December 1 - December 24, 1998

CHAPTER XV

FIRST MESA

Jay and Julia bumped through the tiny village of Hano, then into Sichomovi. They couldn’t know it then, but apart from more dwellings made of cinderblock, rather than the stone and mortar ones Sal Berelli grew so familiar with during the summer of 1959 and the autumn of 1960, and more placards announcing Crafts For Sale stuck in windows, the appearance of the three adjacent villages was about the same.

Jay parked the car in the plaza outside Ponsi Hall, a one-story construction with a long wooden porch, which had been, at one point, a home, and then a church, before it was rennovated and opened as a community center.

When Julia and Jay got out of the car they immediately found themselves at the center of a band of dogs: About 25 or 30 animals formed a sequence of rings around them. The healthier dogs--the most assertive and determined--vied for position closest to Julia and Jay. The smaller and weaker ones were in a hoop around those. Others, because they were too ill, or puppies who knew they couldn't compete with their larger and more aggressive elders, hovered at the outer most periphery, or huddled against the walls of Ponsi Hall instead.

Julia shriveled as the dogs pressed in on her, as they whined and licked at her hands, trying to ferret out any kind of food she might have and be willing to share with them. She also noted a large population of orange Tabby cats. The cats seemed to be faring better than the dogs. Perhaps because there weren't so many of them.

"This way," Jay said as he took her arm and steered her through the circles.

The dogs seemed to take her revulsion with equanimity and fell back to let them pass. As Julia and Jay moved toward the entrance of Ponsi Hall, the gazes they received from the Hopis in the plaza were open and friendly, but interested only, Julia surmised, in whatever tourist dollars she and Jay might potentially spend on Hopi arts and crafts; fierce-looking Katcina figurines, intricately painted pots, finely woven baskets, brightly-colored quilts and silver jewelry. Near the entrance to Ponsi Hall, a crowd of women of all ages, all in modern dress--many of the younger ones wearing jeans and down or fiber-filled parkas--were rooting through a large mound of black plastic lawn and leaf bags, which spilled a great quantity of clothing for both sexes, and all ages.

Jay surveyed the women and then the doorway to Ponsi Hall beyond. "What now?"

"We go in, I guess," Julia said.

At the edge of the plaza but near the hall, one of the Hopi men caught her attention. He was hunkered down stroking the back of a long-eared, long-snouted, sable-colored puppy. The pup had a zip of white fur down its thin chest, and was no more than about eight weeks old. It was the most starved-looking animal in the dog pack. After giving the puppy’s left ear a final affectionate tug, the man stood up and observed Julia and Jay, repeatedly excusing themselves, while they edged through and around the women sorting through the clothing in the bags.

From the moment she saw him, Julia couldn't take her eyes off the man. He wore faded and comfortable-looking jeans, scuffed white Nikes, and a fluorescent orange and puffy, down-filled, quilted jacket. His face was pecan-colored, with the skin draped in highly polished, tight folds over his prominent cheekbones. His nose was aquiline, broadening at the nostrils. His eyes were a fierce chocolate, bright, and brimming with a certain amount of irony, yet not without a measure of good humor, too. The man stood somewhat taller than the other Hopi men, grouped singly or in clusters around the plaza. His hair was chin length and fox gray, the strands vibrantly separate. He wore a handsome low-crowned, black cowboy hat.

Julia caught a waft of roasting turkey coming from within Ponsi Hall as she and Jay moved toward the open door. Once inside, she spotted several long tables arranged in a big horseshoe and covered with plastic tablecloths of various patterns. Women moved among the tables laying down paper napkins wrapped around plastic knives and forks. Other women were setting up metal folding chairs. On other tables under one of the windows, which offered a view of the mesa's edge and a forever of Painted Desert, were five electric roasters cooking the turkeys Julia had smelled in the plaza. There were a number of hot plates with pots atop them of boiling yams and burbling potatoes.

The women looked up when Julia and Jay came in. One of the younger ones offered Julia an engaging smile. The girl was wearing tight jeans, an apron around her waist. Her hair was the exact color and texture of Paco's. It hung below her waist. Julia smiled back at her. "Smells good," Julia said tentatively.

The pretty young woman waved an explanatory hand in the direction of the food. "A donation by one of the local charities in Tuba City," she said.

Julia nodded. The young woman's English, which was as good as her own, had a sing-song quality to it.

"No Walpi tours today, I'm afraid," the young woman said.

"That's okay. We weren't really thinking about a tour. What we were hoping--" Julia faltered, "I was hoping . . . "

The young woman looked her over. "Yes?"

"My name is Julia Berelli," Julia started again. "My husband was Paco Berelli. Paco's mother was Juanita Tuvi."

The young woman eyed Julia and Jay appraisingly.

A shadow fell across the doorway and the young Hopi woman's eyes shifted to see who had entered. She smiled at the newcomer. When Julia turned to see who it was, Jay turned with her. It was the man in the orange down jacket Julia had seen in the plaza outside.

"She wants to know about Juanita," the young woman told the man.

He nodded, then moved forward, offering Julia his hand. The hand was muscled, and the skin was callused and warm and real. There was a vibrancy in the warmth of his skin that seemed to transfuse through his blunt fingertips into hers. She felt the comfort of it tingling up her arm and wished, for reasons she couldn't then reckon, that this fleeting contact would last a bit longer.

"If you want to talk about Juanita Tuvi," the man stated, "I'm the one who knew her best." Then he added, "My name is Dewey Kayenta."

***

Moments later Julia and Jay, who were still standing near the doorway of Ponsi Hall, watched as Dewey and the young woman, whom he had introduced as Rose, had a private conversation near the broad window. The other Hopi women moved deftly around them continuing their preparations for the coming feast. Children ran up and down the long aisles created by the tables, playing.

"I don't want to be stuck up here for too long," Jay said to Julia in a way that made her nervous he might be verging on doing or saying something sans serif. She gave him a warning glance. "It is a long drive back," he offered defensively, with both of his eyebrows shooting upwards in emphasis.

Over Jay’s shoulder, Julia saw Rose nod at Dewey. Rose removed her apron, then watched as she draped it over the back of one of the folding chairs. The two came back to where Julia and Jay were standing.

Dewey smiled at Jay. "I hope you'll enjoy the tour Rose is going to take you on."

Jay was about to protest, but Dewey glided right past it and spoke to Julia. "You come with me," he said. Dewey's English, like Rose's, was excellent. Although his voice was gruffer than the young woman's, it had the same sing-song timbre. It also contained the same ironic resonance as his eyes.

Back in the plaza, the women sorting through the bags of clothing, a contribution from the same Tuba City charity who donated the food, the dogs, and the men and children parted as Julia followed Dewey. Behind Dewey and Julia came Rose, with Jay in tow.

"No more than an hour," was Jay's whispered directive to Julia as Dewy led her toward the labyrinthine roundabouts of the village of Sichomovi. Simultaneously, Rose firmly herded Jay in the opposite direction, back toward tiny Hano. The last thing Julia espied was Rose putting her arm in a friendly manner through Jay's, and the look Jay threw in Julia's direction in which she saw his apprehension at being--even if politely--shanghaied. Julia offered Jay a helpless shrug.

With a measure of apprehension similar to Jay's, Julia accompanied Dewey along the cold dusty roadways of Sichomovi. In some of the dwellings they passed, she caught faces at windows peering curiously out at them. But even from the homes displaying Crafts For Sale signs, people did not come out to invite her in, as Julia suspected was their usual habit when tourists were on the mesa.

"My husband died last December." Julia said to Dewey to get things started.

"I know," Dewey said.

Julia glanced at him sideways. By whatever means Dewey Kayenta gleaned this piece of information, he apparently wasn't ready to reveal it. Julia stopped. She was somewhat breathless from trying to keep up with him. Dewey came to a halt, too. She felt the wind rising and held the front of her old suede blazer closed. He put a hand on the brim of his hat.

"I'm not very clear about why I came here," she said. "This was just supposed to be a holiday trip to the Grand Canyon. A change of scene."

"So you wouldn’t think about last Christmas when Paco died," Dewey said.

"Yes . . . I didn't want to even go there, to the Grand Canyon, I mean, let alone make the trip up here. First Mesa was the last place I wanted to be."

"Why's that?"

"Coming here is just a form of torture . . . Of self-inflicted punishment."

"I see."

She wasn't sure he did. "Just before Paco died," she said, "he talked about some unfinished business and made a last request. After he died, my intentions to fulfill that request were entirely earnest." She looked over at Dewey. "Maybe because I was so muddled right after he died, I never came up with any clear idea how to go about accomplishing what he wanted. In June, after I lost the nerve to drive, I didn't even have the means to fulfill it. Then, something happened, I found out something about Juanita and I kind of lost my will."

"Yes, that happens sometimes."

"I realize that in failing to act, failing to accomplish what Paco asked me to do, failing to heed the object lesson of his death--that Time is so incredibly short--the one he so keenly hadn't wanted me to miss, I did, at the last, completely fail him and everyone else who loves me. Worst of all, I failed myself."

Dewey didn’t seem at all curious about what Paco's dying wish had been. That made Julia all the more curious about Dewey. "I haven’t dreamed in almost a year," Julia said. "I had a dream last night. The dream made me sure I had to come up here today."

"What dream was that?"

"I dreamed I was the Kwahu. The messenger eagle."

"Yeah?" Dewey said, and rather archly Julia thought. "Then you know something about Hopi spiritualism?" he said.

"I've done some reading over the years. You can understand my interest, Mr. Kayenta."

Dewey offered her a smile that was no more than a crinkling of the eyes. He turned and began tramping forward again. Julia regarded him for a moment, then hurried to catch up. When she reached his side she said, "If I'd come up here before Juanita died, it might've made sense. Now . . . " She fell silent and remained that way for a few moments as they walked on. Dewey seemed to be waiting for her to continue. When she did, she said, "Mr. Kayenta, Paco's last request was that I come up here and find his mother. Tell her about him . . . tell her about how he'd turned out. To let her know that he loved her, that if things had been different for him, or if there'd been more time, he would've come himself."

Dewey nodded. "She already knows all that."

Julia abruptly stopped again. "How?"

Apparently there wasn't to be an explanation for this, either, at least not at the moment, because just then Dewey cut decisively to the right and moved to a flat-roofed, stone house with an adjunct and dilapidated wooden lean-to as its right wing. The stone house had a wooden door bleached by time and the elements to pale orange, but Julia could see, in spots, the brilliant vermilion it had once been. Dewey pulled the door open and disappeared inside. Julia was about to follow but stopped and looked around first because she felt some presence watching her. There was no one there; no one but the lanky, long-eared, long-snouted and near-starved, sable-coated puppy with the white stripe of fur down his chest that Dewey had been petting outside Ponsi Hall. Looking in Julia’s direction, the pup was sitting in the road 30 yards away, quite near the opening of one of the village's immense ceremonial kivas.

"Who does that puppy belong to?" Julia said to Dewey who was waiting for her in the doorway of his shack.

"Nobody. Take him, if you want him."

Julia shook her head. "I can't."

"There are so many of them this time of year, and, in the Spring," Dewey said. . "They're a nuisance. But some of them'll die off. Won't survive the winter." He glanced at Julia. His expression was neutral. "The brown puppy won't make it. He's pretty far gone already. . . Shame, too. He's a good-looking one."

Julia felt a catch in her throat. She had no fondness for dogs, but she didn't want him dead. "What kind of dog is he?"

Dewey shrugged. "I think he was the runt of the litter from Henry Siemptiwa's bitch, who's kind of yellow, and mostly Labrador, and Tommy Youvella's big dog, who's mostly Doberman. That streak of white on his chest . . . The puppy has the Doberman's markings. Doberman face, too."

She agreed, but then said, "I have cats at home. Quite a few . . . And I don't care for dogs, anyway."

Dewey shrugged. "Too bad. Come on in. It's cold. I have something to show you."

(to be continued)

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