No one left, p.19
No One Left, page 19
They went to Judge Winters’s office after that, looking for help. And the judge sent them to Lester Tallsalt.
But in the dream, Janice snatched Adriel from George’s side, and George froze. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. He watched her drag Adriel away from him. He felt the hot tears that really had been there that day. He woke up breathing heavily. Forgetting where he was. Especially now, in this unfamiliar place.
And Adriel. Adriel—who wouldn’t touch George during the day. Who had come to resent him. Who wouldn’t listen to him. Wouldn’t look at him, if he could avoid it. Adriel would burrow into him in the dark dead of the night, grab onto him, and George would think, It’s all worth it, after all.
55
MOLLY
James was home, and Molly was happy to be with him. They sat with the record player low, as the rays from the setting sun sliced into the living room and fell at their feet.
Private basked in the day’s final pool of vitamin D. He looked so cute and content. It took Molly a lot of effort to resist the urge to go pet him and wake him up.
James was writing up a request for one of the Shiprock police officers to obtain another warrant. This one was a little complex, he’d said. He would have to get into all the Donald Andrews financial hullabaloo. Revealing the holder of a bank account was no small thing. James had spent a lot of the afternoon staring at nothing, eyebrows furrowed, occasionally muttering or shaking his head, followed by some scribbling.
He had tasked Molly with reviewing Bobby Tate’s cases again. He was going to visit Tate in Albuquerque, and Molly tried not to think of how annoyed she was that she would once again be stuck at home. James hadn’t set up a meeting. He wanted to show up unannounced, which meant during office hours—when Molly would most certainly be in school.
James assured her that what she was doing was critical. He hadn’t even read through all the Bobby Tate cases himself. But now that Tate was following Peter, they needed information. Molly noticed that Tate hadn’t been involved in a case in almost two years. She wondered about this. Maybe he’d switched areas of law. She made a note for her dad.
Molly got up to get a coffee, and Private lifted his head a bit, opened one eye, decided she would be in no danger in the kitchen, and went back to sleep. For a rez dog, he seemed to have made himself comfortable indoors pretty quickly.
She took three long, satisfying sips of coffee before picking up the next case. A custody case. She read through the transcript, willing her eyes and brain to slow down. To actually read and not just skim.
This one was much older—about twelve years ago—and strange. There were redactions. The father’s entire name had been redacted, as well as the mother’s surname. But her first name was still there. Janice. Molly sat up straighter, tried to make sense of what she was reading. Janice whoever had gained full custody of their daughter after Judge Winters found there was sufficient proof of abuse from the husband.
“Dad!” Molly was on her feet before James could respond. She waved the case above her head. “Janice!”
“Janice Stone?” James asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. James was up now, walking toward her. She handed him the case. “It’s been redacted.”
She watched his eyebrows go up as he read. “A daughter,” he muttered. “Didn’t see any signs of a daughter. Could be a coincidence.”
“Could be,” Molly agreed.
“But . . . it might connect Janice to this Bobby Tate fella. If it is her. We need to find out what’s redacted there. Maybe Mr. Tate will enlighten me.”
Molly nodded seriously, wishing she could go with him.
“Hey,” James said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Great find, kid. Great find.” He pulled her in for a hug.
56
RONNIE
Ronnie Cody had tasked his most competent eyes and ears man to figure out what the fuck was going on down in Albuquerque. There had been way too many busts lately. Someone was snitching. Ronnie didn’t wait for Cecil to notice the slowdown. Couldn’t afford to. His dad had important shit to do, which had been made clear to Ronnie his whole life. This part was Ronnie’s job, and if he fucked it up enough that Cecil needed to get involved, it wouldn’t be his job for long.
When Ronnie’s man came back to tell him that he had identified the informant, Ronnie was annoyed to find out it was the fag at the new fag bar. He’d known all along he shouldn’t have trusted him. He could handle this one himself. He wanted to.
Ronnie wore a ski mask and gloves. He wouldn’t be seen; he’d make sure of that. But he didn’t want to be sloppy in any way. He waited outside, watched these men who might as well have been beat-up looking chicks go in and out of the bar. Ronnie hadn’t been inside yet. They always met somewhere else. That place made Ronnie sick. But he kept watching anyway. Waited for the bar to clear out after last call.
Finally, Ronnie saw him. Isaiah Winters was alone. He shoved his hands in his pockets and put his head down.
Ronnie followed him for a couple of blocks before jumping him. He pulled him into an alleyway, covered the guy’s mouth. The fag was pissing himself. Crying.
“Please,” he said. It was muffled, but Ronnie knew it was what he’d said. It was what most people said in this situation. Isaiah tried to say something else, but Ronnie plunged the knife into his side and said, “Shut the fuck up.”
Isaiah gasped as Ronnie untangled himself from the bleeding man and let him crumple to the ground.
“Bobby Tate,” Isaiah panted.
“Who?” Ronnie asked.
“He sent you.”
“No,” Ronnie said. “I sent me. You’re a fucking rat. This is what happens.”
Tears streamed down Isaiah’s face as he clutched his side.
“Who the fuck is Bobby Tate?” Ronnie asked.
But Isaiah was past talking. He was taking his last breaths now.
Damn it, Ronnie thought. Should’ve let him talk.
57
BARBARA
Barbara had visited two of the families on the children’s home intake list that morning and was drained. She needed a break, so she stopped at the Shiprock Chapter office to look into this Robert John’s membership files.
As a councilwoman, Barbara had special privileges. Not just anyone had access to these files. Family members of the individual, sometimes. But this information was generally confidential.
What Barbara knew about Robert John from asking around was that there wasn’t much to know. He was new to the reservation. Hadn’t lived there for most of his life. She had managed to find a Navajo Times article from when he was appointed to Jackson’s court last year. There was a small bio. Born on the reservation. Adopted out to a family from the suburbs outside of Albuquerque. Graduated from the University of New Mexico School of Law in 1965. But when Barbara called the University of New Mexico School of Law, they had no record of a Robert John graduating that year. No Robs or Robbies or Bobs or Bobbies, either. No Johns at all.
But in the Diné membership files, there were a fair number of Johns. Only one Robert John, though. Born in 1939 to Allison and Ernest John. Allison’s parents were the Claws, who Barbara knew of, though not well. Ernest’s parents were Darlene John (née King) and Jarvis John. There were death certificates for all six. She looked for any surviving relatives. Aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters. She found a Lorraine Claw, sister of Allison, and a Christopher King, cousin of Ernest.
Christopher lived in Phoenix now, but Lorraine was still close enough, over in Kirtland. She had no idea if Lorraine would remember her nephew—or if she even knew he existed. But perhaps she knew him well. Perhaps they had a relationship. The records didn’t tell much of a story. Birth records, death records, marriage records, most recent known mailing address. A path, perhaps. But not the steps along the way. The relationships were a mystery. Who had left because they intended never to speak to their family again? Who had stayed and taken care of one another?
Most days, Barbara felt like a machine. Today, she felt like a person with real limits. She wasn’t ready to go back to the list of children, so she ate her egg salad sandwich in the car and drove to Kirtland.
The town of Kirtland kissed the outermost edge of the reservation. Lorraine lived on the same road as a high school, in a yellow-painted, ranch-style brick home. As she approached the front door, Barbara could smell something cooking. Beans maybe. Or mushrooms. She knocked and listened for signs of Lorraine.
“You just wait one minute out there,” a faint voice said. And then, a stooped woman maybe twenty years older than Barbara opened the door and frowned at her from behind the screen.
“If you’re coming to talk about that election coming up, I’m not voting.”
The woman turned to close the door when Barbara said, “I’m here about Allison.”
The older woman stopped and turned back around. “Allison?”
“Your sister.”
The old woman sighed, slow and deep, and it appeared to pain her.
“Allison is dead. Has been for some time.”
“I know,” Barbara said. “But I’d like to ask you a few questions about her.”
The woman gave her a tired look, but said, “All right, then.” She pushed the screen door open with one hand, and Barbara went in.
Lorraine gestured wordlessly to the couch before disappearing into the kitchen. Barbara took it as an invitation and sat. She looked around. The room was clean and warm, and there were various chairs and benches and sofas scattered around, each covered in pillows and folded blankets.
Lorraine came back in, cupping her hands around a mug of something hot. She handed it to Barbara, again without a word, and then went back to the kitchen. She came out with a mug for herself and sat across from Barbara. She stretched her short legs all the way out and pointed and flexed her feet a few times.
“At my age, you’ve got to keep your blood moving. It’s funny. I never expected to outlast everyone.”
Lorraine had a low, scratchy voice that was pleasant to listen to. There was a joke behind her words, it seemed, just by the way she said them. An expectation of a laugh. Barbara marveled in that moment at how she never took this for granted. Sitting in a fellow Diné’s home, listening to their story.
“I should probably do more stretching,” Barbara admitted. “I’m already starting to feel my age.”
“Oh, honey, it’s only just begun for you.” At that, Lorraine did laugh, and Barbara liked the sound of that, too. It made her smile.
They sat quietly and sipped, staring into the fireplace.
“Allison was a curious little thing when we were young,” Lorraine finally said. “The questions she would ask our elders!” Another chuckle. “Auntie, why do you have hairs above your lip like my father? Auntie, why is your tummy so fat? Auntie, do all boys have that weird thing between their legs?” Lorraine winked. “Even when she got a little older, she was still hard to embarrass or shock. She just wanted to know things.”
Lorraine sipped her tea. “I wonder now if she lived that way because she somehow knew that her time here would be short. She needed to take it all in while she could. Collect as much knowledge as she could, damned what anyone else thought.”
“What happened to her?” Barbara asked.
“Car accident. That husband of hers was nothing but pain and suffering. She married too young to realize there was better out there. Much better. He was drunk, of course. Crashed right into a guardrail and sent them spinning. They both died.” She shook her head. She hadn’t mentioned a child yet.
“Did you know . . .” Barbara began. Her voice was quieter than she intended, but before she could continue, Lorraine finished the sentence for her.
“About the boy?”
“Yes,” Barbara said. “About the little boy.”
“Of course I did. Little Robert.” Lorraine shook her head again. “I adored that baby.”
“What happened to him?”
“That . . .” Lorraine lifted her eyebrows and pointed up at the air. “That was a bad year for Allison.”
“The year Robert was born?”
“The year Robert was born. First, Ernest lost his job while Allison was pregnant. Then, Allison lost hers, too, when she had to leave to have the baby. It was a hard birth. It took her a long time to recover.”
Lorraine stood up abruptly and left the room. Barbara wasn’t sure if she should follow her, so she just waited. A few minutes later, Lorraine returned holding a framed photograph. It was a baby. He had round cheeks. A mischievous smile.
“This was him,” Lorraine said. “And we all loved him. Oh, we loved him so much. We told Allison we’d take him. We’d raise him. But that was also the year that Ernest hit her for the first time. She didn’t tell us. But the second time, when he threw her up against the wall while she was still recovering from childbirth, she couldn’t hide it. She was bleeding a lot. We had to take her to the hospital.”
“I’m sorry,” Barbara said.
“Me too,” Lorraine said. “That baby was gone before his first birthday. She said she wanted him somewhere Ernest couldn’t find him.”
Lorraine turned the photo back around and lovingly wiped the dust from the frame with her thumb.
“Maybe the adoption was a blessing,” Lorraine said. “Maybe the car accident was, too. In its own way.”
Barbara felt the weight of what she was about to say quicken her heart.
“Lorraine,” Barbara said. “I have some news about Robert. Why don’t you sit back down?”
58
KAY
Other than the small lamp next to Kay’s bed, the only light in the hotel room came from the television. Kay wasn’t watching. She was reading Lester Tallsalt’s Navajo enrollment and membership records. Tallsalt was wanted now for harboring a murder suspect, and Wayne had gathered what he could from the Kayenta Chapter records, the newspaper archives, and the police reports.
Kay set the records down on the bed and rubbed her eyes. She tried to imagine what it would be like to look at the world from First Woman’s eyes. To watch humans make the same mistakes over and over, to hurt one another in the same way for thousands of years. For Kay, it was tiring enough for one lifetime.
Lester Tallsalt, it turned out, had gone to a boarding school as a child. No surprise there. He’d had a son in the 1940s who was also sent away—but this time, to a Mormon family in Utah as part of the LDS Indian Student Placement Program. Kay had heard of this. Back before the new high school opened in Shiprock, she’d known of parents who sent their children to live with Mormon families in Utah for nine months out of the year. She’d been skeptical of the program even before she saw the letters the program sent home, urging parents not to visit over the holidays, lest the children become homesick. That left her seriously disgusted.
It seemed that the program hadn’t been any good for Lester’s son, either, who had some arrest records and eventually disappeared from the reservation completely sometime in the last five years.
Kay remembered the photo of the adult Tallsalt with the young girl. Not his daughter, then. There was no record of a daughter. Perhaps she was a part of this Mormon family? Tallsalt had looked so happy with her. Kay couldn’t make sense of it.
She picked up the records again, combing for more information about the LDS program. There it was. A family name. The Bensons. Betty and Thomas Benson.
Kay pushed the papers aside, got up, and knocked on the door to Wayne’s adjoining room. She hoped he was still awake. It took a minute, but he answered, still seemingly as alert as Kay.
“They might be in Utah,” she said. “We have to find this family. The Benson family.”
Wayne crossed his arms. “Start over. What family? Why Utah?”
“Tallsalt’s son lived with a family there nine months out of the year as part of that LDS Indian Student Program. There was a photograph of Tallsalt with a young girl back at the house. She looked white to me.”
Wayne’s eyebrows went up.
“They’re going to give him away!” Kay was close to shouting. She tried to lower her voice, but it didn’t sound any quieter. “To a family who can speak to him in sign language!” Kay grabbed the sketches from the dresser and thrust them at Wayne.
“We don’t know that,” he said in his stupid, calming cop voice, making Kay feel manipulated. She wasn’t some criminal he was about to arrest. She was trying to make him see what was right in front of his face.
“Look.” Wayne uncrossed his arms and put his hands up either in surrender—which Kay knew he wasn’t doing—or else pleadingly. “This is a great find. You’re right that we do need to speak with this family. Tomorrow we’ll get ourselves a phone number.”
“I have an address,” Kay said. “In the records. It’s Monticello, Utah.”
“We can start there,” Wayne said, nodding. “When is the address from?”
“1952,” Kay said. “The year Tallsalt’s son started the program.”
“It may be outdated. But we can try.”
“Thank you,” Kay said. She studied Wayne. He looked as beaten down as she felt.
“We will find him,” Wayne said, though the conviction in his voice wasn’t there anymore. “We will bring him home safe.”
“All right, Wayne,” Kay said. And though she wanted to find comfort in that, in the idea of finding Adriel and bringing him home—where she would see her students again, be with James again—she wasn’t sure anywhere was safe for these kids. The system was designed to wipe them all away, and it was so complete that it was working from the inside out.
