Reservation Ride
  by Liz Wallace

Jeb Jr. shifted from foot to foot. He was getting impatient with this wizened old Navajo. Didn’t he know what a busy, important man he was dealing with? He had three trading posts to run, and this Navvy was having a good time making him wait for an old necklace.

“Well, Ernie? I made you a good offer. I’ll tell you what, I’ll throw in a sack of flour, too.”

“I don’t know. This squash blossom has been in my family forever. Grandpa made it in 1889, at his sheep camp. He made it with a charcoal fire, the way an old Spaniard showed him. He melted Mexican pesos and silver dollars together to make it.”

“Yes, yes, I know the whole story. But what good does it do you now? You’re not a young man. And none of your kids care about old silverwork. I can give you cash right now for it. Think of how far $500 can go in town.”

“I don’t have a car or anyone to drive me. How would I even get to town?”

Jeb Jr. sighed as quietly as he could. This old boy was being stubborn. He was used to it, though. He was the fifth generation of his Mormon family to be in the trading post business. It was an old game, this dance between the source and the seller. “OK, Ernie. You win. I know you’ve been eyeing that Ford in the old sheep corral over there.” Jeb Jr. made a casual gesture towards the grassy lot behind his trading post.

Ernie slowly turned around and looked. It had been a good truck in its day. Those old Fords were built to last. This one used to be the workhorse for the trading post. Ernie had seen it many times loaded down with hay and feed. Jeb Jr. had been a boy then, and always went along with Jeb Sr. when the old man made his rounds in the Rez. Now it was retired. Its grey paint had softened over the years and rusty spots covered the rear fenders. That reminded Ernie of a stunning Appaloosa he used to ride. Velvety silver she was, with dark spots covering her rump. He didn’t need a truck in his younger days. That beautiful mare, a rifle, and a good blanket were all he ever took to the old sheep camp. He had loved to sing under the bright stars, then.

Now Jeb Jr. drove a shiny new truck. It was white and had lots of chrome. Ernie had seen others like it on TV. These nights, the lights from town made the stars seem faded, even though Tufa Springs was over thirty miles away. Though on the Rez, you were a world away from anywhere.

“How does she run?”

Jeb Jr. smiled, and then bit it back. There was a crack in the façade, just enough to get a toe in. He took a moment to admire his trim, athletic shadow on the red sand. The same thirty-two-inch waist he’d had since high school. Oh yeah.

“Well, I’ll call my mechanic and have him come out and inspect her. We’ll get her all fixed up for you.”

Ernie sighed heavily. He couldn’t believe this was the same boy that had played with his granddaughter in the dusty parking lot so many years ago. They were sharing a can of strawberry soda pop in the shade, and both of their faces were sticky with dirt and sweat. Ernie had thought of him as a good boy, then.

“Five hundred fifty, the truck, and two sacks of flour. Blue Bird flour. I like to use the sacking to carry my things in. There’s nothing like a good flour sack.”

Jeb Jr. cleared his throat. Ernie wouldn’t look him in the eye. He didn’t usually give in to these sorts of demands, even if they were fair. His dad had always been soft with these folks, but he liked to be tougher. Besides, he had been working on this necklace for years. Ernie had worn it for as long as Jeb Jr. could remember. His dad had tried to buy it for as long as he could remember. It was a coup of sorts, finally getting this old boy to sell out.

'Well, all right, you have a deal. Let me take it inside so Laverne can write up a receipt and pull the cash out of the safe.” Jeb Jr. let out a long sigh. “I just hope it will fit in with our existing inventory. We do have a lot of squash blossoms right now, and they aren’t selling very well.”

Ernie looked off into space for a few moments. Jeb Jr. put his hand out. Ernie bowed his head and looked very sad. He lifted the heavy strand over his head and handed it over.

The Mormon’s belly did little flip flops when he had the worn silver dangling from his hand. Finally!

“Just wait here in the shade, Ernie. I’ll be right back with five hundred and fifty, cash.”

Jeb hurried as calmly as he could to the heavy doors and pulled one open.

Laverne looked up. By the way he yanked the door open and took big steps inside, she’d say her boss was pretty excited.

“Laverne! Take this in back right away and take some digitals of it. Email the pictures to our high-end clients. They’ll be fighting over it. And pull out five hundred fifty dollars. And write up a receipt to old Ernie. Not that he needs it, really. I don’t think those old timers care about records as long as they have cash in hand.”

Jeb handed the squash blossom over the counter to her waiting fingers. Laverne took a few moments to look it over. It had no stones. The beads were round and large, but seemed light for their size. She pulled two beads away from each other and saw that the holes were irregular and enlarged from decades of rubbing against one another. The blossoms were very heavy, and she could see where the petals had been split with a cold chisel and refined with a crude file, which had been the best tools available to 19th century Navajo metalsmiths. The naja was beautiful. It hung from the bottom of the necklace in a perfect crescent. The ends terminated in small hands that seemed to reach for one another. Reaching, but never meeting.

“Boss, how old is this?”

“Well, if you had read any of those books I’d given you, you’d know this is one of the earliest examples of a squash. Everything about it is textbook, just the way it should be. Old Ernie says his grandpa made it in the summer of 1889. I’ve been trying to get my hands on it for years. Now get a move on. And don’t say anything to anybody. As soon as one of the high rollers wants to see it, send it out Fed Ex Priority.”

Laverne got out of her chair and sashayed to the back. Jeb Jr. watched her walk to the safe, bend over, and dial in the combination. Then she leaned over a small table to write up the receipt. He remembered why he liked hiring Navajo girls. She came back with the cash and the yellow copy and handed them over with a smile. She’d keep his secret. It would get stored away with all of their other secrets. Jeb took them and turned to go outside.

"Oh, just a second, Boss. What price should I quote in the emails?”

Jeb looked out the window. Ernie was still sitting there in the shade, oblivious to what was going on inside. Still, the walls have ears. He took a pen out of Laverne’s cup and took her hand in his. On her palm, he wrote, “$6,500.00.” Laverne pulled her hand back and read it. Her eyebrow barely twitched.

“That’s why I love you, Laverne, you’re so excitable. I’d better be a good boy and give old Ernie a ride home.”

Jeb Jr. winked and left. Laverne watched him and Ernie climb into the shiny truck and spurt away in a cloud of red dust.

“Well, here we are. Now don’t be stranger, Ernie.”

“Don’t forget about the truck and the flour. When will all that be ready?”

“I’ll send someone out and drop it off. It’s been sitting around that sheep pen for a while. It might cost over a hundred dollars to fix it up.”

Ernie chuckled.

“Well, I guess I’ll just watch my soap operas ‘til then.”

Ernie made no move to get out. Jeb Jr. tapped his soft fingers on the steering wheel.

“Well, I have to get home to the missus. Take care of yourself.”

Ernie pushed on the chrome handle and eased himself out. Jeb Jr. sped off in a cloud of red dirt. Ernie watched the little dust devils settle down and stomped up the stairs of his HUD house, to knock the dirt loose from his boots. The door was unlocked, just the way he had left it, so he 58 Santa Fe Literary Review turned the knob and went inside.

He pulled back a flour sack curtain. The truck became the size of a toy, then a white speck, and then disappeared down the road. Ernie let the singing Blue Bird fall back over the window and locked the door.

His one room house was as bare as ever. The only things on the wall were a clock and a calendar from the year before. “Girls of the Navajo Nation.” His grand-niece was Miss March. He didn’t care for the heavy makeup or the way they had dressed her. Navajo women shouldn’t show their bellies like that. But he wanted to be supportive so he had bought one from her for $25. He hoped she would go on to design school, like she had always talked about.

Ernie shuffled into the kitchen. He dragged the hand-me-down table with the peeling chrome across the floor until it was right next to the sink. There were four yellowed linoleum tiles underneath. He kneeled and pulled these up. Beneath the tiles was a plywood square with two finger- sized holes drilled into it. This he pulled off and set aside. He reached into the hole and turned the knob on his safe. 38 to the left. 18 to the right. 34 to the left. He pulled the heavy door open and leaned it against the floor.

On top was an old cigar box. He lifted it out and set it on the linoleum. With one hand he opened the lid, and with the other hand he lifted out the squash blossom necklace his grandfather had made in his sheep camp the summer of 1889. It was made in a charcoal fire, the way a Spanish platero had shown him. He had melted Mexican pesos and silver dollars together to get the perfect alloy. The naja was the masterpiece. It hung from the bottom in a perfect crescent. The ends were small hands that reached for each other. Reaching, and were just about to meet.

He reached into the safe again, and pulled out three more cigar boxes. Priceless treasures. He opened them and spread the silver out on the floor. Two bow guards with chiseled designs, and another necklace that was only large beads with a plain, elegant naja. This one was even earlier than the other. Four bracelets with chiseled, leaf shaped designs that were bumped up from the back. Three rings. One was a tiny bow guard that curved over the finger, and the other two were old, hand drilled turquoise beads set into coin silver. A pair of exquisite earrings made out of wire that had been hammered down from a solid ingot. This was all he could save of his grandfather’s work.

Underneath the cigar boxes lay a stack of leatherbound journals. These were treasures, too. He flipped through the one on top. Forty-two years of research, hundreds of sketches, and meticulous notes. Thirteen trips to museums all over the USA. He had to wear white gloves whenever he visited the archives, but he still learned a lot. He wanted to avoid the mistakes other counterfeiters always seemed to make. You had to start out with a beautiful, quality product first, then make it look old. There were twenty-six pages in this journal on wear patterns alone. The way silver looked after it rubbed against skin and clothing for years could be an entire class. If they taught kids how to counterfeit in school.

Beneath the journal was an old photo album. On the first page was a sepia-toned photograph of his grandfather in tall moccasins and with a scarf around his head. He had a concho belt draped across his lap and a silver horse bridle hung on the wall behind him. On the next page were photos of Ernie as a young boy, and one with his parents and siblings. His brother and sisters were smiling, but he was crying, because he wanted to take the picture with his brown puppy, and the photographer wouldn’t let him. The next page had a photo from when he was a Code Talker in the war. He and his partner Samuel were in their uniforms, posed with two hula girls in Hawaii. He was sure smiling in that picture. The Pacific Islands were wonderful. He had always wanted to go back when there were no more bombs or shooting.

He closed the album. It was almost time. In the very bottom of the safe were stacks of cash, all bundled together with strips of flour sacking. There was also a black ledger and an envelope that said “ALOHA REAL ESTATE, We Make Your Retirement Dreams Come True!” in gold lettering. Ernie opened the ledger and made an entry. $550 added. That brought the total up to $124,225.00. He had sold that last necklace for too little, but it was fun sticking it to that pretty boy one more time. Too bad the truck wasn’t working, but oh well. His ride would be here in about twenty minutes, and he would’ve abandoned the Ford at the Albuquerque airport anyway. Might as well let some other Navajo have a crack at it.

At the other end of his house was his bed, made up with perfect Army corners, and his rolling suitcase lay open on top.

Ernie looked at the clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock. He had sold five copies of that same necklace to dealers all over the country this past week. They probably had a lot of the same high-rolling clients in their databases.

He packed his cigar boxes, cash, and books into the rolling suitcase and zipped it up. He pulled aside the flour sack curtain when he heard his grand-niece’s Mustang pull into the driveway. Maybe she would come and visit him at his sheep camp in southern Maui.