Lani never forgot the wonderfully happy smile that suffused Nana Dahd' s worn face as she pressed her other hand on top of that unknown child's tiny one.
"Are you?" the little girl persisted just as the teacher's fingers closed determinedly on her shoulder and pulled her away. With a vicious shake, the woman started back up the trail, dragging the resisting child after her and glaring over her shoulder at the old woman who had so inconveniently waylaid her charge.
Rita glanced from Davy's face to Lani's. " Heu'u-Yes," she called after the child in Tohono O'othham. " Ni-mohsi. You are my grandchild, my daughter's child."
Confused, Lani frowned. "But I didn't think you had any daughters," she objected.
"I didn't used to, but I do now." Rita laughed. She gathered Lani in her arms and held her close. "Now I seem to have several."
The dream ended. Lani tried to waken, but she was too tired, her eyelids too heavy to lift. She seemed to be in her bed, but when she tried to move her arms, they wouldn't budge, either. And then, since there was nothing else to do, she simply allowed herself to drift back to sleep.
Breakfast took time. It was almost eleven by the time David was actually ready to leave the house. Predictably, his leave-taking was a tearful, maudlin affair. Yes, Astrid Ladd was genuinely sorry to see him go, but she was also half-lit from the three stiff drinks she had downed with breakfast.
David knew his grandmother drank too much, but he didn't hassle her about it. Had she been as falling down drunk as some of the Indians hanging around the trading post at Three Points, David Ladd still wouldn't have mentioned it. Over the years, Rita Antone had schooled her Olhoni in the niceties of proper behavior. Among the Tohono O'othham, young people were taught to respect their elders, not to question or criticize them. If Astrid Ladd wanted to stay smashed much of the time, that was her business, not his.
"Promise me that you'll come back and see me," Astrid said, with her lower lip trembling.
"Of course I will, Grandma."
"At Christmas?"
"I don't know."
"Next summer then?"
"Maybe."
Astrid shook her head hopelessly and began to cry in earnest. "See there? I'll probably never lay eyes on you again."
"You will, Grandma," he promised. "Please don't cry. I have to go."
She was still weeping and waving from the porch when David turned left onto Sheridan and headed south. He didn't go far-only as far as the parking lot of Calvary Cemetery, where both David Ladd's father and grandfather were buried. He rummaged in the backseat and brought out the two small wreaths of fresh flowers he had bought two days ago and kept in the refrigerator of his apartment until that morning.
Knowing the route to the Ladd family plot, he easily threaded his way through the trackless forest of ornate headstones and mausoleums. He didn't much like this cemetery. It was too big, too green, too gaudy, and full of huge chunks of marble and granite. Davy had grown up attending funerals on the parched earth and among the simple white wooden crosses of reservation cemeteries. The first funeral he actually remembered was Father John's.
A Mil-gahn and a Jesuit priest, Father John was in his eighties and already retired when Davy first met him. He had been there, in the house at Gates Pass and imprisoned in the root cellar along with Rita and Davy, on the day of the battle with the evil Ohb. Father John had died a little more than a year later.
In all the hubbub of preparation for Diana Ladd's wedding to Brandon Walker, no one had noticed how badly Father John was failing. And that was exactly as he had intended. The aged priest had agreed to perform the ceremony, and he used all his strength to ensure that nothing marred the joy of the happy young couple on their wedding day. Of all the people gathered at San Xavier for the morning ceremony, only Rita had sensed what performing the ceremony was costing the old priest in terms of physical exertion and vitality.
Honoring his silence, she too, had kept quiet about it-at least to most of the bridal party. But not to Davy.
"Watch out for Father John, Olhoni, " Nana Dahd murmured as she straightened the boy's tie and smoothed his tuxedo in preparation to Davy's walking his mother down the aisle. "If he looks too tired, come and get me right away."
The admonition puzzled Davy. "Is Father John sick?"
"He's old," Rita answered. "He's an old, old man."
"Is he going to die?" Davy asked.
"We're all going to die sometime," she had answered.
"Even you?"
She smiled. "Even me."
But Father John had made it through the wedding mass with flying colors. He died three days later, while Brandon and Diana Walker were still in Mazatlan on their honeymoon. The frantic barking of Davy's dog, Bone, had awakened Davy in the middle of the night.
Keeping the dog with him for protection as he peered out through a front window, Davy saw a man climbing out of a big black car parked in the driveway. As soon as the man stepped up onto the porch, Davy recognized Father Damien, the young priest from San Xavier.
Even Davy knew that having a priest come to the house in the middle of the night could not mean good news. He hurried to the door. "What's wrong?" he demanded through the still-closed door as the priest's finger moved toward the button on the bell.
"I'm looking for someone named Rita Antone," Father Damien said hesitantly, as though he wasn't quite sure whether or not his information was correct. "Does she live here?"
"What is it, Davy?" Rita asked, materializing silently out of the darkness at the back of the house.
"It's Father Damien," Davy answered. "He's looking for you."
Nana Dahd unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. "I'm Rita," she said.
The priest looked relieved. "It's Father John, Mrs. Antone," he said apologetically. "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour of the night, but he's very ill. He's asking for you."
Rita nodded. "Get dressed right away, Davy," she said. "We must hurry."
They left the house a few minutes later. There was never any question of Davy's staying at the house by himself. Ever since Andrew Carlisle had burst into the house on that summer afternoon, there had been an unspoken understanding between Rita and Diana that Davy was not to be left alone. On their way to town, Rita rode in the front seat with the priest while Davy huddled in the back.
"Where is he?" Nana Dahd asked.
"He was at Saint Mary's," the priest answered. "In the intensive care unit, but this afternoon he made them let him out. He's back at the rectory."
At the mission, Rita took Davy by the hand and dragged him with her as Father Damien led the way. They found Father John sitting propped up on a mound of pillows in a small, cell-like room. He lifted one feeble hand in greeting. On the white chenille bedspread where his hand had rested lay Father John's rosary-his losalo-with its black shiny beads and olive wood crucifix.
Davy Ladd was an Anglo-a Mil-gahn — but he had been properly raised-brought up in the Indian way. He melted quietly into the background while Rita sank down on the hard-backed chair beside the dying man's bed. Out of sight in the shadowy far corner of the room, Davy sat cross-legged and listened to the murmured conversation, hanging on every mysterious word.
"Thank you for coming, Dancing Quail," Father John whispered. His voice was very weak. He wheezed when he spoke. The air rustled in his throat like winter wind whispering through sun-dried grass.
"You should have called," Rita chided gently. "I would have come sooner."
Father John shook his head. "They wouldn't let me. I was in intensive care. Only relatives…"
Rita nodded and then waited patiently, letting Father John rest awhile before he continued. "I wanted to ask your forgiveness," he said. "Please."
"I forgave you long ago," she returned. "When you agreed to help us with the evil Ohb, I forgave you then."