Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

So not fair. “Did I say I was afraid? I said I don’t like it — not that I was afraid.”

“Right.”

John-John circles back toward us making me swal ow the earthy response that had sprung to my lips. Having a kid around activates an internal censor I didn’t even know I had.

He screeches to a stop in front of us. “Did you tel Anna that you were sleeping in the hogan tonight?”

Frey looks confused and then consternation furrows his brow.

John-John picked that out of his father’s brain.

“The hogan?” I glance behind me. “We’re sleeping in that?”

Frey lifts his shoulders. “It’s not outside.”

I tromp over for a closer look. The wal s of the hogan rise about twelve feet from the desert floor. It looks like an igloo fashioned from red mud instead of ice. Its dome shape has only one door, a rectangular piece of heavy leather pul ed back and secured with a rawhide cord. When I peek inside, I’m impressed in spite of not wanting to be. The wal s and ceiling are interwoven branches of juniper. Beautiful in a primitive way. Then I look up. There’s an open, square hole in the top. Just the thing to let in al sorts of unwelcome creeping, slithering or flying guests. No furniture, just a couple of sleeping bags and mats rol ed up against one side and a woven rug covering the dirt floor.

No windows. No beds. No shower.

Shit.

When I turn around, Frey is right behind me. “What do you think?”

He doesn’t want to know what I thinkcast a glance toward John-John, who doesn’t seem to be interested in our conversation but stil, I keep my voice low and a lid on what I might project telepathical y. “I think you’re nuts to want us to stay in a mud hut.”

Frey bristles and gives me a little push inside. When we’re standing out of the sun, he says, “Look around, Anna. This is not a mud hut. The hogan is respected and cherished by the Navajo. In their creation stories, the first man and first woman built the original hogan to represent the universe and al things in it. It is more than a home. It is a sacred place to conduct ceremonies. It is built of and is harmonious with nature. It is eternal. You of al people should understand that.”

His words carry the sting of reproach and for the first time, I see a spark in Frey I never saw before. “Do you have Navajo blood?”

He gives his head an impatient shake. “No. Do you think one has to be Navajo to appreciate their culture? I don’t have vampire blood, either, and I get you pretty wel. What’s wrong with you? I never thought you’d be so narrow-minded. It’s an honor to be invited to stay in a hogan. I even had the stupid notion you’d be excited to try something different. I never suspected a fucking shower was more important to you than the chance to connect with the earth and its people in a unique way.”

Wow. I’ve just been verbal y spanked and adding to the humiliation is the realization that I deserve it. His passion robs me of any snarky comeback I might throw back at him even if I could come up with anything. Right now, my immediate response is the desire to crawl through that hole in the hogan’s ceiling and disappear.

I offer the only gesture of conciliation I can think of. An apology.

“I’m sorry. Real y. I came off like a prima donna when you’re here to do me a favor. I have no right to denigrate Navajo heritage. I didn’t understand. It’s no excuse. I do have a great deal of respect for Native Americans. If this is where we’re to stay tonight, I’l do it gladly.”

Frey’s dark irritation shifts into something that looks like dark skepticism. “Gladly? Don’t push it, Anna. But apology accepted. I might have come off a tad strongly. Since John-John, I’ve learned a lot about the Navajo and their belief system. I respect them enormously, but I can’t expect everyone to.”

I’m saved from further chastisement by the sound of a vehicle approaching the campsite. Frey and I step outside.

“Here comes our host,” Frey says.

In the distance, a plume of dust marks the return of a group of day-trippers. Frey cal s John-John to his side, and we slip inside the cool interior of the hogan to wait out of sight.

I surreptitiously sneak another look around as we wait.

Okay. I can sleep in here. As long as there are no spiders hiding in the chinks of those log wal s.

I real y hate spiders.

IT TAKES ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES FOR THE NAVAJO guide to answer a spate of last-minute questions, accept gratuities pressed on him by enthusiastic tourists and herd them to their cars and off. Frey and John-John and I wait in the hogan. Soon after we hear the echo of the last car heading back for civilization, soft footfal s approach our hiding place.

“Hxida’ish hoghan yii, sida?”

“Here, brother.” Frey steps out, John-John and I at his heels. Frey and the Navajo embrace, talking quietly in the language that sounds magical to my untrained ears. After a moment, Frey turns in my direction.

“Anna, I’d like you to meet my very good friend, George Long Whiskers.”

I take a step forward, hesitantly because I’m unsure of protocol. But I needn’t have worried. Before I can acknowledge the introduction, John-John has scooted around my legs and thrown himself into George’s arms.

George laughs, lifts John-John into the air and spins him around. He says something that sends John-John and his father into heartier gales of laughter. I hang back, feeling once more like the outsider I obviously am.

But it gives me a minute to size up George Long Whiskers. He’s the same height as Frey, thicker through the middle. He’s wearing a black leather vest over a long-sleeved white cotton shirt open at the neck but stil warm weather attire for an August afternoon. He appears not to notice. No sweat beads his forehead, no tel tale circles under his arm. He’s got on jeans and scuffed boots and a bright red basebal cap. His hair is not black but light brown, and when he puts John-John back on the ground next to Frey and turns to me, I’m startled to see blue eyes under the brim of that basebal cap.

My reaction makes him grin as he puts out his hand. “Hey, Anna. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Never seen an albino Indian before, huh? Folks around here cal me the white sheep of the family.”

I’m not sure whether to take his hand or not, stil leery of physical contact after Sarah’s reaction. But a glance at Frey, who gives a subtle go-ahead motion with his head, and I return the handshake.

His grip is firm and dry and he doesn’t yank away. He has a wide, warm smile and a face that makes it impossible to guess his age. Sculpted cheekbones, straight nose, complexion touched with color, but not as dark as Sarah’s.

An interesting genetic mix.

And not a long whisker in sight.

He seems to be sizing me up, too. “I like this one, Daniel,”

he says after a second.

“I like her, too,” Frey says.

“Me, too,” John-John pipes up.

“Glad it’s unanimous.” I reach down and muss John-John’s hair.

George goes over to the loom and cuts off a length of yarn with a pocketknife. “Hey, John-John, how about you play with this while your dad and Anna and I talk.”

A piece of yarn? I’m wondering what kind of reaction that suggestion is going to get when I’m surprised by the look of delight on the kid’s face. He grabs it and squats down with his back against the wal of the hogan, ties a knot in the yarn and soon immerses himself into some kind of finger weaving.

Most four-year-olds I know would demand a wide-screen TV and a dinosaur manga cartoon marathon to hold their attention like that.

George leads us over to his vehicle — a converted bus, open on the top and sides, six rows of bench seats under a striped awning. Perfect for sightseeing. He waves Frey and I into the bus and we take seats facing each other. George on one side, Frey and I on the other.