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Authors: Andi Marquette
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relaxed and--what was the word I wanted? Mature? Holy shit, yes. Mature. I set my phone on the counter and finished my tea. When was the last time we'd just hung out together? I pursed my lips, thinking. Not this past Christmas. We'd all been in Tucson for a couple days and Kara did some bonding with Sage but not with me. It had been over a year. Maybe things could be different this time.
I rinsed my bottle out and took it to the recycling bin in the mud room before I returned to my computer, where I sat staring at the crumpled-up article from Saturday's Journal . I hadn't pursued it further, too weirded out at the possible connection to Sage's dad. Still, I wanted to know more about how things worked on Indian land and I was particularly interested in Navajo beliefs about death. I reached over and turned on the receiver to the small stereo system I'd installed in this room. I tuned it to KUNM, a local public radio station, and reached for the piece of paper on which Sage had written Ellen Tsosie's e-mail address.
Chapter Four
"DO YOU THINK I'm uptight?" I tried to sound nonchalant as I cut into my enchilada, watching Sage out of the corner of my eye. She sat at the end of the table and I sat to her right.
She served herself from the ceramic bowl that held the Spanish rice. "In what sense?"
"Any."
"That's not a fair question," she said. "We all have uptight moments, depending on the circumstances. Myself a case in point these past couple of days." She arched an eyebrow and smiled at me.
"Okay," I conceded. "Uptight all around. In the existential sense."
Sage cleared her throat. I looked at her. She was struggling not to laugh.
"What? It's a legitimate question." I pretended offense.
She put her fork down and reached over to take my hand. "Honey, you have got to stop taking what Kara says so personally."
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
"Kara always teases you about...what?"
I grimaced. "My anal research streak."
"And you talked to her yesterday. This question never comes up unless someone teases you about it."
I shook my head. "Am I that predictable? Damn."
She squeezed my hand and released it. "No. Just about certain things. This is one of them." She reached for her water glass.
I finished another delectable bite. "I love your cooking." I waggled my eyebrows at her. "I'm the luckiest woman on the planet."
Sage smiled and served herself another enchilada from the pan. "I'd argue that I am."
I watched her for a moment, seeing a shadow in her expression that disappeared as quickly as it had come. I put my fork down. "This thing with your dad--what would help you come to some kind of resolution with it?"
She looked up at me and for the first time in the two years I had known her, I saw wisps of uncertainty in her eyes. I reached for her hand. She interlaced her fingers with mine.
"This is going to sound weird," she started.
"I doubt it." I squeezed her hand. Life with Sage was sometimes like living with a mystic. Something about the wind-and time-carved Wyoming landscapes of her childhood opened other senses for her. Sage grew into one of those people who carried an inner wisdom that many of us didn't have or that we chose to ignore. Our own connections to bigger things seemed so unimportant in the mundanities of our lives. But if you stop to think about it, everything is about connection to bigger things. Sage was always aware of that. Most of us weren't.
"Something's brewing." She studied our joined hands, resting on the table. "You know how you can tell a storm's coming even if there're no clouds? Like during monsoon season." She looked up at me. "That's what it feels like. And it's put me out of sorts."
I waited, stroking the back of her hand with my thumb.
"It's not good energy, whatever it is. There's sadness and anger." She lowered her gaze back to our hands. "And fear." She sighed.
"Your dad's in this mix?"
She nodded, a distant, troubled expression in her eyes.
"What do you
I rinsed my bottle out and took it to the recycling bin in the mud room before I returned to my computer, where I sat staring at the crumpled-up article from Saturday's Journal . I hadn't pursued it further, too weirded out at the possible connection to Sage's dad. Still, I wanted to know more about how things worked on Indian land and I was particularly interested in Navajo beliefs about death. I reached over and turned on the receiver to the small stereo system I'd installed in this room. I tuned it to KUNM, a local public radio station, and reached for the piece of paper on which Sage had written Ellen Tsosie's e-mail address.
Chapter Four
"DO YOU THINK I'm uptight?" I tried to sound nonchalant as I cut into my enchilada, watching Sage out of the corner of my eye. She sat at the end of the table and I sat to her right.
She served herself from the ceramic bowl that held the Spanish rice. "In what sense?"
"Any."
"That's not a fair question," she said. "We all have uptight moments, depending on the circumstances. Myself a case in point these past couple of days." She arched an eyebrow and smiled at me.
"Okay," I conceded. "Uptight all around. In the existential sense."
Sage cleared her throat. I looked at her. She was struggling not to laugh.
"What? It's a legitimate question." I pretended offense.
She put her fork down and reached over to take my hand. "Honey, you have got to stop taking what Kara says so personally."
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
"Kara always teases you about...what?"
I grimaced. "My anal research streak."
"And you talked to her yesterday. This question never comes up unless someone teases you about it."
I shook my head. "Am I that predictable? Damn."
She squeezed my hand and released it. "No. Just about certain things. This is one of them." She reached for her water glass.
I finished another delectable bite. "I love your cooking." I waggled my eyebrows at her. "I'm the luckiest woman on the planet."
Sage smiled and served herself another enchilada from the pan. "I'd argue that I am."
I watched her for a moment, seeing a shadow in her expression that disappeared as quickly as it had come. I put my fork down. "This thing with your dad--what would help you come to some kind of resolution with it?"
She looked up at me and for the first time in the two years I had known her, I saw wisps of uncertainty in her eyes. I reached for her hand. She interlaced her fingers with mine.
"This is going to sound weird," she started.
"I doubt it." I squeezed her hand. Life with Sage was sometimes like living with a mystic. Something about the wind-and time-carved Wyoming landscapes of her childhood opened other senses for her. Sage grew into one of those people who carried an inner wisdom that many of us didn't have or that we chose to ignore. Our own connections to bigger things seemed so unimportant in the mundanities of our lives. But if you stop to think about it, everything is about connection to bigger things. Sage was always aware of that. Most of us weren't.
"Something's brewing." She studied our joined hands, resting on the table. "You know how you can tell a storm's coming even if there're no clouds? Like during monsoon season." She looked up at me. "That's what it feels like. And it's put me out of sorts."
I waited, stroking the back of her hand with my thumb.
"It's not good energy, whatever it is. There's sadness and anger." She lowered her gaze back to our hands. "And fear." She sighed.
"Your dad's in this mix?"
She nodded, a distant, troubled expression in her eyes.
"What do you
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