He found another herb vendor whose face he thought he recognized. "Yaàtèeh. Do you know where Joe Billie is today?" he asked.
"Maybe around back," the man answered.
Which meant it could take him a long time to find Uncle Joe. If strung end to end, the meandering rows of stalls would stretch a couple of miles. The thought made him feel weary and he decided he'd better still the complaining of his stomach before going any farther. He stopped at a likely-looking concession, an Airstream trailer fronted by a tarp-covered sitting area with four picnic tables. The roast mutton wasn't ready yet, so he ordered a bowl of stew, a couple of fry breads, and a cup of coffee, and when he got the food took it to a table where he could look out on the lane as he ate. Several booths down, one of the music sellers turned on a boom box, playing a CD of some local country-and-western band, amateurish but full of vigor. Joseph ripped a piece from the huge disk of bread, salted it, and wolfed it down. Time to catch his breath and fortify himself.
Anyway, before he talked to Uncle Joe, he needed another few minutes to gather his thoughts.
Besides pleading with him to tell her whether Tommy really was her long-lost baby, Julieta had begged him to help keep the parapsychologist working with the boy, to intercede with the grandparents or the doctors to keep her on as a consulting psychologist.
Which required he make a decision about Cree Black. As Tommy's primary physician, someone the grandparents trusted, a doctor in good standing at Ketteridge, he could play Roman emperor, give Cree a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down. Thumbs-down: He could recommend against her having access to the boy, and there would be little she could do about it. Thumbs-up, and they'd probably assent to her seeing him.
Two days ago, it would have been an easier decision: good-bye Dr. Black. But the parapsychologist's methods were not at all what he'd expected. Every time they spoke, she articulated her perspective so clearly and compellingly. And yet it was like nothing he'd ever heard of.
Well, not quite, he realized. Surprisingly, some aspects of her approach resembled the traditional Navajo healing process. Her belief in spirits capable of occupying a human being, that was part of it, and the way real reverence merged with superstition in her personal cosmology. It was also her emphasis on the patient's social environment. By probing the interpersonal relationships around the sufferer, Cree Black made the group part of the process—not unlike the complex Ways the old healers performed, where the whole community came to give the ritual and gave the patient their support. It was one component of the traditions he'd accepted as both defensible and, for some afflictions anyway, effective.
And she had an impressive resume, too. During a break yesterday morning, he had looked her up on the Internet and found a surprising number of references: advanced degrees, significant publications, lecturing, a prestigious postdoctoral research prize.
Joseph chuckled cynically, surprised at himself. He couldn't decide which factor influenced him most, but on balance, he decided, he was impressed with her and wouldn't mind seeing what she could accomplish with Tommy. At the very least, arranging for Cree Black to keep working with him would soothe Julieta, maybe discourage her from raising legal challenges to the grandparents' custody, or waging a private, hopeless war against the health-care system. Or otherwise staking claims on the boy that she couldn't defend and that would rip Tommy's world, and hers, apart.
But Cree Black's approach also created potential problems. The first was simply that her methods might not hold any promise for Tommy. The woman could be chasing vapors. Despite the baffling strangeness of his symptoms, Joseph still had to believe Tommy was suffering from a neurological or psychological problem that would ultimately need a clinical remedy. Cree Black could do worse than nothing; she could delay or misdirect the treatment that Tommy really needed. In that sense, the very penuasiveness that made her such a skilled interviewer and confidante could make her dangerous. Already, Julieta had bought completely into the idea that Tommy was indeed "possessed," and that the culprit was the nasty ghost of a too-familiar enemy, Garrett McCarty.
The other big problem was that Dr. Black's delving into the past could unearth trouble that was best left alone. It could plunge Julieta into self-doubt and self-castigation and the dangerous instability that he'd seen too many times over the years. Worse, Cree might force to the surface secrets that would expose Joseph himself. Things he'd done that he couldn't forgive himself for, let alone ask Julieta to forgive.
Joseph's appetite faltered at the memories, but he made himself eat, scooping bites of stew with a chunk of bread.
He 'd done his best to help Julieta, but they'd both been so young, so naive. It had rapidly gotten so out of control—the progression of mistakes and deceptions that culminated in the decision to give up her baby. How stupid he'd been to think she could get over that! He should have put his foot down: Julieta, forget about what Garrett has done to you. Forget about fighting for a favorable divorce settlement. Don't accuse and defame him in court, don't try to hold on to any of his property. Don't give him one more reason to hate or resist you, or any more of a grudge to settle. Just get free of him, as fast and easy as possible, even if it means you end up penniless. Keep the baby, let your new life start now.
There are other alternatives, he should have said.
Like what? What other alternatives had there been? That's what he'd never articulated. That's where he'd really failed her.
But there were three words he'd had no right to say: You and me.
What could he have offered? Be with me. I'll claim I'm the father, I'll take care of you and the baby. I'll take the heat from McCarty and protect you from him with my life if I have to.
He had come very close, but it hadn't been possible. At first, she had been deeply in love with Peter Yellowhorse, and for all either of them knew Peter might have come back to her. She'd also been afraid, and blinded by anger and fear, and deeply disillusioned; he couldn't have offered himself without seeming to exploit her confusion and desperation. And then she'd been fighting free of two different but equally devastating relationships with men—the last thing she needed was another male making demands or claims on her. What she'd needed was a friend. And she'd looked to Joseph to be that.
It had been a simple choice, really. But in trying, he'd made some mistakes of his own. Terrible mistakes.
Anyway, he hadn't been free, either. When he'd first encountered the beautiful young volunteer at the hospital, he'd been still tangled in the emotional and situational coils of his own divorce process. In 1984, he was twenty-eight, married for six years, not long out of medical school and just beginning to come to grips with the way his years at Johns Hopkins had changed him. Wondering why he'd married Edith Blanco. Realizing that while she was a good person, they were too different; he'd married her during his last semester at UNM as much out of insecurity as affection, a young man intimidated by his pending leap into the unknown of the urban East Coast and desperate to anchor himself to his home place and people. When he'd first met Julieta, he'd already spent a year on the uneasy verge of ending it with Edith.
By the time he'd divorced and she'd divorced and they had each regained a vague semblance of emotional equilibrium, the habits of distance had set in. There were things he was afraid to tell her. He got the sense she was afraid, too—of her own mistakes, maybe, afraid to repeat them with him. In the intervening years, the occasional other relationships had come and gone, never feeling right for either of them, confusing and delaying. The timing never right.
He'd let eighteen years pass since he'd first met her. The worst mistake of all.
The boom box down the row went quiet for a moment and then began playing Navajo chants, sung by a ragged chorus of hoarse voices accompanied by a solitary drum. The monotonous wailing irritated Joseph and reminded him why he'd come here. He mopped up the remains of his stew, ate the last bite of bread, and drank off his coffee. He threw away the paper plate and cup and continued on through the market.
/> Joe Billie was unusually tall for a Navajo, but also unusually thin, as if his extra height had been attained by stretching a shorter man. He wore the standard uniform of men of his generation—jeans, cowboy boots, western shirt, and cowboy hat— and he had the gaunt, seamed face of a man who had spent a lot of time outdoors. He'd gone to college on the GI Bill and had worked as a rural livestock veterinarian until he'd etired at sixty-five, eight or ten years ago. Though he'd served in the marines during the Korean War, had studied modern medical theory, and had married a Catholic, he'd been drifting back toward a rediscovered Navajo traditionalism for as long as Joseph could remember, and after retirement he'd used his extensive contacts to build a part-time profession as an herbalist. There had always been something of the huckster about Uncle Joe, and Joseph was never quite sure how seriously he took his latest vocation.
Joseph found him talking to a short, squat woman who carried a number of plastic shopping bags in one hand and restrained an impatient toddler with the other. When Uncle Joe saw Joseph, he winked through the cigarette smoke snaking up from the butt between his lips, but he didn't interrupt his discussion with his customer. They were talking about how to prepare some poultice or potion.
Waiting, Joseph pretended to look over Uncle Joe's wares, the rows of ziplock baggies full of crushed leaves, dried berries, chips of bark, shreds and chunks of roots, corn pollen, mineral powders. He made a covert assessment of Uncle Joe. Behind the table, Joe Billie kept a couple of aluminum lawn chairs and an upturned plastic milk crate that held a transistor radio, some magazines, a pack of cigarettes, and the telltale brown paper bag molded to the shape of a bottle.
The woman told Uncle Joe good-bye, and the old man waved at the child before turning his yellow eyes to Joseph.
"Yaàtèeh, Nephew." The seams of his face folded to produce a smile.
"Aoo' Yaàtèeh, Uncle. A good weekend?"
"Not so good. Tourists are mostly gone. I'm about done for the year." Uncle Joe looked up and down the way, didn't see any imminent customers, and sat down. He twisted to the side to clear a pile of miscellany off the second aluminum chair, then beckoned to Joseph. "I was just going to eat something. You eat yet? There's extra."
"I just had breakfast. You go ahead, I'll watch and comment on your manners. Where's my aunt?"
A shrug. "Off with some friends, looking at potato peelers or something. I wish she'd come back soon, it's her turn to spell me and I have to take a piss." Uncle Joe began his meal with the appetizer of a quick swig from the paper bag. Then he unwrapped a grease-spotted paper towel and began to gnaw on a chunk of mutton folded into fry bread.
Joseph went around the table and sat. They didn't say anything for a few minutes as Uncle Joe chewed his food, took hits from the bottle, and watched the passing crowd. When he was done he lit another cigarette and looked at Joseph from the side of his face.
"Nice warm day today. Good for my old bones. Used to be colder this time of year. Maybe this global warming business is not such a bad thing."
Joseph smiled. "Let's hear you say that in July when it's so hot your earwax melts."
Uncle Joe scanned the sky as if he could see the climate up there. "Yeah, we haven't seen you around here all summer," he said mildly. "Your mother says you don't go see her, either."
"Busy. Too busy. You know how it is. Sometimes it seems you take care of everybody but your own family. I'll go see her next week."
Uncle Joe nodded. "That's a good idea. Hey, I got a new truck. Dodge double cab. In hock up to my ears, but I'll be dead before I finish paying it off, so why not."
"Only way to go, double cab," Joseph said. He looked out at the crowd.
Uncle Joe nodded again and then waited, smoking in silence. By now he'd be aware that Joseph had something on his mind, but he was giving his troubled nephew the time he needed to open the topic.
"Something has come up," Joseph admitted.
The old man bobbed his head.
"Uncle Joe, I need some information that only you know."
The head stopped moving. "Huh. Long time ago. Why is it important now?"
"You know the school where I treat the kids sometimes?"
"Julieta McCarty's school. For smart Navajo kids. Of course I know it."
Joseph shifted uncomfortably between the arms of the lawn chair.
"There's a student there with a bad problem. He's got a . . . a form of seizure activity that's very unusual."
"You want medical advice or spiritual guidance?" Joe Billie said chidingly. "Those, I can give you, sure. But history advice, we made a deal on that. I kept my part of the deal. You still have to keep yours."
"Things change, Uncle! He's fifteen now. Maybe there comes a time when a kid needs to know the truth about where he came from. Who his parents really were."
Uncle Joe made an unconvinced noise.
"He's from up east of Sheep Springs. Where I remember you used to work, back when I was just coming into practice." Joseph turned to observe the old man's reaction, but the maze of seams was utterly unreadable. "I've met the grandparents at the hospital a couple of times. They say they know you."
"Like you say, I used to work up there. Probably anybody with livestock on the eastern rez knows me."
Frustrated, Joseph lowered his voice: "This boy has a severe problem, like nothing I've ever heard of. It's mystified the hospital doctors. We need to know his real medical background. If we're going to look at the possibility of congenital factors or cranial trauma, we need to know his birth history. Right?"
"Julieta thinks it's her boy. She's pressuring you to tell her, and she doesn't know you don't know."
"That too. Look, Uncle, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I'm asking as a physician."
Uncle Joe thought about it, taking a longer swig from the bottle and then making a face at it as if the taste displeased him. The crowd shuffled past, and an old woman stopped to inspect Uncle Joe's wares. Neither of them said anything until she'd moved on.
"Tell me about this boy's problem," Uncle Joe said at last.
Quietly, Joseph detailed Tommy Keeday's symptoms: the convulsions, the confusion of his body parts, the insensitive arm, the asynchronous breathing. He mentioned Sam Yazzie's observation that when it came upon Tommy it seemed to mesmerize or paralyze the other boys, and he immediately regretted it: The last thing he wanted was to suggest anything supernatural, get the old man prattling about superstitions. He finished up quickly, careful to avoid mentioning that they'd brought in a Seattle parapsychologist to look into it.
"Bad," Uncle Joe said. His yellow eyes floated moist in their sockets, still expressionless. "Bad business. Dangerous for you."
" Uncle—"
"I'll tell you something, Joseph," the old man hissed. He looked quickly around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear and then went on almost inaudibly: "One time I met a guy people said was a witch. In your world, you don't know guys like this. And you don't want to. You look in their eyes and you can see one minute they're one thing, next minute they're something different. They're crazy and sick like a dog with rabies. They can make other people crazy, too. I've seen it."
Joseph ignored the narrowing eyes and rasping voice, and persisted, "His name is Tommy Keeday. His parents were killed in a car crash about six years ago. Keeday, Keedah," he repeated, adding the more traditional pronunciation. He watched his uncle's face carefully, hoping to see a reaction to the name. But either it meant nothing to the old man, or he was truly a master of the poker face.
Uncle Joe stared at him for a full minute. "Here comes your aunt," he said finally. "Maybe we should take a walk. If I don't take a piss, I'm going to embarrass my wife in public. I'll show you the new truck."
Joseph greeted Margaret Billie, a hardy, pretty woman in her midsixties with her graying hair knotted behind her head and bound with strips of fabric. She wore a traditional outfit she admitted was intended to help sell herbs, a calf-length dress decorated with an embroidered bodice an
d set off by a handsome silver crucifix and turquoise necklaces. They exchanged courtesies and news of relatives for only a moment before Uncle Joe started walking off by himself and Joseph apologized and followed. Aunt Margaret took her seat behind the counter, waving understandingly as Joseph looked back.
They walked up the lane for a bit, then cut between concessions, across the next row, and again between booths to the vendor parking lot. Uncle Joe found his way to a massive new Dodge Ram with spotless burgundy and silver paint, looked quickly around, and urinated in its shadow. When he was done he lit another cigarette and turned to Joseph.
"Power windows, power locks, power mirrors," he said. "Power seats that go every which way. You want me to show you?"
"No, Uncle."
"Didn't think so." Uncle Joe chuckled, as if relieving himself had restored his sense of humor. Or maybe it was just the booze starting to hit him, Joseph thought. The old man walked around to the back of the truck and took a seat on the bumper, tipping himself cautiously back against the tailgate. A hundred yards away among the parked vehicles, a group of teenagers had gathered around a jacked-up muscle car and were listening to rock and roll from its speakers.
"I'm an old drunk, idn't it?" Uncle Joe said.
Surprised, Joseph didn't answer.
"Been a drunk most of my life. But I never stole and never got into fights, never had a car accident. Never shamed my family that way. Stayed married, took care of my kids. Old drunk, but could be worse, idn't it? Cancer will kill me before the booze does." He frowned accusingly at his cigarette and kept the scowl as he looked at Joseph. "Your mother is a strong woman, she did a great job with you kids after your father died. Nobody could have done better. But sometimes a young man needs an older man to talk to. About his problems. About his life. Why don't you talk to your uncles, Joseph? Not even your Uncle Joe Billie, whose name your mother honored by giving it to you?"