Canyon Sacrifice. Scott Graham
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throaty rasp, particularly apparent first thing in the morning, channeled her grandfather’s gravelly growl. Everything about Rosie matched Janelle’s father. Rosie was squat and big-boned like her grandfather, and shared his wide face, deep-set eyes, and mischievous smile.
The girl’s chubby heels dug into the small of Janelle’s back. Animal-print flannel pajamas rode up her legs, exposing round calves. Matted brown hair stood out from the back of her head as if starched.
Rosie held on tight when Janelle lowered her to the ground, sliding down her mother’s torso like a firefighter descending a firehouse pole until she came to rest seated in the dirt. Janelle stepped out of Rosie’s circled arms, pulled her to a standing position, and patted her on her dusty backside in the direction of the camper. “Your clothes are on your bed, m’hija. Bring the hair brush when you come back out.”
Rosie turned to Chuck, struck a pose with her hip jutted far out to one side, and gave him a circular wave. “Hey there, stranger,” she said in a pitch-perfect impression of a smoky-voiced starlet from a 1940s Hollywood black-and-white.
Chuck grinned and returned Rosie’s wave as she sashayed back across the campsite and reentered the camper. He turned to Janelle. “I thought you said we had an hour.”
“Coffee.” Janelle held out her hand. “Quick.”
They sat sipping while Rosie bounced around inside the trailer, humming loudly as she got dressed. Chuck leaned back in his camp chair and relished the tang of the coffee at the back of his throat.
The meeting with Marvin Begay the previous afternoon had gone well. Marvin had been named Director of Anthropological Affairs for the Navajo tribe straight out of college three years ago, just weeks after his uncle, Robert Begay, had been tapped as the first-ever Native American chief ranger of Grand Canyon National Park. Chuck and his subcontracted assistant, Clarence, had completed the last of the fieldwork required by the transmission-line contract a month ago, and the final report on their work was due to Marvin in two weeks.
The report would detail the scant evidence of past Anasazi presence Chuck and Clarence had discovered along the transmission-line route. Chuck knew the rudimentary evidence he and Clarence had come across—a handful of potsherds, a few hunting points—wouldn’t please Marvin. The tribal official had dropped several hints over the course of the contract that Chuck would do well to find something of value along the right-of-way to bolster the contention among a subset of young Navajos, Marvin included, that the Anasazi had been more culturally advanced than the current historical record indicated. To Chuck’s relief, Marvin gave voice yesterday in Tuba City only to the same vague hints he’d made over the preceding two years. That enabled Chuck to offer equally vague assurances to Marvin in return and get back on the road with Janelle and the girls in less than an hour.
Chuck blew on his coffee and turned his attention to the day ahead. Everything about the last few days had been aimed at getting here—buying the used camper, outfitting it with gear from his garage, bolting a tow hitch to Janelle’s car, and shopping for daypacks and hiking boots for her and the girls.
“I’m not sure I know how to do this,” he confessed.
“Do what?” Janelle asked.
“Be a tourist here.”
“That’s why we came, Chuck.”
A loud thump issued through the canvas walls of the camper as Rosie leapt from the sleeping platform to the floor.
Chuck smiled ruefully. “Our honeymoon.”
“A few days. Just us. Before school starts. A chance for you to show the girls and me what it is you do out here for months on end, remember?”
Yes, he remembered. And yes, Janelle was right on all counts. This had been her idea, coming to the Grand Canyon, a place she’d never visited despite her whole life spent six hours away in Albuquerque. She’d insisted on camping, too, an entrée of sorts for her and the girls to Chuck’s archaeological world, the epicenter of which was right here at the canyon.
The millions of tourists who visited Grand Canyon National Park each year did so for the incredible views of one of the most awe-inspiring geological wonders on Earth. But Chuck’s fascination with the place was different. Though he bid for contracts all across the high-desert uplift known as the Colorado Plateau, which stretched more than a hundred miles in all directions from the Grand Canyon, he bid hardest and lowest for contracts at the canyon itself—and every time he looked into the canyon’s depths and felt his bones tingle with its long history of humankind, he knew why.
“It’s great to have the chance to show you around,” he said. “It’s just . . .”
“It’s just what?”
Chuck knew what he was supposed to do right now. It was his duty to explain himself, to work through the complexities of what he was thinking with his new wife. But how was he to do that when even the word wife remained foreign to him? How was he to open up to Janelle when he’d had a lifetime of working through things on his own, with no one else’s opinions to consult or concerns to worry about?
“We’ll do the rim today,” he said, sticking to the basics.
“Fine.” Janelle bit off the word.
He plowed ahead. “Grab some food and jump a shuttle out to Hermit’s Rest.”
Another thump sounded from inside the camper, causing the small trailer to rock atop its telescoped legs like a skiff bobbing on the ocean. This time the thump was followed by a high-pitched wail from seven-year-old Carmelita.
“Oops,” Rosie said earnestly from behind the wall of canvas. “Sorry, hermana.”
“Get away from me!” Carmelita screamed.
Janelle disappeared inside the camper to coo soothingly over Carmelita while Chuck, freed for the moment from the challenge of marital communication, centered the skillet over the larger of the stove’s two burners and started in on the pancakes.
Three hours later, Chuck, Janelle, and the girls made their way through the village on foot, the girls scurrying ahead in their new boots, slender Carmelita several inches taller than Rosie, a wide receiver to Rosie’s fullback. The girls’ lacy blouses and matching red shorts blended easily with the colorful attire of the throngs of summer visitors making their way along the village walkways in the steadily rising heat of the day.
After stopping to pick up a picnic lunch of chips and sandwiches, they headed for the Central Village shuttle-bus stop. The sun beat down on the metal roof of the bus as they settled into their seats and headed west on Rim Drive, the route of Chuck’s early-morning run. Fellow tourists filled the seats around them. Rosie collapsed against Chuck in the hard plastic double-seat they shared, her eyes half-closed in the heat. Carmelita sat slumped beside her mother a row behind Chuck and Rosie.
“This is sooooo boring,” Carmelita declared, crossing her arms in front of her with an audible harrumph.
“Hush,” Janelle warned, but her curt tone revealed her own discomfort.
Chuck realized, too late, that he should have directed Janelle and the girls to the cool confines of the South Rim Museum as the heat of the day came on. Janelle’s after-breakfast trip to the campground showers with the girls had taken well over an hour, far longer than he’d anticipated, yet it was he, as inexperienced tour guide, who had determined they should take the shuttle as midday approached. Now here they sat, trapped and broiling, the bus ride having just begun.
Should he suggest to Janelle that they stay on the shuttle when it reached the end of the out-and-back road and return to the village? Get to the museum as quickly as possible and come out this way again for sunset, after the heat of the day let up? Or was he better off sticking with the plan, not admitting his mistake?
The driver, dressed for the heat in a light-colored blouse and loose trousers, piloted the shuttle beneath the raised gate that kept private vehicles off Rim Drive. She steered the bus away from the village