J. Jance - Day of the Dead

As a twelve-year-old, Delia hadn’t understood all the implications of what was being said on the porch, nor did she realize how much went unspoken beneath that flurry of angry words.

Delia’s seventh-grade assessment of the situation was that her brother was a stupid, spoiled brat. That being the case, why had Manuel come to Tempe for Eddie and not for Delia? Why had he collected his crybaby son-someone who’d had to repeat kindergarten-and not his straight-A daughter? Why was Eddie worthy of being returned to the reservation when Delia was not?

Eventually, in high school, Delia understood more about the dynamics of the relationships involved. It took that long for her to grasp what was really going on between her mother and Ruth Waldron-a former Benedictine nun with strong connections to an old Boston family. Both women were exiles-Ellie from the reservation and Ruth from her convent and her disapproving family. Ellie and Ruth had been lovers almost from the beginning, from the night Ruth took the reservation refugees in off the street and welcomed them into her home.

Years after that, when Delia was in law school, she finally grasped the kinds of pressures her father could have brought to bear if Ellie hadn’t given in to Manny’s demands for Eddie. Lesbian mothers had no rights in those days. If Ellie had defied her husband, she’d have risked losing both children rather than just one. A legal fracas might also have cost her the postgraduate fellowship she’d been offered. And a public furor might have wrecked Ruth’s career with the Tempe public schools as well. Gay and lesbian schoolteachers didn’t start coming out of the closet until decades later.

To their credit, Ellie and Ruth were still together, all this time later. For years, during summer vacation, Ruth would come and stay with Ellie and Delia wherever they were. Now that Ruth was retired, she and Ellie lived comfortably together in a little house Ruth had inherited just outside Cambridge, Massachusetts. With her Ph. D. in education and her impeccable Native American credentials, Ellie Chavez had served a long stint with the BIA and was a much-sought-after consultant in the field of American Indian education, even though, after leaving the reservation that rainy August day, she had never returned to Sells, not even once.

Standing on the sidewalk in D.C., Delia Cachora was at a loss as to what she should do. She was delighted to see Fat Crack Ortiz and wanted to invite him up to their apartment, but after seeing the condition Philip was in, she worried that the apartment would be too much of a mess. Fat Crack solved the problem for both of them.

“If you’d give me a ride back to my hotel, perhaps we could talk there.”

Delia was relieved to open the passenger door and let him in. When she handed the keys over to a parking valet, her 9000 blended in perfectly with other vehicles waiting in line at the Four Seasons.

Once they were seated in the lounge and had ordered drinks, Fat Crack grinned at her. “Accommodations for Indians are nicer around here than they were in the old days,” he said. “At least when the Great White Father is paying the freight.”

By then Delia had collected herself and she was able to smile back. “Yes,” she said. “Things have changed.”

Gabe Ortiz told her about his position with the tribe and explained how he’d come to Washington for an Indian gaming conference, but that still didn’t make clear to Delia why he’d come looking for her.

“Did my mother’s aunt Julia send you?” she asked.

Fat Crack searched her face in a way that made Delia feel he was peering into her soul. “Yes,” he admitted finally. “Julia Joaquin did ask me to drop by. She’s concerned about you. She wanted to know whether or not you’re happy, but that’s not why we’re having this talk.”

Delia felt a sudden rush of anger. She barely knew her busybody great-aunt. Had Delia passed Julia Joaquin on the street, she doubted she’d recognize her, yet Aunt Julia felt she could interfere in Delia’s private affairs. It took a moment for Delia to realize Fat Crack had stopped talking and was waiting for her response.

“Why are we?” she asked finally.

“Have you ever thought about coming back to the reservation?” Fat Crack asked.

Delia shook her head. “Never,” she said. “I like D.C. I love my job, and I haven’t been near the reservation in years. Why would I want to go back there?”

“Your aunt tells me that you’re very bright, that you’re working as a lawyer for the BIA. What do you do there?”

“I study treaties,” she said, relaxing a little. “My job is to try to make sure agreements that were supposed to last as long as the ‘grass shall grow and rivers flow’ continue to have meaning in the modern world. If a tribe signed a treaty about fishing rights a hundred years ago, one they haven’t revised, then the treaty should still apply right now.”

“Are you having any luck?”

“Some,” Delia said. “Those Mil-gahn treaty writers were pretty damned tricky.”

They both laughed at that.

“You mentioned fishing,” Fat Crack resumed a moment later. “Does that mean you deal with mostly Northwest tribes?”

“No, they’re from all over. Fishing rights. Timber rights. Mineral rights. Grazing.”

“Gambling, too?”

“That’s not usually mentioned, but we’re maintaining that since the tribes are sovereign nations, it’s implied.”

“We’re going to need a new tribal attorney,” Gabe Ortiz said abruptly, without any additional preamble. “Elias Segundo is about to retire. I’m offering you the job.”

Delia was dumbfounded. “Based on my aunt Julia’s recommendation?” she asked. “Have you looked at my academic record, talked to my supervisors?”

“No,” he said, after a moment. “I’ve done none of those things, but I can see you’re your mother’s daughter. That’s good enough for me.”

“You’re serious, then?”

“Yes.”

“Surely someone who’s lived on the reservation all his life would be more qualified than I am.”

“You’d be surprised,” Fat Crack replied. “Or maybe you wouldn’t. Young people on the reservation, especially the girls, haven’t had the benefit of your education or experience.”

Delia thought about that for a few moments-about all the girls whose mothers hadn’t been able to do for their daughters what Ellie Chavez, with Ruth Waldron’s help, had done for her.

“You want me to be a role model?”

“You would be,” Fat Crack said. “You’re one of the Tohono O’odham’s lost girls. If you came home, maybe others would, too.”

“My husband would never agree to go back,” Delia told him finally. “This is where his business is-his gallery, his friends.” She didn’t add “and his drinking and drugging buddies,” but she didn’t have to. Fat Crack Ortiz already knew about that. He’d witnessed it with his own eyes.

“It might be good if Philip went home,” Fat Crack suggested. “Reconnecting with your roots could be good for both of you.”

It was one thing for Delia to agonize about her husband’s difficulties. Having this relative stranger offer advice about them offended her. She put down her drink. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think it would. Philip will be fine, and so will I. He’ll find his way.” She stood up then. “Thanks so much for the offer, Mr. Ortiz. I really appreciate it, but I can’t accept. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get home.”

“Sure,” Gabe said. “I understand.”

As Delia walked away, she knew it was true. Fat Crack Ortiz understood far more than she wanted him to.

After spending most of the night awake, Lani didn’t wake up until early afternoon. In the kitchen she made toast and a pot of coffee, then she settled in to study. For some reason she couldn’t keep her eyes open. No matter how hard she tried, the words on the pages drifted into nonsense and her head drooped.