Chapter 11

Zeke slowly turned the deadbolt and listened. Clifford was long gone. He was alone again, in his uncle’s huge house. His shoulders tightened. Suddenly he felt cold.

He walked to the media room and sat. He rubbed the stiffness in his knees, and mindlessly watched whatever was on the tube. What was Clifford not telling him? What did Twyla Rivers have up her sleeve? Why did he need to read the entire will? Maybe it was his uncle who had something up his sleeve. If being a displaced Indian was such an important issue to Ms. Rivers, then there had to be something about that in Luther’s will. Was it an Apache vs. Ute thing? Or white man vs. the People?

“Hmm.” He crossed his arms and legs. “How can I get a copy of that Will?”

Was it worth it? Did he really want to take all this on? He wasn’t sure. It seemed like a tangled mess of water moccasins and he wasn’t sure if it was worth all the possible bites.

He should go back to Austin and ... what? Did he really have anything in Austin to go back to? Heartache, unemployment, homelessness. At least here he had a house, and apparently some funds. Surely he could get a job or go back to school, something. But was having shelter and money enough to deal with this curse?

Pastor V said all he had to do was turn to God and pray from his heart the Jabez prayer.

Could he do that?

That was his mother’s territory. She prayed all the time.

Could it be true? Was his mother preparing him for this moment, here in Colorado, to fix the Clayton family’s problem? The idea his mother might have had something to do with this dilemma softened his heart. If his mom somehow knew this day would come and had put so much of her limited energy into preparing him for the challenge, then didn’t he owe her? Didn’t he at least owe her something? To, maybe, try?

He stared at the TV. Wolfgang Puck was making pizza while Jimmy Fallon, a pretty blond lady and an Indonesian guy watched.

Pizza. He smiled. He could have ordered pizza tonight, but then again, no he couldn’t. He chuckled over the memory and his benign bribe with the steak dinner. He had learned a lot from Clifford tonight. How much was truth? How much was fable? That’s the multi-million dollar question.

One thing was for certain, he needed to be careful with the information he received and shared with Ms. Twyla Rivers. She had an agenda and he needed to find out what it was. Her interests were on the side of the displaced Indians. Probably, specific to the Apache. That much he knew. Beyond that, he had no idea.

The fable. He lifted his stiff muscles from the sectional and walked to the kitchen. Why was it so cold? He sat down on the barstool as he read through the story again. This time he could correlate the details of the story with what Clifford had told him.

The coyote—the white man—took over the land when the porcupine—the Indians—left for the winter. When the Indians—the porcupine—returned they were sent east, to the reservations. They cried out to the Eagle—the medicine man—and a curse was put on the coyote—the white man. Specifically, William Clayton, Sr.

The curse was spelled out exactly as Clifford had said. The Claytons would be alone, with no brothers, no sisters—no family. Their single child would be conceived without love; the mothers would not live to see their sons become adults and the fourth generation son ... Was he seriously considering himself to be this son? He read the words slowly.