Shutter(49)

“I’m not letting the two of you drive home alone.” I began to pack a small bag. “I’m driving you back to Tohatchi. I’ll catch the train back here tomorrow.”

“We drove the three hours here; we can certainly drive the three hours back home,” Mr. Bitsilly said. “These ghosts that you see, they are obsessed with this world. Did you know that? These things are still so attached to their memories, their possessions, that they have no desire to move on. It is evil. This . . . thing. It’s evil.” There was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say. “These . . . people that you help. They are strangers. Why would you risk giving up your life to help someone whose life is already over? What would your grandma do if you left this world? Who would look after her?”

“I guess I would,” I answered.

Mr. Bitsilly sighed. He was still angry with me. I could feel it. Grandma hugged me one last time with all her strength, then walked into the hallway. Mr. Bitsilly followed. I felt terrible.

The weight of Erma returned, constant and immediate. She was ready for me to get back to work. I turned on the heat and pulled some Navajo tea from my bag. Erma sat on my couch.

“We missed you, Rita,” Erma said.

“We?” I stared at the boiling water on my stove, the tea bundle moving around the rim.

“Erma said that I could come along.” A little boy’s voice arose from the couch. I turned to see Judge Winters’s son jumping on the cushions next to Erma as she smiled. He made my pulse rise.

“I thought you could use a little incentive.” Erma watched as the boy ran around my apartment.

“Erma. That’s not fair.” I watched him, his wound still visible over his bruised face and happy smile. “It’s too hard on the little ones.”

“Hey, he wanted to come. You want me to bring his father instead?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I was angry now. “You know I can’t just snap my fingers. That is not how this works, Erma. I don’t even have my job right now. What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to make sure that the man who did this to us dies a horrible and deserved death.” Erma spoke like she was reading a bedtime story.

“Erma, we still don’t know what happened to you. You don’t even know.”

“Isn’t it your job to find out? I don’t care what that police report says. I didn’t commit suicide.”

“I understand that,” I said. “But I don’t understand why it matters anymore. You’re dead.”

Erma sat the boy on her lap.

“When I died, I left everything I had in the world. My little daughter is probably still waiting for me to come home from work.” Erma began to radiate heat and put the boy down. “They took me away from her, and if they tell people that I killed myself, there will be nothing left for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was working a good job, making good money, and had insurance. All of it was going to my baby. If they say I killed myself, she will get nothing. And the visit. After Matty went to jail, they came and asked me where he hid it. I didn’t know what they were talking about. Those men will keep coming back until they find whatever they were looking for.” Erma’s voice was pained. “They could be looking through my house right now.”

“I promise to help you, Erma.” I poured myself a cup of hot tea. “But you have to close the door. What you’re doing isn’t helping.”

Erma darkened. “You’re gonna figure out who did this to me, or I will make your life a living hell forever.”

The little boy stopped jumping. I hurled my cup of hot tea right through Erma’s head and heard it shatter into a million pieces on the wall behind her. Erma and the boy were gone.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Hasselblad

THAT WHITE HOUSE was still with me when I woke in the morning. The final death of that building was like a ray of sunlight, an exorcism of the memory that had haunted me for so long. It felt good.

When I came into the kitchen, Grandma was already sitting there, her newspaper opened, her legs covered with a blanket. The coffee boiled on the stove, the brown liquid percolating up through the glass opening on top of the coffee pot.

“Good morning, Grandma.” I shuffled toward the stove.

“Good morning, she’awéé’. Did you sleep?”

“I did. I slept better than I have in a long time. It’s good to be home.” I poured some coffee. “Do you need some more?” I held up the coffee pot.

“No. The doctors up at the clinic made me stop drinking so much coffee. It’s not good for my stomach.”

I sat at the table with her, and she passed me the cartoon section, just like she used to. I don’t think Grandma really wanted to admit that I had grown up. I guess I didn’t either. We stayed in silence as we read our sections. I didn’t even recognize some of the new cartoons on the page. I guess it really had been a while since I had been there. But everything else was just as I remembered: the turquoise-and-copper containers for flour, sugar, and coffee; the matching bread box with my handwriting still all over it; the percolating coffee pot; the same dusty clocks. The only things in that room that changed were me and Grandma— my body taller and both our bodies weaker.