“‘They’ being the archeologists?”
“That’s right.”
“What a funny place for my mother to look for God.”
“Some people,” said Johnny, “think the cannibals were rebels from Mexico. They just came up here for a while and messed around. Ate a few Hopi. Ate a few Dineh. Made some good man corn. Wrecked a civilization. Headed back south.”
“And who were these Mexicans?”
“I don’t know. Just a bunch of people-eating freaky Mexicans.”
“What do you think, Johnny?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it came from within. I think the Anasazi were so fucking civilized that all the animal was building up, and then it bubbled over, and took the whole nation out.”
“When a thing becomes its most extreme, the seeds of its opposite are planted.”
“Just like that,” said Johnny. “Just like that.”
I made Johnny drive back from the Hidalgo. The light was bothering me again. I wore my sunglasses and had Johnny’s jacket wrapped around my head, but little slivers of light—that gorgeous R. C. Gorman plague of brightness—filtered through it all. I could feel the blood vessels expanding in my head, my blood pulsing against the walls of my cranium, and knew I was in for a bone-shattering, membrane-splitting migraine.
“Can you pull over somewhere and get me sinus medicine and a bottle of Excedrin?”
“Katherine, there’s nothing out here,” said Johnny.
“When will there be something?”
“Not for another hour.”
I groaned, then inched over closer to him. I rested my head against his shoulder and pulled the jacket over my head. Johnny put his arm around me.
“Try to sleep,” he said.
I woke up in my motel room. Johnny had taken off my shoes and there was a sweating pitcher of water on the bedside table with a clean glass. The curtains were pulled shut and a blanket had been thrown over the curtain rod to keep the room extra dark. My headache was gone. I drank three glasses of water and lay back down, exhausted. I didn’t have the strength to drive back to Maine.
For dinner that night Johnny opened a can of refried beans, which we ate with fresh tortillas and some spicy chicken that came wrapped in foil.
“Where’d the chicken come from?”
I asked. “Lady up the street.”
“The married lady?”
Johnny nodded.
“It’s very good,” I said.
“That’s why she has a husband.”
“Her spicy chicken?”
Johnny nodded. “What are you thinking?”
“Me?” I shook my head. “I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to get back to the East Coast. I can fly, but then what do I do with my car?”
Johnny rolled himself another tortilla and was about to bite it, but handed it to me, and then began fixing himself another. “I’ve never seen the sea,” he said.
“Do you want to see the sea?” I asked.
Johnny thought for a minute and then he nodded.
The next morning the real estate agent came by with a stack of papers for me to go over. I suggested a couple of East Coast publications where she might try advertising. The whole meeting took twenty minutes. Johnny and I went outside to see her off.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I found a box in the crawlspace. It’s your mother’s.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s taped shut. Here,” she said, “it’s in my trunk.”
The box was about the size of a microwave and heavily sealed with brown paper, postage tape, the kind you have to wet to use. I shook the box. The contents rattled.
“It’s heavy.”
Johnny nodded and handed me a pair of scissors.
“Do you really think I should open it now?”
Johnny shrugged. “Is it a big deal?”
“Maybe not.” I set the box down on the desk. “It’s the only thing she left in the house.”
“Are you sure it’s for you?”
“Why didn’t she throw it out?”
“Maybe she forgot.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Johnny’s eyebrows came together in an uncharacteristically thoughtful way. “Or maybe she gave the Hidalgo to you and in the attic is a sealed box, also for you.”
I shook the box again. “It almost sounds like shoes.”
Johnny extended the scissors.
I inhaled. “I have a bad feeling about this box.”
“Then don’t open it,” said Johnny. He got up from his chair and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Put my stuff in the car. Check the oil. Check the tire pressure.”
I picked up the scissors. “Don’t you want to see what’s in the box?”
Johnny thought for a moment. “No.”
“Come back here,” I said. “Come back here right now and sit down.”
Johnny sat down across from me and broke into a wide smile. “You’re weird, you know that?”
I nodded, not as amused as I should have been, and took the first tear at the seam of tape where the two lengthwise flaps of the box met. An odd musty odor wafted out of the slit. I saw Johnny pull back. I cut the tape at the cross-ends of the box. Carefully I lifted a flap. I nodded to myself, then closed it.
“Well?” said Johnny.
I laughed to myself then smiled knowingly at Johnny.
“What’s in there?” he asked.
“Why don’t you take a peek?”
“Just tell me.”
“I’ll do better than that.” I reached into the box and pulled out a skull. “It’s human,” I said, which was obvious. “And the back’s smashed in. Look.”
“Fuck,” said Johnny.
“Not only that,” I peeked it into the box, “I think we have a complete set, not that I’m an expert…”
“Bring it back,” said Johnny.
“Bring it back?”
“The bones. Bring them back. Or you’re going to have all kinds of bad shit happening.”
“The bones…”
“They’re fucking cursed.”
I dropped the skull into the box. “You think they’re Anasazi?”
“No, man. I think they’re Hopi.”
“Well, I’m not bringing them back.”
“Why not? What are you going to do with them?”
I closed the box carefully. “I think it’s a message from my mother.”
“Goddamn,” said Johnny.
“What?”
“Couldn’t she write you a fucking letter?”
“I should call her,” I said. I closed the box over.
“Damn straight,” said Johnny.
I dialed directory assistance. “The Quincy Home in Quincy, Massachusetts,” I said. I let the operator connect me for the additional charge and waited on the line. My heart quickened and for a moment I thought I’d hang up, but Johnny was looking at me in a supportive way and before I knew it there was someone on the line.
“Hi. I was wondering if I could speak to Alice Shea.” Saying my mother’s name was almost eerie.
“Alice? There’s a Margaret O’Shea.”
“No,” I said, annoyed. “Alice. Alice Shea.”
“Is she a relative?”
“My mother,” I said. I heard the clicking of a computer keyboard.
“She’s not here now. I think she was discharged.”
“Discharged?”
“Or transferred. Her record hasn’t been updated for quite some time.”
“Where would she go?”
“I don’t know, Ma’am. I’ve only been working here for two weeks. I still haven’t quite got the hang of it.”
I was silent.
“This is your mother?”
“Yes,” I said, annoyed by the tone of her voice. “Is there someone there who knows what she’s doing?”
“Maybe you could call back at two? That’s when Nancy comes on. She’s been here for a long time. She should know.”