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Authors: Margaret Coel
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emergency call came, he would go.
She peered into the darkness beyond the sweep of headlights, pulling her thoughts back to the moment,surprised that she could have missed the narrow sign for Stewart Road. She knew the geography of the reservation—the swells and dips of the earth—as well as she knew the contours of her own body. She searched the shadows for a familiar landmark.
Suddenly she spotted the thin silver pole glinting at the edge of the moonlight. She tapped on the brake and turned onto the gravel road. Another half mile, and she was parking in front of a frame house that rose like a small butte out of the dirt yard.
She rapped at the door, hugging her black bag to her chest against the cold snap of the wind. “It’s Vicky,” she called, knowing Aunt Rose would have heard the scrunch of gravel, the hum of the engine in the night.
The door slid inward and an elderly woman with a round, fleshy face and narrow, dark eyes stood in the flickering light of a television. Two fleshy arms reached out for her. Vicky could sense her own thinness in the older woman’s embrace. Then she felt herself being pulled inside, as if her aunt wanted to protect her from the cold wind, or whatever had brought her to the door.
Vicky clung to the older woman. Everything about her was familiar: the blue-print housedress, the black hair streaked with gray, smelling of wildflowers and wind. Her mother’s sister, which, in the Arapaho Way, meant Rose was also her mother. When her own mother had died three years ago, leaving her stumbling in space, unable to get a foothold, it was Aunt Rose who had led her back to herself.
“You had your supper?” The woman stepped back, assessing her with narrowed eyes.
She gave her head a little shake, and Aunt Rose tookher hand and led her through the living room, past the television propped in front of a plaid-upholstered recliner, past a little table covered with family photos and into the kitchen.
They sat at the wood table pushed against the window next to the counter. Vicky nibbled at the cold fried chicken and buttered bread Aunt Rose had extracted from the refrigerator while the older woman sipped at a cup of tea and talked about the weather: winter was coming, but, oh, September was beautiful. The teakettle made a small hissing sound over the laughter bursting from the television. She went on: the wild grasses so pretty, all golds and coppers. The sky turning softer blue every day.
“Real sad about Father Joseph,” Aunt Rose said, finally turning the conversation to the matter that they both knew had brought Vicky to her door.
Vicky was quiet. She sipped at the hot tea, wondering at the cold fear still inside her, like a chunk of ice in her heart. “What if the killer made a mistake?” she said, finally giving voice to the fear. “What if he shot the wrong priest?”
A look of comprehension crept into the older woman’s expression, followed by shock and disbelief. “You sayin’ the killer was after Father John?”
“He drives the Toyota.”
“Nobody wants to hurt Father John.” Aunt Rose shook her head, as if to banish an intolerable idea.
“Father Joseph had been at the mission only two weeks. Why would anyone want him dead?”
“He used to be here.”
“Thirty-five years ago.” Vicky got to her feet and began to circle the small space that divided the refrigerator and stove from a bank of cabinets. “I remember.I was in the second grade. He used to visit the classroom and tell us to be good students, a credit to our families. Do our people proud.”
“He was a nice man.”
“Well, he didn’t know anything about kids.” Vicky slapped the palm of her hand on the counter. “He was arrogant and—” She swallowed, surprised at the idea that had come to mind. “A little scary.”
“Scary?” Aunt Rose threw her head back and gave a little laugh. “He was real shy, that’s a fact. Used to talk in big words. Half the time nobody knew what he was
She peered into the darkness beyond the sweep of headlights, pulling her thoughts back to the moment,surprised that she could have missed the narrow sign for Stewart Road. She knew the geography of the reservation—the swells and dips of the earth—as well as she knew the contours of her own body. She searched the shadows for a familiar landmark.
Suddenly she spotted the thin silver pole glinting at the edge of the moonlight. She tapped on the brake and turned onto the gravel road. Another half mile, and she was parking in front of a frame house that rose like a small butte out of the dirt yard.
She rapped at the door, hugging her black bag to her chest against the cold snap of the wind. “It’s Vicky,” she called, knowing Aunt Rose would have heard the scrunch of gravel, the hum of the engine in the night.
The door slid inward and an elderly woman with a round, fleshy face and narrow, dark eyes stood in the flickering light of a television. Two fleshy arms reached out for her. Vicky could sense her own thinness in the older woman’s embrace. Then she felt herself being pulled inside, as if her aunt wanted to protect her from the cold wind, or whatever had brought her to the door.
Vicky clung to the older woman. Everything about her was familiar: the blue-print housedress, the black hair streaked with gray, smelling of wildflowers and wind. Her mother’s sister, which, in the Arapaho Way, meant Rose was also her mother. When her own mother had died three years ago, leaving her stumbling in space, unable to get a foothold, it was Aunt Rose who had led her back to herself.
“You had your supper?” The woman stepped back, assessing her with narrowed eyes.
She gave her head a little shake, and Aunt Rose tookher hand and led her through the living room, past the television propped in front of a plaid-upholstered recliner, past a little table covered with family photos and into the kitchen.
They sat at the wood table pushed against the window next to the counter. Vicky nibbled at the cold fried chicken and buttered bread Aunt Rose had extracted from the refrigerator while the older woman sipped at a cup of tea and talked about the weather: winter was coming, but, oh, September was beautiful. The teakettle made a small hissing sound over the laughter bursting from the television. She went on: the wild grasses so pretty, all golds and coppers. The sky turning softer blue every day.
“Real sad about Father Joseph,” Aunt Rose said, finally turning the conversation to the matter that they both knew had brought Vicky to her door.
Vicky was quiet. She sipped at the hot tea, wondering at the cold fear still inside her, like a chunk of ice in her heart. “What if the killer made a mistake?” she said, finally giving voice to the fear. “What if he shot the wrong priest?”
A look of comprehension crept into the older woman’s expression, followed by shock and disbelief. “You sayin’ the killer was after Father John?”
“He drives the Toyota.”
“Nobody wants to hurt Father John.” Aunt Rose shook her head, as if to banish an intolerable idea.
“Father Joseph had been at the mission only two weeks. Why would anyone want him dead?”
“He used to be here.”
“Thirty-five years ago.” Vicky got to her feet and began to circle the small space that divided the refrigerator and stove from a bank of cabinets. “I remember.I was in the second grade. He used to visit the classroom and tell us to be good students, a credit to our families. Do our people proud.”
“He was a nice man.”
“Well, he didn’t know anything about kids.” Vicky slapped the palm of her hand on the counter. “He was arrogant and—” She swallowed, surprised at the idea that had come to mind. “A little scary.”
“Scary?” Aunt Rose threw her head back and gave a little laugh. “He was real shy, that’s a fact. Used to talk in big words. Half the time nobody knew what he was
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