enough water left in the tank of his little aluminum trailer to afford a shower? The answer was perhaps. But it wasnât a new problem. Chee long ago had developed a method for minimizing its effects. He filled his coffeepot ready for perking. He filled a drinking glass as a tooth-brushing reserve and a mustard jar for the sweat bath he was determined to take.
Chee climbed down the riverbank carrying the jar, a paper cup, and a tarpaulin. At his sweat bath in the willows beside the San Juan, he collected enough driftwood to heat his rocks, filled the cup with clean, dry sand, started his fire, and sat, legs crossed, waiting and thinking. No profit in thinking of Janet Peteâthat encounter represented a humiliation that could be neither avoided nor minimized. Any way he figured it, the cost would be $900, plus Janet Peteâs disdain. He thought instead of last night, of the two bodies being photographed, being loaded into the police van by the San Juan County deputies. He thought of the pots, carefully wrapped in newspapers inside the garbage bags.
When the rocks were hot enough and the fire had burned itself down to coals, he covered the sweat bath frame with the tarp, slid under it. He squatted, singing the sweat bath songs that the Holy People had taught the first clans, the songs to force contamination and sickness from the body. He savored the dry heat, conscious of muscles relaxing, perspiration seeping from his skin, trickling behind his ears, down his back, wet against his flanks. He poured a palmful of water from the jar into his hand and sprinkled it onto the rocks, engulfing himself in an explosion of steam. He inhaled this hot fog deeply, felt his body slick with moisture. He was dizzy now, free. Concern for bones and Buicks vanished in the hot darkness. Chee was conscious instead of his lungs at work, of open pores, supple muscles, of his own vigorous health. Here was his hozro âhis harmony with what surrounded him.
When he threw back the tarp and emerged, rosy with body heat and streaming sweat, he felt light of head, light of foot, generally wonderful. He rubbed himself down with the sand heâd collected, climbed back to the trailer, and took his shower. Chee added to the desert dwellerâs habitual frugality with water the special caution that those who live in trailers relearn each time they cover themselves with suds and find thereâs nothing left in the reservoir. He soaped a small area, rinsed it, then soaped another, hurried by the smell of his coffee perking. His Navajo genes spared him the need to shave again for probably a week, but he shaved anyway. It was a way to delay the inevitable.
That was delayed a bit more by the lack of a telephone in Cheeâs trailer. He used the pay phone beside the convenience store on the highway. Janet Pete wasnât at her office. Maybe, the receptionist said, she had gone down to the Justice building, to the police station. She had been worried about her new car. Chee dialed the station. Three call-back messages for him, two from Janet Pete of DNA, the tribal legal service, one from Lieutenant Leaphorn. Leaphorn had just called and talked to Captain Largo. The captain then had left the message for Chee to call Leaphorn at his home number in Window Rock after 6:00 P.M . Had Pete left any messages? Yes, with the last call she had said to tell him she wanted to pick up her car.
Chee called Peteâs home number. He tapped his fingers nervously as the telephone rang. There was a click.
âSorry I canât come to the phone now,â Peteâs voice said. âIf you will leave a message after the tone sounds, I will call you.â
Chee listened to the tone, and the silence following it. He could think of nothing sensible to say, and hung up. Then he drove over to Tsoâs garage. Surely the damage hadnât been as bad as he remembered.
The damage was exactly as heâd remembered. The car squatted on Tsoâs towing
Chee climbed down the riverbank carrying the jar, a paper cup, and a tarpaulin. At his sweat bath in the willows beside the San Juan, he collected enough driftwood to heat his rocks, filled the cup with clean, dry sand, started his fire, and sat, legs crossed, waiting and thinking. No profit in thinking of Janet Peteâthat encounter represented a humiliation that could be neither avoided nor minimized. Any way he figured it, the cost would be $900, plus Janet Peteâs disdain. He thought instead of last night, of the two bodies being photographed, being loaded into the police van by the San Juan County deputies. He thought of the pots, carefully wrapped in newspapers inside the garbage bags.
When the rocks were hot enough and the fire had burned itself down to coals, he covered the sweat bath frame with the tarp, slid under it. He squatted, singing the sweat bath songs that the Holy People had taught the first clans, the songs to force contamination and sickness from the body. He savored the dry heat, conscious of muscles relaxing, perspiration seeping from his skin, trickling behind his ears, down his back, wet against his flanks. He poured a palmful of water from the jar into his hand and sprinkled it onto the rocks, engulfing himself in an explosion of steam. He inhaled this hot fog deeply, felt his body slick with moisture. He was dizzy now, free. Concern for bones and Buicks vanished in the hot darkness. Chee was conscious instead of his lungs at work, of open pores, supple muscles, of his own vigorous health. Here was his hozro âhis harmony with what surrounded him.
When he threw back the tarp and emerged, rosy with body heat and streaming sweat, he felt light of head, light of foot, generally wonderful. He rubbed himself down with the sand heâd collected, climbed back to the trailer, and took his shower. Chee added to the desert dwellerâs habitual frugality with water the special caution that those who live in trailers relearn each time they cover themselves with suds and find thereâs nothing left in the reservoir. He soaped a small area, rinsed it, then soaped another, hurried by the smell of his coffee perking. His Navajo genes spared him the need to shave again for probably a week, but he shaved anyway. It was a way to delay the inevitable.
That was delayed a bit more by the lack of a telephone in Cheeâs trailer. He used the pay phone beside the convenience store on the highway. Janet Pete wasnât at her office. Maybe, the receptionist said, she had gone down to the Justice building, to the police station. She had been worried about her new car. Chee dialed the station. Three call-back messages for him, two from Janet Pete of DNA, the tribal legal service, one from Lieutenant Leaphorn. Leaphorn had just called and talked to Captain Largo. The captain then had left the message for Chee to call Leaphorn at his home number in Window Rock after 6:00 P.M . Had Pete left any messages? Yes, with the last call she had said to tell him she wanted to pick up her car.
Chee called Peteâs home number. He tapped his fingers nervously as the telephone rang. There was a click.
âSorry I canât come to the phone now,â Peteâs voice said. âIf you will leave a message after the tone sounds, I will call you.â
Chee listened to the tone, and the silence following it. He could think of nothing sensible to say, and hung up. Then he drove over to Tsoâs garage. Surely the damage hadnât been as bad as he remembered.
The damage was exactly as heâd remembered. The car squatted on Tsoâs towing
Similar Books
