Read Online Kiss of the Bees by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. A. Jance
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blood relative—to take the baby. I’m sure she’ll find someone who’ll do it.”
Rita Antone shook her grizzled head. “I don’t think so,” she said.
A week later, Fat Crack Ortiz was surprised when his Aunt Rita, who usually avoided using telephones, called him at his auto-repair shop at Sells.
“Where is she?” Rita asked without preamble.
“Where’s who?” he asked.
“The baby. The one who was kissed by Ali-chu’uchum O’othham —by the Little People, by the ants and wasps and bees.”
“It was ants, Ni-thahth ,” Fat Crack answered. “And she’s still in the hospital in Tucson. She’s supposed to get out tomorrow or the next day.”
“Who is going to take her?” Rita asked.
“I’m not sure,” Gabe hedged, even though he knew full well that Wanda’s search for a suitable guardian for the child had so far come to nothing.
Rita correctly interpreted Fat Crack’s evasiveness. “I want her,” Rita said flatly. “Give her to me.”
“But, Ni-thahth, ” Gabe objected. “After what already happened to that little girl, no one is going to be willing to hand her over to you.”
“Why?” Rita asked. “Because I’m too old?”
“Yes.” Fat Crack’s answer was reluctant but truthful. “I suppose that’s it. Once the tribal judge sees your age, she isn’t going to look at anything else.”
Rita refused to take no for an answer. “Give her to Diana, then,” she countered. “She and Brandon Walker are young enough to take her, but I would still be here to teach her the things she needs to know.”
Gabe hesitated to say what he knew to be true. “You don’t understand. Diana and Brandon are Anglos, Rita. Mil-gahn . They’re good friends of mine as well as friends of yours, but times have changed. No one does that anymore.”
“Does what?”
“Approves those kinds of adoptions—adoptions outside the tribe.”
“You mean Anglos can’t adopt Tohono O’othham children anymore?”
“That’s right,” Gabe said. “And it’s not just here. Tribal courts from all over the country are doing the same thing. They say that being adopted by someone outside a tribe is bad for Indian children, that they don’t learn their language or their culture.”
There was a long silence on the telephone line. For a moment or two Fat Crack wondered if perhaps something had gone wrong with the connection. “Even the tribal judge will see that living in a Baptist orphanage would be worse than living with us,” Rita said at last. After that she said nothing more.
Through the expanding silence in the earpiece Fat Crack understood that, from sixty miles away, he had been thoroughly outmaneuvered by his aunt. Anglo or not, living with the Walkers was probably far preferable to living in a group home.
“I’ll talk to Wanda,” he agreed at last. “But that’s all I’ll do—talk. I’m not making any promises.”
Mitch Johnson drove to Smith’s, a grocery store on the corner of Swan and Grant. Once there, he stood in the soft-drink aisle wondering what he should buy. With one hand in the pocket of his jacket, he held one of the several vials of scopolamine between his fingers—as if for luck—while he tried to decide what to do.
What do girls that age like to drink early in the morning? he wondered. Sodas, most likely. He chose several different kinds—a six-pack of each. Maybe some kind of juice. He put two containers into his basket, one orange and one apple. And then, for good measure, he threw in a couple of cartons of chocolate milk as well. Andy had warned him against using something hot, like coffee or tea, for instance, for fear that the boiling hot liquid might somehow lessen the drug’s impact.
And it did have an impact. Mitch Johnson knew that from personal experience.
One day in August of the previous year, Andrew Carlisle had returned from another brief stay in the prison infirmary holding a small glass container in his hand.
“What’s that?” Mitch had
Rita Antone shook her grizzled head. “I don’t think so,” she said.
A week later, Fat Crack Ortiz was surprised when his Aunt Rita, who usually avoided using telephones, called him at his auto-repair shop at Sells.
“Where is she?” Rita asked without preamble.
“Where’s who?” he asked.
“The baby. The one who was kissed by Ali-chu’uchum O’othham —by the Little People, by the ants and wasps and bees.”
“It was ants, Ni-thahth ,” Fat Crack answered. “And she’s still in the hospital in Tucson. She’s supposed to get out tomorrow or the next day.”
“Who is going to take her?” Rita asked.
“I’m not sure,” Gabe hedged, even though he knew full well that Wanda’s search for a suitable guardian for the child had so far come to nothing.
Rita correctly interpreted Fat Crack’s evasiveness. “I want her,” Rita said flatly. “Give her to me.”
“But, Ni-thahth, ” Gabe objected. “After what already happened to that little girl, no one is going to be willing to hand her over to you.”
“Why?” Rita asked. “Because I’m too old?”
“Yes.” Fat Crack’s answer was reluctant but truthful. “I suppose that’s it. Once the tribal judge sees your age, she isn’t going to look at anything else.”
Rita refused to take no for an answer. “Give her to Diana, then,” she countered. “She and Brandon Walker are young enough to take her, but I would still be here to teach her the things she needs to know.”
Gabe hesitated to say what he knew to be true. “You don’t understand. Diana and Brandon are Anglos, Rita. Mil-gahn . They’re good friends of mine as well as friends of yours, but times have changed. No one does that anymore.”
“Does what?”
“Approves those kinds of adoptions—adoptions outside the tribe.”
“You mean Anglos can’t adopt Tohono O’othham children anymore?”
“That’s right,” Gabe said. “And it’s not just here. Tribal courts from all over the country are doing the same thing. They say that being adopted by someone outside a tribe is bad for Indian children, that they don’t learn their language or their culture.”
There was a long silence on the telephone line. For a moment or two Fat Crack wondered if perhaps something had gone wrong with the connection. “Even the tribal judge will see that living in a Baptist orphanage would be worse than living with us,” Rita said at last. After that she said nothing more.
Through the expanding silence in the earpiece Fat Crack understood that, from sixty miles away, he had been thoroughly outmaneuvered by his aunt. Anglo or not, living with the Walkers was probably far preferable to living in a group home.
“I’ll talk to Wanda,” he agreed at last. “But that’s all I’ll do—talk. I’m not making any promises.”
Mitch Johnson drove to Smith’s, a grocery store on the corner of Swan and Grant. Once there, he stood in the soft-drink aisle wondering what he should buy. With one hand in the pocket of his jacket, he held one of the several vials of scopolamine between his fingers—as if for luck—while he tried to decide what to do.
What do girls that age like to drink early in the morning? he wondered. Sodas, most likely. He chose several different kinds—a six-pack of each. Maybe some kind of juice. He put two containers into his basket, one orange and one apple. And then, for good measure, he threw in a couple of cartons of chocolate milk as well. Andy had warned him against using something hot, like coffee or tea, for instance, for fear that the boiling hot liquid might somehow lessen the drug’s impact.
And it did have an impact. Mitch Johnson knew that from personal experience.
One day in August of the previous year, Andrew Carlisle had returned from another brief stay in the prison infirmary holding a small glass container in his hand.
“What’s that?” Mitch had
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