their income, certain it must be a good omen of a prosperous year to come. The staff of the Consulate bowed them out apologetically, locking up behind them. None of the nine noticed that their number had swollen to ten as they left.

Fog hung in the street like wet lace. Sasaki smiled and nodded and exchanged New Year’s greetings with his fellows as he toted his tool box from the Consulate to the battered Studebaker van that had arrived, more or less simultaneously, with the plague of plumbers. The man who had brought it should already be in Oakland.

The legitimate plumbers carried wrenches, calks, and torches in their tool boxes. Sasaki had a change of clothes, paperwork for four separate identities, something in excess of $2000 in non-sequential American bills, and a .45 caliber Colt semiautomatic pistol with enough ammunition to establish a respectable beachhead on his own. There was also a shoulder holster for the .45.

Everything but the pistol was acceptable. The local Kempeitai officers had taken forever to arrange his exit, and then argued with him about what he needed and how it should be done. Mr. Kira’s plan must proceed, but Kira apparently had no friends in San Francisco to see that it was done properly.

The pistol was a perfect example. They had decided it should be American and in no way traceable to the Japanese government. It wasn’t that the .45 was a poor quality weapon or unreliable. Quite the contrary. The problem was its size. A Colt 1911A1 was eight and a half inches long and weighed two and a half pounds. It took a big man to wear a concealed .45 without being obvious. Sasaki was taller than the average Japanese, but more slender. Strapped anywhere on his person, the gun’s presence would be obvious to even the most naive. The only place where a conspicuous bulge would go studiously avoided by the sight of most upright American citizens was his crotch—not an ideal place to store a lump of cold metal to say nothing of its inaccessibility in the event of any but the most unlikely of emergencies. For the time being, Sasaki had relegated it to his tool box.

Within a couple of blocks it was clear that a black Packard was following him. So much for the local Kempeitai’s assurance that those who watched the consulate would be easy to fool. Sasaki pulled over on a quiet side street and the vehicle coasted silently up behind him. Two men got out. One opened his suit coat as he approached the Studebaker. The other casually brushed a hand against his left armpit, reassuring himself that his pistol was where it should be.

Sasaki climbed out of the car. He left the tool box with the pistol in the van. At the consulate, they had done what they could to make him look like a White Man from a distance. Up close, there was no way he would pass.

“Good morning,” he said, disarmingly, a picture of innocence. There was not the least trace of accent in his voice.

“Keep your hands where we can see them,” one said.

“Let’s see some ID, bub,” the other contradicted.

Sasaki shrugged helplessly. “Hey,” he said, “who are you guys? What’s this all about?” They were close now, one on either side of him.

“FBI,” one said, reaching for his badge. Sasaki put the heel of his hand into the man’s nose, driving cartilage and bone up into his brain and killing him instantly. He caught the other with a hard elbow just below his sternum, then pivoted and chopped down on his exposed neck as the man doubled over desperately seeking his breath. The second man didn’t die until Sasaki was back in the Studebaker, pulling calmly away.

He took a circuitous route after that, designed to reveal or lose anyone else who might be back there. When he was absolutely certain he was not being followed, he drove down to the harbor. A grey Hudson waited for him in a deserted parking lot.

Sasaki shed his coveralls in the Studebaker and emerged in a business suit that was too expensively cut for his taste and circumstances. There was no one in the empty lot to notice. He checked the trunk of the Hudson. It contained two suitcases filled with clothing, no doubt as perfectly tailored as this suit, more papers, even more cash, and a Webley-Mars .38 automatic. It was an even worse choice than the Colt. He left both weapons in the Studebaker. It would be reported back to the consulate. Perhaps the officer responsible for this fiasco might be reprimanded, or more. Or he might be able to find a way to blame it on Sasaki, have it put on his record. Sasaki didn’t care. He was on his own. From now on, whether he followed instructions or chose his own path was up to him. If he ever went home again, it would be in such glory that any blemishes on his record would be neutralized. Otherwise, he would be dead. The shame would fall on his family, and they had never expected less.

He took the Hudson down the coastal highway to Los Angeles. Traffic was light because of the holiday. He abandoned the car in downtown LA in the unlikely event it was known or could be traced. He left it unlocked with the keys in the ignition so that anyone trying to locate it would soon encounter a complicated trail. He filled one suitcase with cash and papers and abandoned the other. He walked inland until he found a cheap hotel and took a room. In the morning he went to a department store and replaced his wardrobe with a few off-the-rack selections. Then he found a used car lot and made the salesman’s day by purchasing an overpriced DeSoto with a minimum of argument and a chunk of cash.

On his way out of the City of Angels, he made one last stop. He bought a snub nosed .38 from a pawn shop. He preferred to kill with his hands or a sword, but people didn’t carry swords here and a pistol he could hide might come in handy. It was convenient that he was in the United States. There were few places in the world where he could have armed himself so easily.

A Key to The Soul

When she realized her period had started, she informed the women of her family and took her things to the women’s hut again. Counting her initiation, which hadn’t corresponded with her cycle, it would be her third visit.

The
O’odham
had an immense respect for everything to do with childbirth and reproduction. They believed an awesome magic surrounded the process, and that this magic took hold of a woman during menses. At this time, she could be unintentionally dangerous to those around her. She must absent herself from the village and go live in a women’s hut until she was safe again. During menstruation she must not touch food for people other than herself or she might poison it for them. She must not touch tools or weapons, or even look at a fire. What she must do was separate herself from her village and repeat, though less formally, the four days of ritual purification she underwent on becoming a woman.

Grey Leaves escorted Mary to her family’s hut. The old woman went inside and lit the fire, hidden behind its shielding mud wall. She or one of the other women of the family would come back regularly to see to the fire and bring meals.

It would have been a great time for Mary to catch up on writing her notes, but she still didn’t have any notebooks. She would have been thoroughly discouraged if she hadn’t been listening to the men’s nightly meetings. Some of the younger people seemed to resent her. Maybe because it was their generation that might get drafted. But they were too young to vote in the council and only two of the older men were still holding out against the
Siwani Mahkai
. They were beginning to face a good deal of scorn from their fellows. It seemed likely they would soon capitulate and she could begin making a proper record of her stay. After a month and a half in the village, there was an incredible amount of data she needed to record.

By her fourth morning in the hut, Mary was bored out of her skull. After breakfast she practiced making baskets, a skill that was eluding her. Her baskets tended to look like the ones the little girls sometimes made in imitation of their elders. She had a sound mental image of the technique, but she couldn’t translate it to her fingers. She was considering cheating, looking around the mud wall at the fire which warmed her just long enough to watch her latest spastic effort transform itself from error to ash, when she heard her name called softly from outside the hut. It was the
Siwani Mahkai
. For a moment she felt almost as shocked as if she were Papago. Men should have nothing to do with women during this time. It was highly improper.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Come out, Marie. I must talk with you,” he said.

She scrambled out into late morning sunshine. The edges between light and shadow seemed as sharp as a cactus spine after three days in the hut. The unexpected visit broke the monotony, but at the same time made her feel uneasy. What momentous event might cause the
Siwani Mahkai
to break such a powerful taboo?

“You shouldn’t be here,” she told him, then to cover how foolish she felt at trying to explain the proprieties of his own culture to him, asked, “Is everything all right?”

He grinned at her embarrassment. “There is no cause for you to be alarmed, Marie. Nor need you concern yourself with my safety in your presence. I am
Mahkai
. I can handle the danger of a woman in her time. Besides, have you not told me that among your people men are regularly exposed to menstruating women without harm?

“No, there are simply things occurring which make it necessary for us to speak, however inappropriate the timing. And perhaps, when we have finished, we may make a small journey together.”

For the first time she noticed the pair of horses nearby, packs and provisions rolled behind their saddles. He seated himself cross-legged in the sand beside the hut and gestured for her to join him. She looked around, half afraid someone would see them together. Women’s huts were built some distance from the village to minimize the chances of a man accidentally coming on one, and she was not due to be fed again until sunset. There was nothing there but the horses and the desert. She sat beside him.

“This is difficult,” he said, running his fingers through his thin beard, as if he might find the right words in that unlikely spot. “I will explain some things to you. As I do, others will become clear.

“In the little time you have been with us, most of our people have come to like you. Only some impetuous children and the most timid adults still have doubts about you. Soon you will understand and, I hope, forgive them.

“You have been an American all your life. The time you have spent with us cannot replace that, but perhaps it is possible to be both American and
O’odham
.

“Before I continue, I feel it is important to impress on you the level of trust I have come to feel for you. There is only one way I can see by which I might do that. To an American it would have no significance. To a member of the People it would be clear.

“Our people call you Marie. As the
Siwani Mahkai
of our village I know that your secret name is Many Flowers. Have you told anyone else this name?”

“No,” she assured him. She’d felt so proud of it she’d been tempted, but she understood the concept of its importance and hadn’t wanted to diminish the honor he’d done her.

“When you leave us, who will you tell?”

She wasn’t really sure. It depended on whether she went back to Larry or not. The month and a half of separation she’d expected to help clear her mind on that issue had only succeeded in providing it with time for a few dozen changes, back and forth.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I may tell my husband. I may tell a close friend. Certainly not anyone else. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Good,” he exclaimed. “You have some understanding of a name’s power and importance. For myself, there is no longer any living person who knows my true name. My parents knew it. The
Mahkai
who chose it for me gave it to them when I was very young. When I was grown, I shared it with my wives. But all those people are dead now. My mother was named Two Flowers. One of my wives was called Many Flowers. Those were their true names, not the names the People called them. They are special names. My mother was a Pima. To me, her true name symbolizes the
O’odham
. You see, the Desert People and the River People are like two flowers which share a single stalk. Over the years, I have come to know there are other blossoms on that stem. For a long time I did not think the Mexicans or the Anglos were actually people. Now I know that they are. It was why, I think, that though I dreamed of the same plant that represented my mother when I long ago named my wife, and again now for your name, each time I have seen that stalk it bears more blooms than it did before. Now I think you do us honor by bringing this special name back among us again.”

She was deeply touched, but also confused. She understood her secret name’s significance. Why would he break the menstrual taboo to lecture her about it?

“Not even my sons and daughters know my own true name. It is not that I lack trust in them, but it is an almost sacred thing to an old man, and I have shared it with so few.

He paused, leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “My true name is Coyote Among Thistles.”

She was amazed. If he’d told her the Tucson Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution would be joining them for a picnic lunch she would have been less surprised. To an
O’odham
, giving your true name unlocks a key to the soul. It was like handing her a loaded revolver and leaving himself defenseless. Well, she amended, not quite defenseless. He was the
Siwani Mahkai
after all, and he knew her secret name as well. Still, it was incredible he would tell her. It confused her even more. Why do it? What was he planning to say that required him to overwhelm her so? If he had previously only shared it with his wives, could he be hoping she would become the next? She hadn’t been aware of any particular sexual interest from him, but between learning a new culture and her own confused emotions, it was possible she could have missed some clues. They had been spending lots of time together.

While she was frantically trying to guess what was coming next, he reached into his pouch and pulled out two slips of paper and surprised her again. One was very dog-eared, the other relatively fresh. He handed them to her. They were a pair of J.D.’s business cards, each giving his name, title, office address in the federal building at Broadway and Scott, and business and home telephone numbers. Did all this have something to do with J.D.?

“Where did you get these? Is he here?”

“I will answer you in a moment, child, but first, please, tell me what they are. You ask if he is here. Do they signify that someone should be here?”

She struggled to contain herself. “They are a formal means of identification among our people,” she explained. “The marks on them are words which tell me who their owner is and where to find him, like the marks on your calendar sticks tell you when an event occurred. A person might present one of these when he called on another as a means of introduction, or, if the person he wished to visit was away from home, he might leave one behind to show that he had been there.”

He nodded. “I have looked at these,” he said, “and to me their marks seem identical. Do they identify the same person then, and who is he?”

“Yes. He is J.D. Fitzpatrick.”

“And you know him?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“Among our people, names have meaning. Is it so among yours? Marie I know to be a variation of Maria, whom the Catholic priests claim was the mother of their God. From that I can infer some meaning. From his name I understand nothing. Is there meaning, something which might give me a clue to the man?”

She shook her head. “Our names have less significance than yours. I am not directly named for the mother of Jesus. I was named in honor of a favorite aunt of my mother’s. My second name, Spencer, means I am married to a man of that patrinominal descent group. It is something like your clans, but less formal and not so extensive.

“It’s funny, you know, but I just realized that J.D., in a way, is like your people. He keeps his name secret and shares it with few, if any. J.D. is only a sort of nickname. Fitzpatrick is his patrilineal clan name. J.D. has never shared his secret name with me, even so, I think I know him fairly well. Now, please, has he been here? Is he all right?”

“No, he is not here, and yes, he is well, or was only days ago when he visited a neighboring village. He left one of these with them and they passed it along to me.”

Suddenly she thought she understood. J.D. was still looking for Jujul and something had brought him to this part of the reservation. She wondered if the search would bring him here, and, if it did, how she would react.

“He’s still looking for Zigzag, isn’t he?” she asked. “Do you know something about him? Are you trying to decide if J.D. can be trusted? Whether you should talk to him?”

“Yes,” the old man said. “Yes to all your questions.”

“J.D. can be trusted,” she told him. “I’ll vouch for him. He talked to me often about Jujul and his band. He’s very sympathetic. All he wants is to arrange a way out of this situation without bloodshed, a chance to talk to Jujul and convince him that the draft registration law is no threat to his people. Will you talk to him? Can you arrange for him to meet Jujul”

“Child, among my people I am called Jujul. I am the Zigzag for whom your J.D. Fitzpatrick is searching.”

“Oh fuck!” she said in English.

“What?” he asked.

“Ah, I have just used an expression from my language indicating surprise and delight,” she told him.

“Strange,” he observed. “The BIA man, Larson, used a similar term with some regularity on the morning we ambushed him as he came to attack our village. I can understand his surprise, but not his delight.”