Picture Perfect

  At Oglala Community College, in some culture class he'd been forced to take to graduate, Will had learned the punishment the Sioux meted out for a woman's adultery in the days of the buffalo. It had completely shocked him: If his wife had run away with another man, the husband had the right to cut off the tip of her nose, so she'd be marked for life. To Will, it seemed to contradict everything else he knew about the Sioux. After all, they did not understand ownership of the land. They believed in giving away money, food, and clothing to friends down on their luck, even if it meant that they'd become poor as well. Yet they branded a wife as property, a husband as an owner.

  He watched Jane sleep. In a way, he envied her. She'd managed to discard her past so easily, when Will had to work so hard to put his own history out of his mind.

  Will touched the edge of Jane's collar where blood had dried. He would get some cold water and soak that. He brushed her hair away from her forehead and looked over her features. She had ordinary brown hair, a small nose, a stubborn chin. Freckles. She was not the blond bombshell of his adolescent dreams, but she was pretty in a simple way. Someone must have been frantic to find her missing.

  He lifted his palm from her neck, planning to get a washcloth, but was stopped when her hand shot up from her side, her fingers closing around his wrist with lightning speed.Jesus , he thought,the reflexes of a cougar . Her eyes opened, and she glanced around wildly as if she'd been trapped. "Shh," Will soothed, and as he gently tugged to free himself, Jane let go, frowning as if she wasn't really sure why she'd grabbed him at all.

  "Whoare you?" she asked.

  Will walked to the door and turned off the light. He looked away so that she would not be able to see his face.

  "You don't want to know," he said.

  WILL'S FIRST MEMORY INVOLVED BAILING HIS FATHER OUT FROM JAIL.

  He was three, and he remembered the way his mother looked standing in front of the sheriff. She was tall and proud and even in the dim lighting she looked very, very pale. "There's been a mistake," she said. "Mr. Flying Horse is one of my employees."

  Will did not understand why his mother would say his father worked for her, when she knew that he worked for Mr. Lundt on the ranch. He did not understand the word "assault" although he thought "battery" had something to do with making Christmas toys work. The sheriff, a man with a florid cauliflower face, stared closely at Will and then spat not an inch away from his foot. "Ain't no mistake, ma'am," the sheriff said. "You know these goddamned Indians."

  His mother's face had pinched closed, and she pulled out her wallet to pay the fines his father had been charged. "Release him," she hissed, and the sheriff turned to walk down a corridor. Will watched him grow smaller and smaller, the pistol at his hip winking each time he passed a window.

  Will's mother knelt down beside him. "Don't you believe a word he says," she told him. "Your father was trying to help."

  What he learned, years later, was that Zachary Flying Horse had been in a bar when there was an incident. A woman was being hassled by two rednecks, and when he'd stepped in to intervene, a fight had broken out. The woman had run out of the bar, so when the police came it was Zack's word against that of two white locals.

  Zachary stepped out of the corridor in the jail behind the sheriff. He did not touch his wife. "Missus," he said solemnly. "Will." He lifted his boy up onto his shoulders and carried him into the hot Dakota sun.

  They walked halfway down the block before Will's father swung him off his shoulders and caught his wife up in a tight embrace. "Oh, Anne," he sighed against her hair. "I'm sorry to put you through that."

  Will pulled on the edge of his father's plaid shirt. "What did youdo , Pa?"

  Zack grabbed Will's hand and started down the street again. "I was born," he said.

  IT WOULD HAVE BEEN IMPOSSIBLE FOR HER TO MISS THE NOTE WILL had left her, sitting as it was on the toilet lid with a fresh towel, toothpaste, a twenty-dollar bill, and a key.Jane , Will had written,I've gone to work. I'll ask around about your husband, and I'll try to call later today with some answers. I don't have anything in the refrigerator so if you get hungry, go down to the market (3 blocks east). Hope you're feeling better. Will.

  She brushed her teeth with her finger and looked at the note again. He hadn't said anything about what she should do if she awakened with a perfect understanding of her name and address--not that it really mattered, since she still couldn't remember. At least she was lucky. Her chances of running into a drug addict or a pimp on Sunset Boulevard had been much greater than running into someone from out of town, someone who'd leave a perfect stranger his house key and twenty dollars without asking any questions or expecting something in return.

  A light came into her eyes. Shecould do something in return; she could unpack for him. Her taste in decorating might not be like his--in fact, she had no idea what her own taste was like--but surely having the pots and pans in the cabinets and the towels in the linen closet would be a nice thing to come home to.

  Jane threw herself into the task of putting Will's house in order. She organized the kitchen and the bathroom and the broom closet, but she didn't really have to get creative until she got to the living room. There, in two boxes, carefully layered in newspaper, was a series of Native American relics. She unwrapped beautiful quilled moccasins and a long tanned hide painted with the image of a hunt. There was an intricate quilt and a fan made of feathers and a circular beaded medallion. At the bottom of the box was a small leather pouch trimmed with beads and bright feathers, on which was drawn a running horse. It was closed tight with a sinew thong, and although she tried, she could not open the bag to see its contents.

  She did not know what most of these objects were but she handled them as gently as she could, and she began to piece together more about Will. She looked around the bare walls and thought,If I were in a strange place, I'd want something that reminds me of home.

  NO ONE HAD COME BY THE ACADEMY LOOKING FOR A MISSING woman. Will spent the day being introduced by the captain to other people in the LAPD, getting his badge and his assignment. When he registered for his gun, the officer who took down the information asked if he'd rather have a tomahawk; his new partner got a great kick out of calling him Crazy Horse. But these were things he'd faced before. He did not see the officer who'd blackened his eye; however, Beverly Hills was a separate precinct. When giggling secretaries asked about the bruise, he shrugged and said someone had gotten in his way.

  It was after four o'clock before he got up the nerve to knock on his new captain's door and tell him about Jane. "Come over here," Watkins said, waving Will inside. "You think you got the hang of things yet?"

  Will shook his head. "It's different."

  Watkins grinned. "South Dakota it's not," he said. "A couple of celebrity traffic violations, a drug bust, and it'll be old hat."

  Will shifted in his seat. "I wanted to speak to you about a missing persons case," he said. "Actually, I want to know if--" He stopped, and smoothed his palms against his thighs to gain his composure. There was no right way to go about saying he'd skirted procedure; Jane should have been brought into the precinct and photographed by now. "I found a woman last night who's got amnesia. We went to the hospital, but since it was late, I didn't bring her in right away." Will looked up at the captain. "Have you heard anything?"

  The older man shook his head slowly. "Since you weren't on duty yet," he said, "I'm not going to count this against you. But she needs to be brought in for questioning." Watkins looked up at Will, and at that moment Will knew that in spite of the captain's absolution, he would start out with a strike against him. "Could be her memory loss is related to a crime." Watkins fixed Will with a sharp glance. "I assume you still know her whereabouts. I'd suggest you bring her down as soon as possible," he said.

  Will nodded, and started toward the door. "And Officer," Watkins called after him, "from here on, you play by the rules."

  WILL PULLED ON THE COLLAR OF HIS UNIFORM THE WHOLE DRIVE back to Rese
da. The goddamn shirt was choking him. He wouldn't last a week wearing it. He turned the corner of his block wondering if Jane had remembered her name. He wondered if she'd still be there.

  She met him at the door wearing one of his good white shirts, knotted at the waist, and a pair of his running shorts. "Is someone looking for me?" she asked.

  Will shook his head and stepped over the threshold of his house. He stood perfectly still in the entrance, surveying the neatly stacked, empty boxes and the proof of his history hanging over the walls where anyone could see.

  The fury came so quickly he forgot to hide it away. "Who the hell gave you the right to go through my things?" he yelled, stomping across the carpet into the middle of the living room. He whirled to pin his gaze on Jane and found her crouched against the wall, her hands overhead as if to ward off a blow.

  The anger ran out of him. He stood quietly, waiting for the rage to clear out of his vision. He did not say anything.

  Jane lowered her arms and stiffly got to her feet, but she wouldn't look Will in the eye. "I thought I'd be helping you," she said. "I wanted to thank you for everything, and this seemed to be the best way." Her eyes raked the wall where the little leather pouch hung beside the painted hunting scene. "I could always change things if you don't like them hanging this way."

  "I don't like them hanging at all," Will said, lifting the moccasins from their spot on the fireplace mantel. He grabbed an empty carton and began tossing the items back inside.

  Jane knelt beside the box and tried to organize the fragile pieces so they wouldn't be crushed. She had to do it carefully; she had to make it right. She ran her fingers over the feathers of the small leather pouch. "What is this?"

  Will barely glanced at what she was holding. "A medicine bundle," he said.

  "What's in it?"

  Will shrugged. "The only people who know are my great-great-grandfather and his shaman, and both of them are dead."

  "It's beautiful," Jane said.

  "It's worthless," Will tossed back. "It's supposed to keep you safe, but my great-great-grandfather was gored by a buffalo." He turned to see Jane fingering the bundle, and his face softened as she looked up at him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to go off like that. I just don't like these things hanging where I can see them all the time."

  "I thought you'd want something to remind you of where you came from," Jane said.

  Will sank to the floor. "That's exactly what I ranaway from," he said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking to change the subject. "How're you feeling?"

  She blinked at him, noticing for the first time that he was wearing the blue shirt of a police officer, the LAPD patch over his upper arm. "You're wearing a uniform," she blurted out.

  Will smirked. "You were expecting a headdress?"

  Jane stood up and offered her hand to Will, pulling him to his feet. "I remembered how to cook," she said. "You want dinner?"

  She had fried chicken, steamed beans, and baked potatoes. Will carried the platter to the center of the living room floor and chose a breast for each of them, placing the meat onto two plates. He told her about his first day of work, and she told him how she'd gotten lost on her way to the market. The sun bled through the windows and cast Jane and Will into silhouette as they fell into an easy silence.

  Will picked at the pieces of the chicken, sucked the meat from the bones. Suddenly, he felt Jane's hand close over his. "Oh, let's do this," she said, her eyes bright, and he realized he was holding the wishbone.

  He pulled and she pulled, the white bones slipping through their greasy fingers, and finally he came away with the bigger piece. Disappointed, Jane leaned back against a stack of boxes. "What did you wish for?"

  He had wished for her memory, but he wouldn't tell her. "If you say it, it won't come true," he said, surprising himself. He smiled at Jane. "My mother used to say that. In fact, she was the last person who pulled a wishbone with me."

  Jane hugged her knees to her chest. "Does she live in South Dakota?"

  He almost didn't hear her question, as he was thinking about the fine curve of his mother's jaw and the spark of her copper hair. He pictured her hand and his own curled over the edges of the forked chicken bone, and he wondered if her wishes had ever come true. Will looked up. "My mother died when I was nine, in a car accident with my father."

  "Oh, how awful," Jane said, and Will was amazed that her voice could hold so much pain for a stranger.

  "She was white," he heard himself saying. "After the accident, I lived with my father's parents on the rez."

  As he started to speak, Jane reached onto the platter and pulled out a pile of bones Will had left. She settled them onto her plate and moved them around with her hands, seemingly unaware of what she was doing. She glanced up at him and smiled. "Go on," she said. "Tell me how they met."

  Will had told this story many times before, because it tended to wrap itself around a woman's heart so neatly she'd tumble into his bed. "My mother was a schoolteacher in Pine Ridge town, and my father saw her one day when he was getting some feed for his boss at the ranch. And her being white, and him being Lakota, he didn't really understand his attraction, much less what he was going to do about it." Mesmerized, he watched Jane's hands wrap a strip of sinew from one bone around a second one. "Anyway, they went out a couple of times, and then it came to summer vacation and she decided things were moving along too fast, so she just up and left without telling my father where she was going."

  Jane neatly laid five bones in parallel lines against the edge of her plate. "I'm listening," she said.

  "Well, it sounds stupid, but my father said he was riding fence and he justknew . So he left in the middle of the day, on this borrowed horse, and he set out sort of north-northwest without any idea where he was headed."

  Jane looked up, her hands stilling. "Did he find her?"

  Will nodded. "About thirty-five miles away at a diner, where she was waiting for a friend to pick her up and drive her home to Seattle. My father pulled her in front of him on the horse and wrapped an extra saddle blanket around them."

  Will had listened to this story so many times as a child that even now, he imagined the words in his mother's voice instead of his own."Years ago, this is how my people fell in love," your father told me, and he wrapped that blanket so close we were sharing one heartbeat. "I would have come to you at night, and we would sit outside in this cocoon, and with all the stars as witnesses I would tell you that I loved you."

  "My God," Jane sighed. "That is the mostromantic thing I've ever heard." She pulled a new handful of bones from the tray between them. "Did your mother go back with him?"

  Will laughed. "No, she went to Seattle. But she wrote him letters all summer and they got married a year later."

  Jane smiled and wiped her hands on a napkin. "How come people don't do things like that nowadays? You grope around in the back of a sedan in high school and you think you're in love. Nobody gets swept off their feet anymore." Shaking her head, she stood up to clear the plates. She picked up the near-empty serving platter and then dropped it, hearing its ring and the splatter of grease.

  On her plate she'd re-created the skeleton of the chicken.

  The bones were carefully structured, in some cases even bound together at the joints. The wings were folded neatly against the rib cage; the powerful legs were bent as if running.

  She put her hand to her forehead as a wealth of terms and images flooded her mind: the slender arm bone of a ramapithecus, a string of molars and cranial fragments, green tents in Ethiopia that covered tables laden with hundreds of catalogued bones. Physical anthropology. She'd spent entire months in Kenya and Budapest and Greece on excavations, tracking the history of man. It had been such a tremendous part of her life, she was shocked even a blow to the head could make her forget it.

  She lightly touched the femur of the reconstructed chicken. "Will," she said, and when she lifted her face her eyes were shining. "I know what I do."

&n
bsp; CHAPTER THREE

  WILL liked Jane better before she remembered she was an anthropologist. She kept trying to explain her science to him. Anthropology, she said, was the study of how people fit into their world. That much he understood, but most of the other things she said sounded like a foreign language. On the drive to the police station Monday evening, she'd outlined the best methods for skeletal excavation. When Watkins questioned her for a notice he'd insert in theTimes , she'd told him that until someone came to claim her, she'd be happy to help in forensics. And now, the following morning, while Will was working his way through a bowl of Cheerios, she was trying to explain the evolution of man.

  She was drawing lines across her napkin, labeling each branch with names. Will was beginning to see why her husband hadn't shown up. "I can't follow this," he said. "I can't even do math this early."

  Jane ignored him. When she finished, she sighed and leaned back in her chair. "God, it feels so good toknow something."

  Will thought there were probably other things more worth knowing, but he didn't say this. He pointed to a spot on the napkin. "Why'd they become extinct?"

  Jane frowned. "They weren't able to adapt to the world," she said.

  Will snorted. "Yeah, well, half the time neither can I," he said. He picked up his hat, getting ready to leave.

  Jane's eyes brightened as she turned to him. "I wonder if I've discovered something really important, like the Lucy skeleton, or that Stone Age man in the Tyrolean Alps."

  Will smiled. He thought of her crouched over a site in the red sand of a desert, doing what made her happy. "Feel free to dig in the backyard," he said.

  THAT TUESDAY MORNING, THE LAPDRAN JANE'S PICTURE IN THE L.A. Times with a small blurb requesting information about her, and Jane remembered discovering the hand.

  After Will had left, Jane took herself to the local public library. It was a small branch library, but it did have a neat little section of textbooks on anthropology and archaeology. She found the most recent book, hunched over the polished table, and began to read.