Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

I nod that I understand. “I’l get him to Sarah’s. Thank you.”

George lifts his hand in silent salute and walks toward his car, parked next to the Jeep behind the hogan. Only when he’s driven away and Frey and I are alone do I remember — I never found out what was decided at the council.

Right now, it doesn’t seem important.

Frey doesn’t say a word. Not when I get him settled in the Jeep, not when I return from packing our things out of the hogan. For once, I’m glad I’m not privy to his thoughts. The pain would be intolerable. He may not have been close to Sarah now, but she was John-John’s mother and that alone is a powerful connection.

I manage to find my way from the hogan to Sarah’s house

— more vampire instinct and senses than anything else. I don’t turn the Jeep’s lights on; I can navigate far better in the dark by picking up our scent and watching for our tire tracks in the dirt.

How different retracing this path. John-John’s laugh echoes in my head. Yesterday he was happy.

The house is dark when we pul up. This time, no welcoming flute to greet a new day. It’s almost daybreak but the sky is leaden and heavy with impending rain.

I go in first, turn on lights. Not because we need light to see, but in an effort to chase away the gloom.

It doesn’t work.

When Frey comes up the steps, I know he feels the same thing I do. The house has lost its spirit. The quiet, the emptiness press in on us.

Only John-John wil be able to make it a place of life again.

And I doubt that wil happen for a while.

Frey sinks into the couch. Buries his face in his hands. But stil no tears. No release.

I sit on the coffee table in front of him. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Some food?”

He rouses a little, drops his hands, meets my eyes. “No.

Thanks. Just sit here with me, wil you, until John-John comes?”

I move next him. We sit there side by side, not touching, but closer in spirit than we’ve ever been.

After a while, Frey stirs. “At least John-John’s home has been spared.”

I swivel to look at him. “Spared? What do you mean?”

Frey’s voice is husky, devoid of emotion. “It’s the Navajo way. If Sarah and Mary had died at home, their parents would have most likely had the place burned to the ground.”

“John-John’s home?”

“The belief is that after death, one goes to the underworld.

To protect against the deceased returning to the world of the living, no contact must be made with the body and that includes the place they died. The place would be destroyed.”

I’m trying to process how such a belief could stil be considered relevant in the twenty-first century when I’m hit with the implications of something else Frey said.

“Sarah and Mary — their parents live here on the reservation?”

Frey nods. “I only hope they al ow me to take part in the burial. While we weren’t married in the eyes of the state, when Sarah told them she was going to have a baby, they insisted we go through a traditional Navajo ceremony. In the eyes of the tribe, I am her husband. In their eyes, I deserted her and my son to live outside.”

A worm of uneasiness twists in my gut. “What’s going to happen to John-John? Wil they insist he stay here with them? Wil you al ow it?”

Frey presses the palms of his hands against his eyes. “I can’t think about that now. I can hardly bear the thought that I’m going to have to tel him his mother and aunt are gone.

How am I going to do it?”

His voice breaks. I move to put my arms around his shoulders. I’m stopped mid-gesture by the sound of a car approaching. I feel Frey tense and draw in a breath.

George is here with John-John. I push up from the couch.

“I’l let them in.”

Frey doesn’t answer or move. I hardly know John-John, but my heart is as heavy as Frey’s at how that little boy’s life is about to change.

I don’t wait for a knock but swing the door open.

It’s not George coming up the porch steps. It’s a man in a beige uniform, a gun on his hip. He’s wearing a badge and the car parked in front of the house bears green and yel ow stripes and emblazoned on the side Navajo Nation Police .

He is as startled to see me as I am by his unexpected presence. He sweeps a round-crowned, broad-brimmed hat from his head. “Ma’am. I’m here to see Daniel Frey. Is he in?”

I nod him inside. When he brushes past me, I get a whiff of citrus aftershave and the fresh scent of fabric softener. His uniform is crisp, ironed creases as sharp as a ruler. His gun leather creaks where he rests one hand on the holster. In the quiet of the house, it’s like the rasp of a ghostly voice.

Frey has the same reaction I did. He stares a moment, then recovers and stands to greet the officer.

“I’m Tony Kayani. Officer with the Navajo Nation Police. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Frey shakes his hand, gestures over Kayani’s shoulder to me. “This is my friend, Anna Strong.”

Kayani half turns, nods in my direction, turns his attention back to Frey. “Can we sit? I have a couple of questions to ask you.”

Frey sits back down on the couch. Kayani takes one of the chairs across from him and I take the other.

Kayani takes a notebook from a breast pocket. But no pen. He rests the book on his knee. “I understand you arrived yesterday.”

Frey nods.

“And that you have been estranged from your wife and son for some time.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why you came back now?”

Involuntarily, my shoulders tighten. How is Frey going to answer that?

“I came to visit my son. As you noted, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him. It was time.”

“And what business did you have with the tribal council?”

Another involuntary shoulder twitch. How could he have known about that? Frey is quiet for a long moment. Maybe too long. Kayani leans toward him.

“Is there a reason you don’t want to answer that e of questtion?”

Frey bristles at the tone. “Is there a reason you’re asking it?”

Kayani smiles in a tight, determined way. “Sorry. I realize this is a difficult time. I also realize Sarah wasn’t addressing the council on her own behalf, was she?”

He doesn’t look at me. Perhaps he doesn’t know, but the implication hangs heavy. In profile, Kayani reminds me of the picture on the old Buffalo nickel. Broad forehead, straight nose, tight lips turned down at the corner. His dark hair is short and brushed straight back. His greyhound-lean frame is as tightly strung as the close weave on Sarah’s rugs. His posture and attitude suggest something more than a law officer’s impartial inquiry into a tragic accident.

“Officer Kayani?”

He turns slowly, as if reluctant to look away from Frey.

“Did you attend the tribal council tonight?”

He shakes his head. “No. But I heard what happened.”

“Can you tel us? We don’t know any of the details except that Sarah and Mary had their accident on the way home.”

He seems reluctant at first to answer. His jet black eyes bore into mine. But there’s nothing accusatory in his gaze.

It’s more resentment that he has to talk to Frey and me.

Hardly professional. He hasn’t written anything in that little notebook stil perched on his knee, either. It dawns on me that he’s not here to shed light on the accident. In fact…

Before I can complete my thought, he says, “I don’t know.

Exactly. Nobody’s talking. Sarah had a request of the elders.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t wel received. She was asked to leave. She was pretty upset by al accounts.”

His voice has lost the demanding “me cop/you suspect”

staccato. His shoulders sag a little before he catches me studying him and recovers himself. Too late. He’s not here on an official visit. He’s here on a personal one.