A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(27)

Carey said, “Ellen Dickerson called. She’s been trying to reach you, but couldn’t, of course. She has something to tell you, and I’ve got her number here.”

Jane took out her pencil and the bus ticket stub. “Okay, go ahead.”

He read the number and she wrote it down and repeated it back to him. Then she said, “How are you holding up?”

“If I complain, is there anything you can do to make it better?”

“At the moment, honestly, no. Maybe before too long.” Jane stared ahead at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, behind its sculptures of enormous guitars.

“Look, I don’t want to fight with you about it. Just do what you have to and get back here,” he said.

“I love you.”

“That’s twice. It just reminds me of how stupid it is to be apart.”

“I know it’s stupid,” she said. “But if you understood what I’m doing, you would know that anyone would do the same. Even logical, sensible you. When it’s done, we can have a nice, dull time. I promise.”

He laughed. “Actually, that sounds really good.”

“It does to me, too. I’ve got to go. Be good.”

“You too.”

She hung up and stood still for a few breaths, looking out past the museum at the lake. Then she fished in her pack for more coins, put one into the phone, and dialed Ellen Dickerson’s number.

Ellen’s voice said, “Sge-no.”

Jane answered in Seneca. “Does everybody who calls you speak Onondawaga?”

“I thought it would be you,” Ellen said.

“I heard there was a problem.”

“We’ve been worried. You can’t bring him in yet. There are men who are getting themselves into the jails around here—minor infractions, the kind that will get them thirty days or sixty days. A couple of Haudenosaunee boys were in jail this week. They’re good boys, a Mohawk and a Tuscarora, who were picked up after a burglary. They had nothing to do with it, so they were let go. But they said some men are waiting in jail for Jimmy when he comes in.”

“Do the police know?” Jane said.

“We’re having some people go talk to them, but even if the police believe them, fixing it isn’t easy and will take time. For now, you’re going to have to keep him away from here.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Jane.

“We know you will,” said Ellen. “Alma said you looked thin. Are you getting enough to eat?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ve just been getting a lot of exercise.”

“To be honest, she said you looked like a stray cat. Go have lunch. And call me again when you can.”

“I will.”

Jane heard Ellen Dickerson hang up. She put the receiver back on the hook and walked over to sit on the steps in front of the museum with Jimmy.

“You look as though you got bad news. Is your husband mad?”

“Yes. He knows this has to be done, but he’s not clear on why I should be the one to do it, and he worries.” She knew she had made things sound better than they were.

“So what’s wrong?”

“There are men getting themselves arrested and put into the Erie County jail system, so they’ll be there when you arrive.”

“Are you sure?”

“The story came from some Haudenosaunee boys who were in jail. Rumors go around in jails quickly because people don’t have much to do, and gossip gives them relief from thinking about their own problems. It’s always hard to tell what’s true—the place is full of liars—but I think we should give people time to check this one out. If it were true, who would these men be—friends or relatives of Nick Bauermeister?”

“I don’t know anything about him, so I don’t have a theory. He was just a nasty drunk, a bully that I ran into one night.” Jimmy sat for a moment, looking out toward the city. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Just stick with me for a while, until it’s safe to go back. I’ll keep you out of sight until they give us the word.”

Jimmy leaned forward and turned to look into her face. “Janie, last night I asked you a question, and you brushed me off. You know you can trust me. Whatever you tell me, I’ll never tell anybody else.”

Jane looked down at her feet for a few seconds, then sighed. “I’m an old friend of yours, somebody you played with as a kid. And how many of us are there? Maybe ten thousand Senecas, in five reservations in New York and Ontario, or near them, and maybe a couple thousand left in Oklahoma and Ohio and Missouri. We’re about the size of one small town. You and I are probably related to each other in a hundred ways by now. You can trust me too.”

“I’m not questioning that you care about what happens to me. You’ve already done more for me than I’ve ever done for anybody. But if you’ll be open with me, it will help. What’s going on? I got in trouble and ran, and within two days the clan mothers went straight to you. Last night three men clubbed me to the ground, and you nearly killed them, but there isn’t a mark on you. Now you tell me how it feels to be in jail, and say you’ll make me invisible for a while. So who are you?”

She put her hands between her knees, and shrugged. “Right now I’m exactly what I seem to be—Mrs. Carey McKinnon, the wife of a Buffalo surgeon, who lives a quiet life in a nice old house in Amherst. But for a long time, maybe fifteen years, I was a guide.”