Leslie Silko - Gardens in the Dunes

The deputy completed his inquiry in one afternoon. The desk clerk recalled her checking out but neither he nor the bell captain saw her leave the lobby. Hattie was incredulous — the hotel staff would have had to help load all her luggage and the crates of meteor irons. The deputy looked her in the eyes: the livery stable had no record of a fare from the hotel on the day of her attack.

“But that can’t be!” she cried as she realized the townspeople protected one another. The deputy said the case would be left open for one year from the date of her attack; any new information she might have as her memory returned should be submitted to his office.

So this was how it was done in Needles, California — it wasn’t terribly different from the way it was done in Boston. Now it was clear to her, she could never return to her former life among the lies. She had to leave at once.

The barber’s wife was kind enough to wash and iron her clothes, but Hattie insisted on wearing the blue gingham dress even when she slept. The woman tried to persuade Hattie people would think her strange if she continued to wear the dress — a squaw dress — much too large for her. When Hattie made no reply, the woman warned if she wore that dress around town, it wouldn’t help matters.

“What matters?”

“You and the Indians,” she replied. “People here don’t welcome outsiders who meddle.” She looked away from Hattie. A new Indian encampment started down along the river about a week ago; her attacker was probably one of them, full of green beer.

Hattie was so happy to learn of the encampment, she ignored the woman’s last remark. She knew she would find Indigo there. Hadn’t the girls talked about a winter gathering near Needles? She felt so much better just to know Indigo and the girls were nearby.

Hattie wired her father collect to ask him to please send the barber the money she owed for her treatment and room and board. She took her winter coat and all the warm clothes she could layer under the blue dress but left her luggage and all the rest with the barber as collateral until the money arrived. Her telegram told her parents how much she loved them, and please, not to worry. She was in the hands of God and no harm would come to her.

The sun was bright and the air mild and dry the morning she set out on foot from the barbershop for the encampment down along the river. As weak as she still was, she was glad to have nothing more to carry than a thick wool blanket and a sack of hard candy balls.

What idiots these military police were! The U.S. magistrate saw at once they brought in the wrong Negro. This man was twice the age of the deserter. He asked Big Candy if there was anyone in Tucson who might verify his identity.

In Tucson? He couldn’t think of anyone. He would have to send a telegram to the address Wylie gave him, though it might be weeks before he got a reply. Then he remembered that construction worker from Tucson — Charlie — what was his name? — Sister Salt adored him — he might even be the baby’s father — Charlie Luna! If they could find him, he would confirm Big Candy’s identity.

Big Candy expected he might have to wait a day or two before Charlie Luna could be located, but later the same day, he was brought before the magistrate again. There stood Charlie Luna. For an instant Charlie almost didn’t recognize Candy because of all the weight he’d lost. Charlie broke into a big smile.

“Yes sir!” He knew this man!

The magistrate ruled Big Candy was free to go. He was flat broke and he still didn’t feel fully recovered from the ordeal. He walked out of the courthouse with Charlie to thank him.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Charlie said. Candy nodded and smiled. He didn’t recognize himself the first time he stood in front of a mirror.

“You took a wrong turn?”

“You could say that. Ever hear of the Sand Tank Mountains?”

Charlie nodded; he used to worry Candy hated him over Sister Salt, so he was relieved to be able to help him. Now it was clear there were no hard feelings; Charlie felt so happy he invited Candy to dinner.

Both men avoided any mention of Sister Salt. Charlie’s house was full of children and in-laws and relatives from three or four generations. Candy was reminded of his cousins’ houses in Louisiana.

On a long bench flanked with old women and children, Candy ate three bowls of posole and a small stack of tortillas, which pleased Charlie’s wife immensely. Charlie rattled on in Spanish, using his arms to show her how big around Candy’s belly used to be. He told them how Candy cooked all sorts of roast poultry and rich meats — the odors used to waft through the workers’ tents at night and made their mouths water because all they got was tortillas and beans.

Candy explained since his ordeal without water his stomach somehow was affected and he no longer was able to digest any meat or poultry. From time to time he tried a bite of lean pork or venison, but a second bite brought nausea. Even the odor of cooking meat and grease made him feel weak and ill; his passions for new recipes and unusual game or seafood were gone. Wylie wanted him to go to Los Angeles to open a restaurant, but that wasn’t possible now.

Charlie Luna shook his head slowly; yes, he’d heard similar stories about people who suffered a terrible event and overnight their hair turned completely white or they no longer went outdoors or never left their beds. Everyone agreed: a person really could be changed overnight if an incident was drastic.

In the big yard next door, Candy noticed freight wagons and corrals of mule teams outside a big warehouse. Charlie’s aunt owned a freight line between Tucson and Caborca, Sonora. He needed a relief driver to go with him to Hermosillo in the morning. The cargo was something special — Charlie raised his eyebrows expressively — and the pay was very generous.

Candy figured it was some kind of contraband but he didn’t care as long as the job paid good money.

♦ ♦ ♦

Delena’s mission was finished as soon as the Tucson contacts finished the purchases and made the arrangements to ship the rifles to Hermosillo. Her orders were to return to Caborca. The dogs had regained all the strength they’d used up in their travels and were becoming restless, unaccustomed to the inactivity. They smelled a rat under the floor of the barn and chewed away one edge of a warped plank while she was in the house at dinner. She slept in the barn with them to keep them from barking and howling at night; they piled around her and wrestled one another for the honor of sleeping across her legs; twice their wrestling with one another resulted in loud dogfights that brought the neighbors out to the alley. It was time to go.

The last evening at the safe house an old man leading a mule loaded with firewood stopped outside. The man of the house went out immediately to pretend to buy the wood so the neighbors didn’t get suspicious. Delena did not recognize him, but he was sent by their people in the south to find out if she was alive and if they could expect any supplies soon.

They sat up late into the night in the kitchen to hear the old man’s accounts of recent skirmishes with the federal troops in the mountains. While they talked, Delena threaded her bone awl to mend the burlap dog packs as the woman of the house busied herself cooking and packing food for Delena’s long walk south.

The last thing she did was fill the canvas water bags from the well in the yard; free of the cargo of money, the dogs could carry all the water they might need and bones to eat. A light wind out of the southwest carried a faint scent of rain — a good companion for the desert crossing. After midnight, the woman finished packing the food, and Delena went out to the toilet and was amazed the sky was so bright with stars. She didn’t need any Gypsy cards to know this was the best time to set out.