The Shadow Catcher

The smoke, and not the insurrectionary nature of the ritual, seems to be the safety issue here and the security officer isn’t happy until the burning vegetation suddenly goes out. He leaves and I sit down on the ground to wait ’til Lester finishes.

“Was that a prayer?”

“Navajos don’t pray.”

“It looked like a prayer to me.”

“People who need prayers see them.”

Who does he remind me of when he talks in only aphorisms? Tonto. Maybe even Zorba.

“How’s our guy?”

He shakes his head.

“Did he wake up?”

“No.”

“Is he alive?”

He nods.

“Shall we go and look at where he lives?”

“I’ll drive,” he says and guides me toward his truck.

“You reminded me of Zorba back there, with the dancing. You know, Zorba the Greek — that scene in the movie when he dances by the fire on the beach. You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you.”

“I know there is a nation called ‘Greece.’ Get in.”

The pickup has some age and a couple areas of body work on it, and I’m reminded of Sherman Alexie’s joke about how you can tell a ride that’s from the rez: the only gear it works in is REVERSE. The leather seat is polished to a soft patina, a single raven feather dances from the rearview, and in the ashtray there’s a half-burned cone of piñon incense, like a miniature volcano.

“Do we know how to get there?” he asks.

I take my notebook from my shoulder bag. “I Mapquested the place before I went to sleep last night. Take Maryland and then stay straight across Flamingo. It’s a little street behind the University.”

“Far?”

“Not far.”

“I only have a quarter of a tank. Gas is so expensive off the rez! How do you people manage?”

“That’s what I like about the tribal nations. No state and federal tax.”

“And all the bars are right across the border.”

“And the Navajo have universal health care.”

“Part of our last treaty. Our own hospitals. Yes.” He nods solemnly at something I can only guess at. After a brief silence I ask, “Is there a Mrs. Lester, Lester?”

“Rose. Dead seven years next Sunday. Cancer took her.”

“—oh I’m sorry.”

“—thank you.”

I roll the window down.

“You’re not married,” he observes.

“No, sir.”

“I don’t think our mystery man is, either. I don’t think we’ll find a wife where we are going.”

“Well I hope we find someone. Someone to remember him.”

“We’ll remember him.”

“—not the same. Without his history he’s another unknown person.”

“—not true. I looked into his eyes. And saw his face.” He shrugs, as if it will make the memory fit better. “Faces, eyes — take for example your Mr. Curtis and his photographs. When we look at them, we know those people. They are not forgotten.”

“—not the same,” I say again and I can hear the sadness in my voice. “Those photographs. Maybe without them there would be no record of those people’s lives. Or there would be a different record, a more private and, therefore, diminished one. They’re beautiful, his photographs. But to me they’re still flat daddies.”

On Lester’s look I tell him to take Harmon then make another right and soon we’re in a warren of untraveled narrow streets named after shore birds — Blue Heron, Egret, Swan — where the houses are called “courts” and are situated in circular formations perpendicular to the sidewalk as if they were built to accommodate guests in the style of motor courts along old Route 66. There are neighborhoods in Hollywood that look like this, blocks of row residences built by the studios to house their contract workers around a central court or meeting space like little Melrose Places. But who built these mini-houses on these mini-streets in Vegas — or why — escapes me. All the houses look alike, despite their individual decorations — a set of shutters here, a little weather vane atop an artificial vestibule.

Tipis, Lester registers as we get out.

“It should be that one over there,” I say, pointing to the small house at eleven o’clock on the circle. The house beside it is the dominant house on the court, larger than the others, and as we approach we can see a ramp built to its door and connecting, by a separate boardwalk, to the door of the house we’re heading for.

“Is our guy—?” I start to ask.

“—seemed fine to me, when he walked in. Before he fell. Walked fine.”

I look back at the connecting house. Like all the other houses on the court its blinds are closed, no sign of life inside discernible. The place in its abandonment feels like an empty backlot movie set. Lester rings the doorbell and we hear it chime. He rings again, then opens the screen door and knocks. We wait, and nothing stirs. He tries a key from the old man’s set of keys — the tumbler turns, the handle turns, and we walk in.