Shutter(21)

“I hear you, ma’am,” I said. “It will all be in my report and in the photographs.” I pulled away as fast as I could. When I looked in the mirror, she was gone. I prayed that she would stay away.

My phone buzzed on the seat. Voicemail. I pulled over on the side of the road and looked through the photographs. The call could wait. The thirty-eighth image confirmed exactly what the woman said—the scrape of red paint flecks along the left panels and doors of the officer’s vehicle. Just like he’d run a red vehicle off the road.

The phone buzzed again. The voicemail. I had to listen.

“Rita, I know you’re on scene right now, but you’re going to need to hang in there a few more hours . . .”

I hung up without letting the message finish as four or five patrol cars whirred past me, their lights ablaze. The phone jumped in my lap. OFFICE. I didn’t know where those cars were headed, but I knew I was probably going to be following them.





CHAPTER TWELVE

My Camera Box

GRANDMA DIDN’T BELIEVE me when I said that Judith was gone. I could see it in her face. We drove home without a word, and we stayed that way for the rest of the night. There were times when you could talk to Grandma and get her to smile, and there were other times when you could see and feel that she needed to be left alone. I sat at the table and watched Grandma make gravy and corn on the stove. It was my favorite. The house was quiet that night. We wiped our faces and brushed our teeth in the heat of silence.

When I woke the next day, Grandma was already at the table having coffee. She smiled and pulled me toward her.

“Rita,” she said, pressing into my arms, “you have to help me.”

I nodded. I would do anything she asked of me.

“I’m going to have to take a trip and I can’t really tell you about it yet, but I will. Do you understand?” I shook my head and smiled. Grandma hugged me so hard I felt like my bones might snap.

My time with Judith had finally broken Grandma. Her insides were in a panic. She felt alone and trapped. She wanted me to stay with her, but she knew she had to get me out.

“Mr. Bitsilly is going to watch you over the weekend. I want you to help him with whatever he needs. If he asks you to do something, you need to do what he asks.” She continued to squeeze my arms. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back to get you.”

“Did I do something bad?” I felt a lump rise in my throat. I hadn’t meant to hurt Grandma when I was talking to Judith. I was lonely. That was all. Now I was going to have to spend the whole weekend with the medicine man.

“No, she’awéé’.” She hugged me again. “You are doing your best.” She touched her camera box, which was sitting on the table. “I’m going to leave this with you. It’s yours now.” She put the black plastic envelope in the box and grabbed the sides of my face. As she embraced me, I could feel a bounce in her shoulder as she cried.

She dropped me, the box, and my little suitcase off before the noon sun burned the land yellow. Mr. Bitsilly and I watched Grandma’s truck turn onto the highway and drive into the distance. Mr. Bitsilly smiled wide. “C’mon. I made some lime Kool-Aid.”

The screen door slammed behind him, wood against wood. I watched over rooftops and through tree branches until Grandma’s truck was completely out of sight. As I moved inside, I saw Mr. Bitsilly’s grandson sitting on the worn couch, his face shiny and wet and his feet hanging bare over the edge of the cushion. I sat next to him and watched cartoons as the summer heat began to build through the house.

“What’s in the box?” He pointed to the camera box on my lap.

“Nothing yet,” I answered.

Mr. Bitsilly needed lots of help. It was only the three of us: Mr. Bitsilly, his always-quiet ten-year-old grandson, Travis, and me. By the time the sun was setting, we had helped him stack a healthy pile of wood along the front of his hogan and filled all four of his water tanks over at the well. We watched the sunset, deep with orange and red over the valley in Tohatchi, with plastic mugs of green Kool-Aid in our grips.

Late that night, we heard the cries of a woman outside the front door of Mr. Bitsilly’s house. His shoes shuffled toward the door in the darkness as Travis and I rose from our blankets. The woman was hysterical, her breath skipping as she spoke rapid Navajo. We sat silently on the couch as Mr. Bitsilly put his arm around the woman and led her into the hogan.

The two of us tiptoed to the doorway and spied. Her name was Rosemary Nez, that much I understood. She cried hard. I had no idea what was going on in the conversation. I just watched their faces and knew their words were full of sadness and evil.

“Do you know what they’re saying?” I whispered.

Travis looked disgusted. “Her son is missing.” He moved close to my ear. “He’s been doing drugs and drinking, and he hasn’t come home in a few days.”

The woman gripped Mr. Bitsilly’s hands and continued.

“She wants my grandpa to pray for him. She is saying she has nothing to give him.”

“Travis!” Mr. Bitsilly’s call made us both jump. Travis rushed through the door in his pajamas. “You two go get me some wood.” We did as we were told, then watched him build a fire. We sat on the porch and listened to Mr. Bitsilly sing into the sky. There was a stark white moon out that lit up the land for miles. The heat had finally gone to sleep, and nothing moved but the sound of his prayers.