Komatke Gold. Benjamin Vance
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She also said you were going to be someone important someday. So I looked you up.”
“I’m not in the book,” she lied.
“I looked you up in the library,” I said, again lying. Actually I got her name from Cristal, one of the very talkative ladies at the library. She actually remembered Myra and I from years back; told me she was Myra’s cousin, but that was about all.
“Well, I guess those ladies at the library need to gossip less and file more.”
“Ms. Lewis, for some reason you don’t have much use for me, but remember I know a few things about your past as well. It’s always been my credo not to throw stones.”
She looked like I had slapped her face, which happens a lot to judgmental people I hope.
“Look Colonel, I don’t give a shit about your map, or you! I think you treated Myra the way Native Americans have been treated for over two hundred years. I just wanted to confirm my suspicions and see how mercenary you really are. I always thought Myra was lying when she talked about you, poor sap that she was.”
I stood up. “What the hell do you mean, was,” I half choked out.
“I thought that’s what you were really here for,” she huffed in my direction. “You need to forget about my cousin and get off our reservation. If you don’t, Colonel … Custer, or whatever the hell your name is, we have ways of encouraging you to leave.”
“What the hell do you mean … was,” I yelled, discarding all pretenses and gaining everyone’s attention?
“Get off our land and forget about Myra, before you get hurt,” she spat as she turned to leave.
“I stopped worrying about getting hurt when I left Iraq, you bitch,” I yelled.
I yelled louder at her backside as she strolled from the restaurant, “Myra’s still here isn’t she?”
Not looking back, she held up the middle finger of her right hand in what must have been a Native American war challenge.
I sat down to think and let everyone’s attention get back to his or her lunch. The ladies at the library didn’t say anything about Myra passing away, but then some tribes don’t even talk about the dead. I finally realized I had to get back to the library before Lew-Lew did. Otherwise, I’d be up the creek with regard to information about Myra … from them at least. I requested the bill, paid it … still hungry, and made it to the library just as Lew-Lew was pulling away. I couldn’t blame the woman for thinking faster than me.
Chapter 7.
My thoughts raced as I prepared to face the library ladies who were then likely equipped with a bad opinion of me. As I walked into the cool building and smelled the smell of used books and wood furniture again, I found myself looking around to avoid any accusing eyes. From the glass-walled office came a distinctly female voice welcoming me back.
It was like old home week; a stark contrast to what I expected. The lady in the office, whose name tag said “Lucy” rose from her chair and started toward me. Another lady, “Geraldine”, came from behind the stacks where she’d been shelving books, and yet another, “Cristal” introduced earlier and not wanting to miss the show, came ambling out from a room in the rear of the building, sans name tag. Lucy said, “Hey, Mr. Wayne! Welcome back! We thought you’d been eaten alive and we would never see you again.”
All three started laughing uncontrollably, apparently at their inside joke. I must have looked bewildered and embarrassed because Geraldine took pity on me and said, “We thought the Wicked Witch of the North cast a spell on you or sumpthin”. The uncontrolled, hand-over-the-mouth giggling started all over again.
Now, if you haven’t been fortunate enough to witness the contagious laughter of a bunch of Indian women sharing a joke, usually about a man, you haven’t witnessed giggling at its best. After a while though, they made me feel at ease again and I learned Cristal was actually related to both Lew-Lew, whom she called “Miss Twiggy,” and to Myra. After pleasantries and with a very serious and cautious face she told me Myra still lived on the reservation. With my temples pounding, my ears ringing and after promising to bring back some lunch for Lucy and Geraldine, Cristal and I went to eat.
This time I had a very nice lunch with a very nice lady who had nothing very nice to say about Lew-Lew. Over the course of a two-hour lunch with an intermission delivery to Lucy and Geraldine, Cristal told me about how close her and her first cousin had become after I’d left; how much Myra had loved me and wanted me to come back, even though I was married and had a career and children. In her optimistic innocence Myra clung to the idea I would divorce my wife. Cristal also had kids and knew it wouldn’t happen. She’d consoled Myra when the phone calls stopped and eventually Myra began to accept reality as well. Although she didn’t like my involvement with her cousin, she understood Myra’s’ propensity to endear herself to almost everyone.
The fact that Myra had loved me in return was in my favor I guess. They’d remained close over the years and she said Myra reflectively mentioned me now and then. She also told me that so far no one had told her I was back in Arizona. A bit fretfully, Cristal mentioned that she should tell Myra before Lew-Lew got to her. Sometime during the conversation she also mentioned she thought Lew-Lew had her own agenda with regard to Myra and me, but I simply thought it was that of an attorney for the tribe, bent on protecting her people and her job. In retrospect, maybe I should have listened closer. In my defense though, I had only one thing on my mind at the time.
Chapter 8.
Much later that day I sat on a sparkly red vinyl barstool at Dale’s Diner, waiting on my sirloin tips with mushroom gravy. With my fist on my cheek, lost in thoughts of Myra and the wonderful smells of cooking that only cool dry air can carry, I was suddenly mystified to see an old Indian gentleman had taken the seat next to me. I didn’t feel him come in. I glanced his way and tentatively said, “Howdy.”
He said, “Howdy” back and added, “I was in Korea! I saw a lot of the world before I came back to this place, and I knew your father.”
He had a Hopi kind of face with a Roman nose and dark smooth skin except for the crow’s feet at his eyes. He looked like the caricature of a proud Native American. He was about twenty pounds overweight, but carried it nicely and had braided salt and pepper hair down his back to his waist. He was dressed in Western boots, worn Wranglers, and a Paisley western snap shirt. He had on a beautiful horse-hair belt with a moderately large turquoise buckle and a small turquoise-stone bolo tie. He looked warm, but thinking back, I seldom saw him sweat.
Several heartbeats later I said, “How did you know who I am?”
With a sly grin he said, “Well, you know, you sure look a lot like he did, and besides, I was at his funeral. You were a lot younger and so was I, but I still recognized you. He was a good man you know. He helped a lot of folks with income taxes, ‘cause a lot of people here still don’t know nothin’ much about income taxes. They change every year anyway. He never cheated anybody, and always got them back everything he could from the government.
“People around here don’t forget stuff like that. He even went to court a couple of times for people. He knew those tax laws better than the lawyers did. There was even one judge that threatened him when he told the judge he was wrong. But, your father was right and the case was thrown out of court and my uncle didn’t have to pay any taxes.” He snickered under his breath. “That time at least,” he added. “You know, your father was my best friend in this world.”
I offered my hand; he took it. It had been a long time since I’d felt genuine, open friendliness like that. At the time I just hoped I wasn’t getting smoke blown up my ass again.
I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself, but I really didn’t know you’d come in. Then when you started talking … well, you know.”
“Yeah, that’s our job … to sneak up on people, you know. I saw that in some movie one time, down in