Joe Spencer?”
“She was one of his three daughters.”
“Ouch!” The old woman had poked the wickedly sharp needle past the rim of her brass thimble, where it plunged deep into her finger, right to the bone. She pulled the thimble off, sucked at a drop of blood, and glared at Charlie Moon as if he were responsible for her injury. “Oh, sure—Astrid. And Cassandra, she’s the one on TV. But who’s the third one?”
“Beatrice.” Moon smiled at his aunt. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with that rich man’s family.”
“Well, there are lots and lots of things you don’t know—enough to fill a five-story library full of books.” Daisy shot her nephew a smug look. “Joe Spencer and his wife used to visit the reservation every summer. When that pale-skinned man got too much sun, he used to get sores on his head and neck. More’n once, I let him have some of my Ute medicine for skin cancers.” The fact that the “Ute” medication was Navajo Hisiiyáaníí oil and that Daisy had sold the pungent yellow salve to the wealthy man for a five-hundred-percent markup was a trifling detail that she did not bother to trouble her memory for. “I used to see them two or three times every year. And even after his wife died, every once in a while ol’ Joe would bring his pretty little daughters to a powwow or bear dance or rodeo. And once or twice I saw them at a sun dance.”
He took a sip of coffee. “I don’t recall ever meeting any of the Spencers on the res.”
“That’s because you spent so much time hanging out with riffraff.” Daisy puckered her lips, sucked another drop of blood from the needle puncture before saying, “A person don’t meet high-class people like the Spencers in stinky poolrooms and dirt-floor bars.” Having sucked her fingertip bloodless, Daisy commenced with her sewing. “Those girls was just like stair steps—must’ve been about two or three years between ’em. This Astrid that got killed—was she the littlest one?”
“I expect so. She was the youngest.” Moon twisted a tablespoon in a jar of honey, dunked the sweetener into his coffee.
Daisy held the unfinished baby vest up to the sunlight shining through the east window. Something don’t look quite right. I think it needs more white beads in with the blue ones. But not so many yellow ones . “Sometimes I can’t remember what I had for supper last night, but I remember them little girls all right. And I recall something that happened to them—just as clear as day—even though it must’ve been almost thirty years ago.” In an attempt to conjure up the long-lost scene, the aged shaman stared intently at the beadwork thunderbird. “I believe it happened at a rodeo.” A slow shake of the old gray head. “Or maybe a powwow.” She scowled at the blank space in front of her face. “No, it was a big matukach to-do.”
He tasted the honeyed coffee. “So what happened at this combination rodeo-powwow-big- matukach to-do?”
Big smart aleck . But Auntie smiled. “One of the bigger girls won a prize of some kind. The one with the yellow hair.”
“That’d be Beatrice.”
“And Astrid, the littlest sister, got awfully sick.” Daisy closed her eyes to concentrate. Soon, the scenes from that memorable summer day were coming back to her. “Ol’ Joe Spencer was holding little Astrid up in his arms; him and her both was white as a bleached bedsheet, and the bigger sisters was crying, and wringing their hands, and reaching out to pat Little Sister and tell their daddy that she’d be all right.” As the memory faded, the old woman opened her eyes. “Sisters don’t always get along as good as they should. And if they’re mad about something, they can be lots meaner to each other than brothers would. That’s what they say.”
Charlie Moon assumed a solemn, philosophical expression that would have impressed Plato. Possibly even Socrates. “Don’t pay too much attention to what they say.” He pointed the
“She was one of his three daughters.”
“Ouch!” The old woman had poked the wickedly sharp needle past the rim of her brass thimble, where it plunged deep into her finger, right to the bone. She pulled the thimble off, sucked at a drop of blood, and glared at Charlie Moon as if he were responsible for her injury. “Oh, sure—Astrid. And Cassandra, she’s the one on TV. But who’s the third one?”
“Beatrice.” Moon smiled at his aunt. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with that rich man’s family.”
“Well, there are lots and lots of things you don’t know—enough to fill a five-story library full of books.” Daisy shot her nephew a smug look. “Joe Spencer and his wife used to visit the reservation every summer. When that pale-skinned man got too much sun, he used to get sores on his head and neck. More’n once, I let him have some of my Ute medicine for skin cancers.” The fact that the “Ute” medication was Navajo Hisiiyáaníí oil and that Daisy had sold the pungent yellow salve to the wealthy man for a five-hundred-percent markup was a trifling detail that she did not bother to trouble her memory for. “I used to see them two or three times every year. And even after his wife died, every once in a while ol’ Joe would bring his pretty little daughters to a powwow or bear dance or rodeo. And once or twice I saw them at a sun dance.”
He took a sip of coffee. “I don’t recall ever meeting any of the Spencers on the res.”
“That’s because you spent so much time hanging out with riffraff.” Daisy puckered her lips, sucked another drop of blood from the needle puncture before saying, “A person don’t meet high-class people like the Spencers in stinky poolrooms and dirt-floor bars.” Having sucked her fingertip bloodless, Daisy commenced with her sewing. “Those girls was just like stair steps—must’ve been about two or three years between ’em. This Astrid that got killed—was she the littlest one?”
“I expect so. She was the youngest.” Moon twisted a tablespoon in a jar of honey, dunked the sweetener into his coffee.
Daisy held the unfinished baby vest up to the sunlight shining through the east window. Something don’t look quite right. I think it needs more white beads in with the blue ones. But not so many yellow ones . “Sometimes I can’t remember what I had for supper last night, but I remember them little girls all right. And I recall something that happened to them—just as clear as day—even though it must’ve been almost thirty years ago.” In an attempt to conjure up the long-lost scene, the aged shaman stared intently at the beadwork thunderbird. “I believe it happened at a rodeo.” A slow shake of the old gray head. “Or maybe a powwow.” She scowled at the blank space in front of her face. “No, it was a big matukach to-do.”
He tasted the honeyed coffee. “So what happened at this combination rodeo-powwow-big- matukach to-do?”
Big smart aleck . But Auntie smiled. “One of the bigger girls won a prize of some kind. The one with the yellow hair.”
“That’d be Beatrice.”
“And Astrid, the littlest sister, got awfully sick.” Daisy closed her eyes to concentrate. Soon, the scenes from that memorable summer day were coming back to her. “Ol’ Joe Spencer was holding little Astrid up in his arms; him and her both was white as a bleached bedsheet, and the bigger sisters was crying, and wringing their hands, and reaching out to pat Little Sister and tell their daddy that she’d be all right.” As the memory faded, the old woman opened her eyes. “Sisters don’t always get along as good as they should. And if they’re mad about something, they can be lots meaner to each other than brothers would. That’s what they say.”
Charlie Moon assumed a solemn, philosophical expression that would have impressed Plato. Possibly even Socrates. “Don’t pay too much attention to what they say.” He pointed the
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