As Keane walked up the short sidewalk to her well-groomed, rust colored, Spanish Colonial spread, Nascha trotted beside him. He remembered that Gans might be out back gardening.
In a deferential way, he knocked at the door.
No answer.
Keane knocked a second time, louder, saying “Hello.”
No answer.
After waiting a moment longer, he walked around to the side of the house as instructed and entered the backyard through a partially open wooden gate. The large black hinges looked like sweaty licorice in the rising summer heat. He pulled at his t-shirt front to keep the sweat from soaking through. He chided himself for bothering, knowing that he must reek and his clothing was already dirty and stained.
“Gans, it’s me. Gans?” he said, moving forward, almost out of the side yard and into the back yard. The area was smallish, surrounded by a six-foot high stone fence. This time he heard a noise: light footsteps. He turned the corner, catching sight of someone entering the home through a screen door.
“Gans!” he called loudly, almost a yell. The figure froze for a split second, then seemed to almost leap forward and disappear inside. Keane’s heart started to pound; the figure definitely wasn’t his grandmother. Turning around, he raced back the way he’d come with Nascha nipping at his heels, ready for a good game. “Nascha!” As he emerged from the gate he saw the back of a female figure already halfway down the lawn, moving quickly.
“Stop!” Keane yelled, searching his experiences for the right course of action.
She froze. As did Keane and Nascha, in unison, some thirty feet away. Keane was momentarily shocked that the stranger had complied. As the woman turned, Keane’s first thought was that she was young, cute as hell, and definitely American Indian, with long, thick, flowing black hair parted down the middle hanging over rich, dark red skin. Keane immediately regretted not changing or showering.
“I am sorry,” she called to him, turning to leave.
Keane hurried forward. Hearing his approach, the girl stopped and turned to wait for him. She was wearing well-fitted jean shorts and a white sleeveless t-shirt. He guessed she was eighteen. “Do I have the wrong house?” Keane asked. “I’ve just arrived after driving four days from New York.” He looked at his dirt streaked Nova with its bug crusted windshield and grill as if to say, “Can’t you see what I’ve been through?”.
The girl said nothing, her only response a look of increased concentration.
“I am looking for my grandmother, Virginia. She’s supposed to live in one of these houses. I think this is the right address,” he said, gesturing to the number on the front entryway. Keane was on the verge of asking more questions when the girl finally spoke.
“You are Keane?” The question floored him. “And you must be Nascha.” She leaned forward from her hips to rub Nascha’s ears. Nascha usually hated strangers, but seemed happy enough to lean against this one’s slender legs and enjoy a good scratch.
“Yes, I am. So, you know my grandmother. It’s good to meet you. Is she home?” Keane would have kept going, mechanically firing out word after word, but her slight hands closing around his forearms instantly stilled his tongue.
“Come with me,” she said, turning and leading him around the house. Keane and Nascha followed without question. Her grip was firm, a contrast to her soft fingers and hand. “Are you thirsty?” She asked.
“No. I’m fine,” Keane replied. “Just tired. It was a long trip.”
“Please have some water. It will cure your fatigue.”
Keane nodded in acceptance, his lips pursing.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to an ornate metal bench adorned with several small, blue vinyl cushions. “I will be right back.”
“Thank you,” Keane said, bowing his head slightly, still smiling. Sitting, he watched her enter the home; it was a nice view, a very nice view. Nascha made her way under the bench to lay on the small round river rocks directly beneath Keane and pant against the heat. The backyard was pretty, a blend of flowers, grasses, and huge cacti.
As the girl returned with a large glass and a large bowl of ice water for Nascha, she motioned for him to stay seated with a free finger. Keane took a long drink, as did Nascha, who emerged to fill her gut with the welcoming, cold water. Keane hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was. The girl slowly lowered herself onto the bench next to him, neither of them saying anything as he drank longer and longer swigs. When the glass was empty she reached for it and placed it on the ground behind her.
“Thanks.”
She nodded, politely looking away.
The last thing in the world he expected to find at the end of his destination was a cute girl his age. And for the life of him, big time drug dealer and all, he couldn’t find a word to say, unless you count “thanks.”
“Sooo. What’s your name?” he finally managed.
“It’s Megan.” She tilted her head inwards, bringing her hand up to pull her hair back from her face. Her eyes seemed more open than any he’d seen, with cheek bones that cut high and away from her nose, leaving the occipital area nearly flat at the bottom instead of concave. The effect was very dramatic.
“I guess you already know my name,” Keane said, flustered.
“Keane. I have something to tell you.” Megan’s foot stirred the river rocks.
Keane waited expectantly, having become totally absorbed by what she might say. He reached out to touch her knee, then pulled back.
“I am sorry that I ran from you.” As Keane tried to brush off her apology as unnecessary, she stopped him. “Your grandmother befriended me just weeks ago. She bought a necklace from me at my aunt’s roadside store, and when I saw her again that night, just by chance, she invited me to sit with her in her garden. I do not know why I accepted her invitation, but I did. We became fast friends over the last two weeks. During this time, I came to call her Shima, mother. I am a Navajo. I live with my aunt and uncle on the reservation.”
“She’s great, isn’t she?” said Keane, with a touch of familial privilege.
Megan was sitting on the very edge of the bench, her posture, face and voice all animated. “Keane, will you pray with me?”
“A prayer?” Keane said. His features formed a “no.” He did not trust religion, but wanted to believe in this girl. Megan got to her feet and pulled Keane after her. He did not resist.
“Hold out your arms,” she said, beginning to chant, the words in Navajo gliding through the vibrations of her low hum. Her voice sounded incredible to Keane, rich in its depth, like young boys and girls singing together in a church choir.
“Sage,” she whispered, producing a tightly bound spindle of the herb, a bitter but soothing smoke pouring from its tip. He wasn’t sure when she’d lit it. Megan waved the sage around his arms and down his body, her hands spreading the smoke further like a bird’s wings. “You can keep your eyes open.”
“Okay.” Keane opened his eyes but found he couldn’t keep them open.
“Tell me about your grandmother. Tell me the way you knew her.”
“Gans had thick silver hair. Not the thin hair you usually see on old ladies. She had style.” He could see her in his mind so clearly it was as though she stood before him. “She loved Dewar’s and Virginia Slims. She was a singer and a dancer when she was young. She wore lots of white and sat with her legs crossed and her back straight. She liked everything nice and neat. I can still remember the dirty limericks she taught us:
There once was a man named Crocket
Whose balls got stuck