Wind Song (6 page)

“Is something wrong?” she asked, when Cody made no move to get out.

“It’s courteous to wait a few minutes,” he explained. No hint of his earlier antagonism shaded his voice now. As if to reestablish the earlier friendly atmosphere, he added, “Tradition warns that evil spirits may be following guests, and these
tchindees
must not be led in on friends.”

When he opened the pickup’s door, two women stepped through the hogan’s curtained doorway. The older woman, who toted several folded rugs, was dressed in the typical flounced skirt, velveteen blouse and men’s work boots. The younger, contrastingly, wore jeans and a pink tee shirt printed with the words
Navajo Power.

When the two got closer, Abbie could see that the older woman had skin the texture of a wadded paper sack. She wore her hair in the traditional squash-blossom knot. Her blouse had silver quarters and dimes that served as buttons—for trading at the post for purchases. With a start of surprise Abbie recognized the younger woman.

“Hello, Dalah,” she called out warmly, glad to see a familiar face.

Dalah grinned and waved. Cody took the rugs from the old woman and tossed them in the back of the pickup. She murmured something to him and turned to leave, but Dalah walked with Cody around to Abbie’s side of the pickup.

Cody opened the door and said, “You already know Dalah, Mrs. Dennis. She’s going with us.” Abbie had no choice but to slide over to the center of the seat. A spring stuck up beneath the worn seatcovers, tilting her against Cody. Never had she felt more like a fifth wheel. And she also felt very old sitting next to the young, effervescent Dalah.

Dalah talked easily of subject after subject, starting with the rugs that were highly valued for their beauty and durability. “I’m taking them to Tuba City, where they bring a better price because of the tourist trade.” Of the next sing she said, “It’s going to be held at the Tribal Chapter House.” An exhibit that she had read about in
Southwestern Art
also interested her. “Paul Speckled Rock will be showing his sculptures at Flagstaff’s Anasazi Gallery of Art. You know, Mrs. Dennis, Cody’s jewelry is on display there.”

“How nice,” Abbie said with a glance at Cody’s noncommittal expression. A hard face, certainly an uncompromising one. But sometimes she unexpectedly caught a light of compassion in his eyes—with the boy Robert, later with Dalah’s mother when he took the rugs. She couldn’t help adding, “So even the Indian is disposed to crass, capitalistic commercialism.”

He grinned amiably and laid his arm along the back of the seat. “Oh, the Indians had been involved in commerce, Mrs. Dennis, even before they were persuaded to trade Manhattan for a couple of beaded necklaces.”

“Touche,”
Abbie said, ceding that particular victory to him.

The rest of the ride into Tuba City was mixed with the radio’s BIA Navajo program, indecipherable to her, and spurts of conversation between Dalah and Cody. From certain things that were said, Abbie interpreted that he wasn’t married.

Damn’t, why should that please me?!

She was acutely aware of his arm above her shoulders, his thigh touching hers. Like an infatuated schoolgirl, she thought with self-disgust. She recalled her first date with Brad and the breathless wait to see if he would kiss her. Would Cody?
Damn!
She really must be going through a midlife crisis!

Cody swung the pickup into the Western Navajo Agency’s paved parking lot. As if he had been waiting for them, Marshall came out and crossed to the pickup with eager strides. He leaned on Dalah’s open window. “Hi, Dalah.” His welcoming smile lingered on Abbie. “Glad you could make it, Abbie. Thanks for bringing her, Cody.”

“I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity for the world.”

Marshall seemed oblivious to the mockery in Cody’s tone and went on to explain that Cody and Dalah had agreed to join them later for dinner. Abbie’s vision of a pleasant evening rapidly faded. With the prospect of a challenging, combative meeting with Cody in her mind, the day lost some of its luster.

On the trip into Flagstaff she told Marshall about some of the pleasure and pain she found in teaching the Indian children. He listened, laughed and agreed with her observations, particularly about the need for firepit guards in the hogans.

“Marshall, the little ones who leave for the weekend often return with bad burns. Some are already scarred for life. Wendy Tso came back Sunday night with her palm badly blistered. Someone needs to convince the Indians that their hogans must have some kind of guards in front of the firepits.”

“Try telling that to the Indian Tribal Council,” he said gloomily. “There are some customs and superstitions that are difficult to break. The firepit is their stove, heater, ceremonial center. To alter its design”—he shook his head in a weary gesture —“it’d be like our trying to buck city hall.”

The soaring San Francisco Peaks, sacred to the Navajo, and the increasing number of ponderosa pines and quaking aspens announced the proximity of Flagstaff. Fields of sunflowers banked either side of the superhighway. Despite its frontier charm the area boasted many modern industries.

While Marshall visited an office supply house in the new Flagstaff Mall, she desultorily shopped at some of its boutiques but found nothing she really wanted or could afford.

Somehow the fads and frills seemed frivolous to her now. After Marshall finished, they stopped off at the community hospital, where she requested a supply of medicated salve. Later they shopped at an enormous modern supermarket. They each pushed a cart and checked items off the teachers’ order forms.

“I never knew I could miss shopping so!” she said, restraining the impulse to put a little of everything into her cart.

Too soon, dinnertime approached. Marshall chose Granny’s Closet, a restaurant that resembled an old mining office. The interior was elaborate, with a decor out of the twenties. Soft music emanated from the lounge area, which was dim. Abbie could make out college couples dancing cheek to cheek. How often had she and Brad done that? Three or four times in twenty years? It seemed that instead of dancing there had always been business deals to negotiate over after-dinner drinks. Yet most of the time Brad had been involved in what had seemed, to her, an unproductive life—golf, poker, tennis, cocktail parties.

On the far side of the dance floor, she saw Dalah and Cody already seated on one of the lounge’s deep sofas, talking across two large glasses of what appeared to be frozen margaritas. Cody’s arm was draped along the back of the sofa behind Dalah’s head. He said something to Dalah, leaning close to make himself heard, and she laughed merrily.

Marshall steered Abbie through the maze of small tables. Despite all the noise, the muted lights, the press of people, she knew exactly at what point Cody became aware that she was in the room, though she was sure he hadn’t yet seen her. The knowledge was like a lightning bolt, stunning her.

Was there indeed something to the chemical attraction theory?

Self-consciously she acknowledged Dalah’s happy greeting and Cody’s nod. Unless she wanted to appear obviously rude—or, more likely, betray the unsettling effect he had on her—she would have to make eye contact with Cody at some point. She slid into the tufted barrel chair across from the low sofa. “How went your day?” she asked, forcing her gaze to meet his heavy- lidded one.

Beneath the bandana, his eyes seemed to study hers briefly; then his gaze dropped to her mouth. This she was used to by now, for the Navajos tended to watch the lips rather than the eyes when conversing. Still, she found his gaze on her mouth strangely disconcerting. “Profitable,” he said.

“Yes,” Dalah said with enthusiasm. “Not only were the rugs snapped up by the Indian Arts Center, but a representative of the Dallas Trade Center was there. He wants to take Cody’s work on commission.”

“Great!” Marshall said. “At this rate you’ll never have to go back to roughnecking around the oil fields again.”

Cody cocked a grin. “I still think about it when the checks are slow to arrive.”

Marshall began talking about the closing of the reservation’s coal mines, deferring to Cody for an opinion. Cody merely shrugged. “It’s a catch-22. The tribal council could have placed more lenient conditions on the companies that came onto the reservation to mine. Things like the mandatory employment of Navajos as superintendents, the guarantee that a percentage of the profit go back to the Navajo Nation, the reclamation of the land, are all hard for them to work with.

“But then,” Cody added, “the United States government pays the Navajo anyway, so most of the men wonder why they should work at all. We’re being emasculated, and it’s as much our fault as the government’s.”

Cody turned the talk to a lighter subject, and the conversation flowed easily until Dalah excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and Marshall left to check on their dinner reservations. Abbie was left alone with Cody. She pretended interest in the couples on the dance floor. Why hadn’t she thought of going to the ladies’ room with Dalah?

She nearly jumped when Cody rose. “Let’s dance, Abbie,” he said quietly.

It was the first time that he had used her given name, and the way he said it—it was like he had actually reached out and touched her. She forced herself to look up calmly into his dark face.  Her stomach took a nose-dive.   “All right.”

The tune was an old one, and she went into his arms with racing emotions that she tried to rein in. She looked anywhere but up into his eyes. Other women eyed Cody surreptitiously. Undoubtedly he was handsome in a rugged way. He carried himself with a proud grace and exuded an animal magnetism. Despite his Indian appearance, he fit easily into the disco scene along with the cowboys, college students and stocky lumberjacks present on the dance floor. She offered no resistance when his encircling arm at her waist firmly pulled her closer to him. Yet his mere touch rattled her. How did he so easily drain her of will power?
Perhaps tales of vampires enclaved on distant Skeleton Mesa were true.

* * * * *

Cody had wanted to hold her against him ever since he met her. He held her now, his hand lowering to firmly press her hips against his, so that his body was keenly attuned to her feminine contours. Had he foolishly thought that by merely holding her he would lose interest? Was it her icy reserve that challenged him? She acted like some damn royal princess. Yet there had been other women in his life . . . beautiful, elegant, poised.

Yet it was more than that. She had a presence that couldn’t be bought with money or absorbed from her environment. Her voice was soft and low with a gentle assurance and without the strident tones of some women.

He had noted her ring finger, encircled by a simple gold wedding band. Why was she separated from her husband—and did she love the man? He told himself that she was running, that soon she would run back, that he did not intend to be part of her catharsis while she was there.

He pulled her tightly to him, as if by causing her pain he could shatter her self-containment. Her breasts flattened against his chest. He wished he could bury himself in her. She tilted her head back to look at him, her lips softly parted, her eyes reflecting her confusion. “I have other plans tonight,” he said harshly. “Marshall will have to take you back to Kaibeto.”

“He was going to anyway,” she snapped and walked off the dance floor to join Dalah and Marshall, who were engrossed in conversation.

* * * * *

Rude. Detestable. Arrogant. Then why the magic? That was the only way Abbie could think to describe that moment when Cody had held her. What had happened to her practicality, her logic, her analytical reasoning?

The rest of the evening—the interminable dinner, the long drive back to Kaibeto with Marshall, the storing of the groceries in the cafeteria for distribution later—all seemed a blur, even the moment when Marshall parked the car in front of her apartment and took her in his arms. She had responded with a light kiss, her first kiss in more than twenty years from any man other than her husband. And she had felt nothing. He hadn’t pressed her for more, simply left with a promise to come by soon.

Monday morning before class she toted the cardboard box of aspirin, salve and other medicines that she had obtained from the hospital over to the children’s dormitory. She knew that Dalah had the Sunday morning shift off. Had she spent the night with Cody?

Really, she must put the odious man from her mind. She wanted no more entanglements to complicate the life she was making for herself.

She found Dalah going down a line of little girls, lifting their skirts. The Indian girl looked up at Abbie and grinned. “Panty check,” she explained. “Our more traditional women don’t wear underwear beneath their long skirts, so we have to retrain their daughters.”

Laughing, Abbie held out the box she carried. “I’ve brought more supplies—soap, shampoo and other items.”

She was about to leave when Dalah forestalled her with a copy of
Southwestern Art.
“It’s the article I was telling you about—about Cody,” the Indian girl said proudly. “I thought maybe you would like to read it.”

During the morning break Abbie glanced over the three-column article, feeling strangely dissatisfied. The author had written about Cody’s technique at silversmithing, the purity of the designs that were untouched by foreign influence, the following he was gathering in the art world, but little about the man himself. There wasn’t even a photo. She sensed that that was Cody’s doing, that he would resent an invasion of his privacy.