Chapter 10

It was about 8:30 when I went to bed. I slept until about 9:45 the next morning. I guess I needed that.

I cracked my eyelids, and found a pair clean white socks were on top of a set of buckskin pants and a pullover buckskin shirt neatly folded at the foot of my bed. Hmm ... Probably Navajo elves had been in here. No buckskin panties, for which I was grateful. I noticed my trash bag/luggage in the corner of the room. I changed into clean underwear, pulled on the socks, and clutched a handful of buckskin to my front. I wandered out into the living room and found only Dove. I looked around and saw Wolf’s fancy boots through the open front door. I guess he was sitting on the front porch – probably with Wild Mustang.

I looked at Dove and quietly said, “Bathroom?”

She uttered the first words I’d heard from her. “Down the hall, last door on the right.” She had a well-modulated alto, with no trace of an ‘Indian’ accent. I know it was a racist stereotype, but I’d heard nothing but old Indians who sounded like Tonto in the old Lone Ranger shows, except Wolf. Well, ‘old’ in this case meant from the point of view of life #1. Come to think of it, ‘racist stereotype’ was also a hold-over from life #1. You know, from the ‘political correctness’ days.

I turned around, showing my granny-style, panty-covered butt to Dove and went to the room with porcelain fixtures. There was a full set of wash-up stuff, including a new toothbrush and a little tube of Crest. I washed where I could, considering I was taped up, and got into the buckskins. My years in life #1 having taught me how to do a whore’s bath. The pants had an elastic waist and a built-in leather strip as a belt. I felt better: clean clothes, all washed, teeth polished. I stopped by the room and got my sneakers.

I headed to the open front door, listened for a moment, and heard ... silence. I walked out and saw a full quartet of rocking chairs occupied by Wolf, Flower, Wild Mustang and Chairman Painted Strike, all merrily rocking away. The soft creak of wooden rockers on the wooden floor of the porch was the only sound.

Without turning – or probably opening his eyes – Wild Mustang grunted, “Get breakfast in kitchen. We have already eaten.”

I turned on a dime, silently of course, and went to the kitchen. Dove was there, scrambling some eggs with a small whisk, mixing in some vegetables and a few pieces of cheese. When she put the plastic bowl into a microwave, I was shocked. I don’t know what I expected, but a 1977-era microwave in the kitchen of a Navajo medicine man was not it.

She poured a glass of orangey-tan juice from a container in the refrigerator and handed it to me. It was thicker than the OJ I was used to. I took a sip, while she rescued my eggs from the microwave. “Good juice, what is it?”

Dove put on a deeper old-Indian type voice. “Ugg,” she grunted, just like Wild Mustang. “It the blood of mountain lion.” She said it with a straight face, but I could tell it was a joke.

“Hmm,” I answered her, “It plenty good. Ugg.” It sounded strange in my soprano; I couldn’t begin to sound like Wild Mustang.

“It’s actually from a small grove of half-oranges and half-something-else my dad takes care of. Mixed with a little agave nectar. Wild Mustang swears by it.”

I was really hungry and ate up the breakfast like a wild dog. Just when I finished, I heard a ding, and Dove put a couple of slices of obviously home-made toast in front of me. I polished them off, too, and as I was finishing the juice, I asked Dove why she was here, so early.

“He’s my great-grandpa. I always cook breakfast for him before school. I stayed a little longer to prepare yours.” She smiled. “I don’t mind. I’ll be done with high school this May.”

“And then ... college?”

“Yup. UAT. That’s Arizona University at Tucson. You’d think that would be AUT, but it’s not. I’m gonna be a doctor.”

“Wow!” I said. “Good for you ... and who’s Sky?”

“Floating Sky ... she’s my cousin. She’s gonna be a squaw and have lots of little papooses.” She smiled again at using the Indian words. “She’s already engaged to Heavy Foot ... at least that’s what everybody calls him. He’s in the Navajo Police. They’re getting hitched when the time is right. They’re waiting for Wild Mustang to choose the date. I think he communes with the entrails of road kill at night.” She laughed and began to wash the dishes from my breakfast.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around, Dove,” I said as I walked out to the front porch. I paused in the living room for a confab with Red.