A Different Blue(21)

“You . . . don't know what your name is . . . and you don't know when you were born?” Wilson's

eyes were wide, almost disbelieving.

“Makes writing the personal history a little challenging, doesn't it?” I sneered, angry all

over again.

Wilson seemed completely stunned, and I felt a surge of power that I had taken him off his high

horse.

“Yes . . . I guess it does,” he whispered.

I pushed past him and headed for the door. When I was halfway down the hall, I tossed a look

back over my shoulder. Wilson stood in the doorway to his classroom, his hands shoved into his

pockets, watching me walk away.





Chapter Four





I didn't go to school until I was approximately ten years old. Jimmy Echohawk didn't stay in one

place long enough for school to be an option. I had no birth certificate, no immunization

record, no permanent address. And he was afraid, though I hadn't known that then.

He had done his best for me, in the only way he knew how. When I was still small, he fashioned

several toys from the scraps of wood he had left over from his projects. Some of my very

earliest memories were watching him work. It fascinated me, the way the wood would wrinkle and

curl as he would chisel away. He always seemed to know what the end result would be, as if he

could see what lay beneath the layers of bark, as if the wood was guiding him, guiding his hands

in smooth strokes. And when he did stop, he would sit beside me, staring at the unfinished

sculpture, gazing for long periods of time, as if the work were continuing in his head, in a

place I was no longer privy to observe. He made a living selling his carvings and sculptures to

tourist shops and even a few upscale galleries featuring local artists and southwestern art. He

had cultivated a relationship with several shop owners throughout the West, and we would travel

between shops, eking out a meager existence from the money he made. It wasn't much. But I was

never hungry, I was never cold, and I don't remember ever being really unhappy.

I didn't know any different, so I wasn't especially lonely, and I had been brought up in

silence, so I felt no need to fill it the few times I was left alone. There were times when

Jimmy would leave for several hours, as if he needed respite from the restraints parenthood had

placed upon him. But he always came back. Until the day he didn't.

We lived mostly in the warmer climates – Arizona, Nevada, Southern Utah and parts of

California. It just made life easier. But that day was so hot. Jimmy had left early in the

morning with a few words that he would be back later on. He had left on foot, leaving the truck

to bake beside the trailer. We had a dog he called Icas, which is the Pawnee word for turtle.

Icas was slow and blind and slept most of the time, so the name was fitting. Icas got to go with

Jimmy that morning, which I was hurt and bothered by. Usually we were both left behind, although

Icas had seemed reluctant to go, and Jimmy had to whistle for him twice. I tried to stay busy,

as busy as a ten or eleven-year-old girl can without video games or cable or a soul to talk to

or play with. I had my own projects, and Jimmy was generous with his tools.

I spent the morning sanding a small branch I had fashioned into the curving, sinuous likeness of

a snake. Jimmy had told me it was good enough that he thought he could sell it. That was a first