Chapter 27

When the meeting was done, I naturally asked about supper. I hadn’t had lunch and my tummy was complaining. RedHat suggested that we go to his sister’s for food. We all agreed. I thought we were heading for a home, but we wound up at a diner of sorts: it had a counter the length of the place and a row of Formica-topped tables on the other side. It was called, aptly enough, ‘Sissy’s.’ I obviously misunderstood when RedHat talked about his ‘sister.’

I needed to bring up a new topic. I looked around; there were no other patrons near. “RedHat, there is a rumor among the white eyes, that the Hopi know a bit about pottery,” I said with a smile.

“No, we do not KNOW about pottery. We INVENTED pottery,” RedHat replied.

“You may recall that I said the Shoshone will be cooking some dirt in a kiln and extracting some crystals. They are building a wooden, solar powered kiln, even as we speak. But the temperatures required are above the tolerance of wood. So, I need to speak with the man who knows how to build a proper kiln of brick.”

The Chief broke into the conversation, “We do not have a man who can build such a kiln. However, we have a such a woman. She has been building and repairing kilns around here for years.”

RedHat said, “Yes. You need to speak with Margu Dam’hinga, the Lady of the Pots, as she is called. She lives only a few miles from here, but it will take a good hour to get there. This is a trip for another day, perhaps.”

“Could I meet with her tomorrow?”

“I don’t see why not,” the Chief said. “She just sits at her wheel all day, if she’s not fixing a kiln somewhere or giving a class. We can check when we are done with supper.”

I turned to Panther Strike. “I don’t want to inconvenience you more than is necessary. Maybe there is a hotel here in town? That way I can get a ride to speak with Ms Dam’hinga tomorrow, and then arrange to get back to Wild Mustang’s afterward.”

Before Strike could answer, the Hopi Chief said, “No, no hotel in K-town. No motel either. But I will take you to my mother’s home. She will be glad to have company for a day or two. I insist. I will take you up to Margu’s place tomorrow, if she’s available.”

With that settled, we set to the finest meal I’d ever had at a diner. Rabbit goulash was the special today. We even got to meet the cook behind Sissy’s. He was a black man. I assume he was at least partly Hopi, else why would he running a diner in K-town. RedHat introduced him with a laugh, “This is Sissy. I don’t rightly remember his name. We just call him Sissy.”

Sissy spoke with an accent that screamed clearly of the Cajun part of south Louisiana. I hadn’t heard it since life #1, in Las Vegas. “Dis was the froshest rabbit, I nev’r seen,” he said. “I hope ‘twas good fer y’all.” He was over forty and wore his hair in a buzz cut.

I dredged through my memory bank. ”Ça ça di, nég? Y’all ain’ Sissy. Komen yé pèl, twa?”

[Lexi, what is that?]

Red, I just said ‘How are you, guy? You’re not Sissy. What is your name?’ in Cajun/Creole.

‘Sissy’ looked like I hit him in the face with a brick. “Of the strang’st thing. I nev’r heard of the likes of t’at comin’ outa no Inj’in filly... ‘Skuze me, missy. I was borned Robert Dumont. Dey calls me Sissy, since my wife died, some years back. She was the real Sissy.”

“Glad to meet you, Robert.” I stuck out my hand to shake his. “I’m Lexi, but some call me White Owl.” I said it in a whisper, like it was a secret. We talked back and forth, some in the patois of his Louisiana home and some in his tortured English.

Toward the end, I said, “This was a great gonbo d’lapin. (rabbit gumbo). Spiced just right. I hope I can come here again.”

“Any time, any time at all. You jes ask for Sissy, y’hear?” He took himself back behind the counter to the kitchen.

The Chief and RedHat looked at me. “I’ve known Sissy since I was little,” said RedHat. “You now know more about him than I do.”

“You didn’t ask?” I replied.

“No. He’s a guy. I’m a guy. Guys don’t ask questions about other guys’ histories.”

“This is true?” I looked at the other four guys sitting at our table. They all nodded, more or less. Panther Strike had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Okay then. It just proves that the world needs women to run things properly.”

...

The Navajo folks headed home, and I went to Chief Subang’yaoma’s mother’s home. It was a simple home, made of adobe. Mrs. Subang’yaoma was a rotund woman in her sixties. She had long hair, down to her waist, and wore sneakers and a shift/dress that was probably made here. She was pleased to see me – an unannounced guest – and she showed me to a guest room / sewing room. We chatted about her son, of whom she was very proud, ‘til it was time for bed.

The next morning the Chief showed up for breakfast. The Mrs. cooked up a fritatta, although she gave it some Hopi name, and some homemade corn bread. I had two helpings, and she just smiled.

We were soon on our way to the Lady of the Pots. “I radio’d her last night,” he said. “And she agreed to put off her appointment. She was supposed to go out and teach some girls how to collect the right kinds of clay for pottery.”

The paved road lasted until we turned off onto a tertiary road. It was just covered in crushed desert rock. The Chief was right, last night. It was only ten miles of driving, but it took us over an hour to get there. We got stuck behind a school bus. That got him talking. “White Owl, you are young enough to be attending school. Is it not so?”