Spider Rock

by Pat Rushin

Part 1 of 8

Driving down from the foothills of the Lukachukai Mountains, down, down towards Chinle. Still a good hour away. Catch glimpses of the del Muerto arm of the canyon soon enough, and then the dry red basin that holds the dusty crossroads town, one of the largest communities in the Navajo Nation.

For a while, though, all will be evergreen and blue, blue sky and snow beginning to melt down the bright slope.

Casey at the wheel of the school’s station wagon. Car full of Navajos. Three little Navajo boys sitting next to him in the front seat. Three little Navajo girls sitting with Elise in back. Way back in the rear view mirror, stump forward, needles snagging the roof upholstery, point hanging some four feet out the open tailgate, lies the freshly cut Navajo Christmas tree. Pine scent fills the car. Happy holidays on the reservation. Elise says the kids have to have a real Christmas sometime. May as well be now. She’s even teaching her class Christmas songs. Who knows? It might snow in Chinle come the twenty-fifth. Yuletide carols being sung by a choir and folks dressed up like Eskimos.

Everybody knows.

Two little Navajo boys sitting closest to the door—Michael and Auston—giggling low in their throats. Making jokes to each other in another language. Shooting low-lidded glances at Casey. He catches a word. Bilagaana. Means white man. Making jokes about his beard, probably. His blond hair. His whiteness.

Kid next to him—Goldwater—holding himself aloof. Good. Casey likes that. Goldwater can afford to ignore the kids next to him. They’re afraid of him.

Much giggling from back, too. Elise asking the girls questions. Girls answering in whispers, ducking their heads, laughing. Deborah, Belladonna, and one other whose name he can’t remember. Doesn’t matter.

Navajos never give the white man their real names anyway.

Strange carload. Kids are at that age where boys who hang out with girls are called sissies. Boys won’t sit with girls. Won’t look at them. Won’t talk to them. Casey’s gone through that stage himself. Seems universal.

The road winds down in front of Casey.

Goldwater stretching, all nonchalant, reaching slowly, trying to sneak a smoke from Casey’s pack on the dashboard. Tough to be subtle about it.

Casey nudges him, lowers his brows. “Spider Woman come get you tonight,” he says.

Goldwater sits back, says not a word.

Casey squeezes his knee. “Hey, I’m only kidding.”

“Just one?” whispers Goldwater.

“I’ll get in trouble.”

Goldwater glances over his shoulder, purses his lips—Casey will never get over it: Navajos really do point with their lips instead of their fingers: a whole different language. What can she do?” says Goldwater. His voice is so low.

“She’ll kick my ass,” says Casey.

A hoarse noise comes from Goldwater’s throat.

Elise leans forward. “Is he trying to get a cig from you?”

“No,” says Casey. And he smiles.

White man’s not right on the reservation. Painted Desert flashes bloody teeth, frowns a red, dry, crusty frown at him all day long. Something tells him. This ain’t Arizona, it says. This here’s the moon. This here’s a different world entire. You don’t know, white man. This here’s the Dinehtah, the land of the people. This here’s the Navajo Nation.

Yes, indeed. The Bilagaana best beware. This land ain’t loved no white man since Kit Carson burned the canyon. Canyon walls still weep. Tears run right to the floor. History dries up quick, white man, but you can read the message in the rusty streaks. It sure as hell ain’t in the movies.

Casey can understand. He may be white—whiter than ever since he’s been living here—but he’s no fool. White man’s got to lay low. Actions speak louder than words, is what the desert tells him. White man without a job has to keep that low profile, hope that nobody notices, hope that something comes up. No white man’s getting a job when there’s a shit house full of unemployed natives. White man keeps silent, gets into no trouble. Can’t act like a tourist come to see the famous Canyon de Chelley, buy a few sand paintings, eat a Navajo pizza, soak up the local color. Must just act like he lives here. Keep silent. Play like he’s got depths, too. Just like the Navajo.

White man drinks.

Elise’s back from her drive to Gallup. Nearest town off the reservation. Sixty miles away. Enters the trailer like a black-haired eastern breeze, head high, nighttime in her wake, all cool and soft and civilized. You can take the New Yorker out of New York, but…. Got two cases of beer in the car, she says. Got a bottle of Jack Daniels in hand.

So nice to see her, is what Casey says. “I was worried. It took you a long time.”

Not to worry though because the dark’s locked tight outside and all’s cozy inside and though the wind slashes at the windowpanes, the only thing that gets in is a little red dust. Nothing stops that.

They drink. They smoke a joint. They drink.

The trailer creaks. Casey says it’s a dumb-ass law, anyway, no liquor on the reservation.

“They can smoke peyote,” says Elise.

Casey says he doesn’t care, liquor prohibition is just plain old discrimination.

Elise shakes her head. “It’s a Navajo law.”

Casey’s surprised. Thought the Bureau of Indian Affairs made the law. You know, oppressing the redskin and all.

Elise says no. “The Indian metabolism is different from ours,” she says. “Low blood sugar, I think. They get drunk real easy.”

“Come on! That’s gotta be a myth.”

“It’s a medical fact. Just like the Japanese and Chinese can’t drink much.”

“Where’d you read this?”

“Somebody told me. I forget who. Anyway, it’s true. It’s genetic. Just like they have fat cheeks and can’t grow hair on their faces.”

Well, you can’t argue genes. And Elise’s lived here longer than he has. Who knows?

“Everybody knows,” says Elise. “It’s a fact.”