26 – The Old Man
They drove northwest. Reservations
infested the region like amusement parks, encircling Phoenix as if around a
circle of wagons. Mike remembered the details of the road though he had come
there only once. Over and over he had travelled it in his head, each time
imagining himself begging the Old man's forgiveness. Now the wheels of the
silver Pinto kicked up the dust, bounding over the dirt road like a real steed.
"Are you all right?" Marie asked,
touching Mike's hand on the wheel, polished nails shimmering in the light like
tiny knives.
"No."
"What's wrong? You never said."
What wasn't, he thought, but mumbled:
"Nothing."
He had no way to explain the feeling, the ache
inside his head when he sensed something wrong. The whole affair with Gil had
left him more confused than when he'd come-- and slightly empty. He lacked
Chris' loyalty to clan upon which to lean during hard times. The rituals of his
mother's blood long washed out of him. He felt trapped but didn't know by whom
or what. Worse than on the farm with the cops closing in.
He needed clarification. Only the old man
could give him that.
The headlight bobbed over the dark yard,
eliciting pieces of the place, concession stand, faded tee-peas, signs for arts
& crafts. Like some child's show paled by too much exposure to the sun.
For the tourists, Mike's mother had
said.
The tourists expected tee-peas, and totems,
and weaved baskets, and blankets. The mixture of cultures mattered little to
them. They learned their history from television westerns where all had been
combined into one large mass of savage mythology all labeled under the vague
description of "Indian."
But behind the facade of souvenirs, a proud
race decayed. There were no ovens here, or guards, but death stalked the red
man as if there was, killing the culture with alcohol and regulations. The fact
the place remained at all surprised Mike with the way Phoenix expanded. He'd
almost expected to find another retirement village here, or citrus groves.
The old man stood on the porch of a shack, the
walls and roof crumbling around him, his face and raised hand as gnarled as
dark wood, illuminated briefly in the headlights. He didn't smile or move, but
waited with the mixed facial expression of a totem pole as Mike parked the car.
"Wait here," Mike told Marie.
"Why?"
"Because he hates white people."
"You're half white."
"I know," Mike said, staring out
into the dark where the old man waited. "And so does he."
He slammed the door and slowly crossed the
broken earth. Dried ruts of car tires showed the devastation of recent rain,
the gushing rain that had ripped up the top soil making farming futile.
"Hello," Mike said, stopping at the
foot of the sagging porch steps.
"You've come," the old man said.
"Yes."
"To talk?"
"To find some answers."
The old man said nothing for a moment, his
eyes half closed. Starlight shimmered over his face, revealing lines like those
of a tree, his nose and mouth protruding from them like knots. Slowly the head
shook from side to side. "No answers now," he said. "Your blood
fights itself. There can never be peace in you."
"But what if I find this man, Buckingham?
Will I find peace outside of the country?"
The old man's eyes opened, laughter showing in
them. But the humor did not spread to the rest of the face. "There is love
in such places," he said. "But you must know how to look for
it."
Relief spread through Mike like a chill. He
had other questions, but the old man turned away, back into the dark building.
"Thank you, old one," Mike whispered
and hurried across the broken ground to the car. Only then did he realize he'd
been sweating.
"So? What did he say?" Marie asked.
"I'm not sure it translates well,"
Mike mumbled and turned the key, the car engine leaping to life under them.
"But I think we're on the right track. We've got to find Buckingham."
"How?" Marie asked.
Mike grinned. "By taking an ad out in the
newspaper, of course."
"Huh?"
"In L.A. there's an underground
newspaper," Mike said, turning the car back the way they'd come, tires
thumping over the ruts.
There is love in such places, the old
man had said. What did he mean? Partnership? Friendship? Did Mike know
Buckingham without knowing it?
"Mikie," Marie whispered, grabbing
hold of his arm. He blinked out of his thoughts.
"What is it?"
"I saw something out there," she
said, pointing off to the sides of the road as the headlights swung around
across the carnival-like face of the village. Pale faces floated between the
tee-peas. Strange small men dressed in suits and ties like a batch of bankers
plucked from board room and bank. He blinked, but they remained, flashlights
cropping up in their hands on three-- now four sides. They didn't look like
cops, nor did they fit the kind of army Mike imagined Buckingham to have.
"Daddy's men," Marie muttered as
Mike steered the car around the small patch of graveled earth tourists used for
parking.
"Tinkertons? Here?" Mike said in
utter disbelief. The road here from Detroit had twisted too much for them to
have followed. Not to this place where the old man waited. Even Mike hadn't
known to come here until an hour ago. And yet someone else knew Mike well
enough to predict it, and hated Mike enough to call them in. Just who didn't
matter half as much as escaping them.
"Hold on, Marie," he shouted and
aimed the car towards the on-coming flashlights and pressed down hard on the
gas.
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