vehicles, a group of teenagers had gathered around a jacked-up muscle car and were listening to rock and roll from its speakers.
'I'm an old drunk, idn't it?' Uncle Joe said.
Surprised, Joseph didn't answer.
'Been a drunk most of my life. But I never stole and never got into fights, never had a car accident. Never shamed my family that way. Stayed married, took care of my kids. Old drunk, but could be worse, idn't it? Cancer will kill me before the booze does.' He frowned accusingly at his cigarette and kept the scowl as he looked at Joseph. 'Your mother is a strong woman, she did a great job with you kids after your father died. Nobody could have done better. But sometimes a young man needs an older man to talk to. About his problems. About his life. Why don't you talk to your uncles, Joseph? Not even your Uncle Joe Billie, whose name your mother honored by giving it to you?'
Joseph felt the skin of his face, not so much hot as exposed, naked. 'I don't know, Uncle.'
'Sure you do. So do I.' The rheumy eyes in their whorls of wrinkles stayed steady on Joseph's. He was talking about his overeducated nephew's ambivalence and shame, and the shame of being ashamed, and the conflict between reason and magic, belief in modern science and respect for tradition, the whole difficult knot for which Joseph knew no solution.
Frustrated, Joseph scuffed the ground, trying to think of a way to explain it in terms Uncle Joe would comprehend. 'I don't understand why if somebody comes to you with a sick cow you'd prescribe surgery or an antibiotic and never think twice about it. But for a man you'd prescribe a Sing.'
'Wouldn't treat a cow the way I'd treat a horse, either. Different anatomy, different body chemistry, different diseases- need different kinds of treatment, right? Same way, a man's a different thing. A man has special parts that need a special kind of cure.' Uncle Joe tapped his head and his heart meaningfully, then laughed at his own lecturing tone. 'Besides, I'm a DVM, not an MD. State catches me treating humans, they'd lock me away for sure.'
Uncle Joe chuckled at the thought, then the wrinkles swarmed into a frown again. He waved away the argument as a digression and returned to his thread of thought. 'So, in your whole life, you came to me one time, fifteen years ago. I helped you. Didn't I earn your respect then?'
'Yes. Very much so. I am indebted to you.'
'Okay. So I'm going to call this visit the second time in your whole life. I'm going to tell you what I think you should hear, but maybe not what you want to hear. Because I have to cram a lifetime of being a good uncle into two times. About this boy, I won't warn you again about ghosts or witches, you've heard it all before from old fogeys like me and you don't believe it, what's the use? But I have two secrets for you. From an old man who some people think knows something.'
'Okay…'
Joe Billie looked a little unsteady on the bumper as he beckoned Joseph toward him with a gesture from his cigarette. There was a glint in his eye, mischief or command. Closer, Joseph could smell both the stale funk of metabolized booze and the sharp tang of fresh whiskey that surrounded him.
'I'm full of shit,' Uncle Joe rasped quietly. 'I'm completely full up of shit. And Navajos are full of shit. Every one of them, all the things they do and believe, full up to here with it. Disorganized, can't run their own public services. Politicians in Window Rock corrupt and full of themselves. Old people with their crazy superstitions, kids all spoiled, watching too much TV, doing drugs. Idn't it? This I believe, just like you. But now for the big secret, Joseph: Everybody is full of shit! Anglos, Mexicans, French, Jews, Chinese, these Arabs-they're equally full of it! The way they live. What they think. Their old beliefs. The way they treat each other. No more and no less than the Dine.'
The old man leaned back against the tailgate and drew on his cigarette with a hard glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as if having delivered this drunken pearl he'd accomplished a great deal.
Despite his reflex to dismiss it as the sorry rambling of an aged alcoholic, Joseph felt a surprising shiver, as if hidden in the cynical logic of the message, buried in the human mountain of shit, were the seeds of liberation.
'Okay, and I have one more for you. You're worried about something else than the health of this boy. And you should be. You can't just treat the symptom, can you? Won't help. It's about the kid, but it's about you and Julieta McCarty, and you're scared of it.'
Joseph reeled back a step, as if his uncle's words were punches. Uncle Joe turned his attention to his cigarette, tapping it with great care against his chrome trailer hitch. It was a respectful gesture, Joseph saw, the uncle prodding his troubled nephew yet giving him the privacy to react without being observed.
'He wasn't your baby?' Uncle Joe asked softly. 'Sometimes I wondered.'
'No!' Joseph was appalled at his bluntness, no doubt yet another indication of alcohol's erosion of his character. 'Definitely not!' he said through his teeth. 'This would have all come down differently, you can bet your life on it.'
'So why should you care so much? This Tommy, one more sick kid, plenty of those. Why's this one your problem?'
'I made some mistakes, Uncle,' Joseph whispered, surprised at himself.
The gray head bobbed, Uncle Joe's yellow eyes still concerned with the cigarette.
'I did some… wrong things. I lied to her. And some other things. I don't want her to find out! And I need to fix it somehow.'
'Fix the boy? Or fix her? Fix you? Fix you and her?' Now the old man caught his eye, merciless. 'You're a doctor. Got to be specific in your diagnosis if you want the right medicine. So, what needs fixing?'
All of it, Joseph thought. All of us. Everything.
Uncle Joe gave him a long moment, and when it was clear no answer was forthcoming he stood up creakily, tossed down his cigarette, and ground it out beneath his pointed toe.
'This damn enlarged prostate,' he mourned. 'Size of a watermelon by now. Have to piss every ten minutes.' He made his way unsteadily to the side of the truck, where he turned away and unzipped. Over his shoulder, he called back, 'I'll think about old Keedays with a boy, up in that area, see if I even know who you're talking about. Meantime, you think about what I told you, you come back to me when you know what needs fixing. Then maybe I can help you.'
The old man's words had the tone of finality. As if to emphasize it, he took Joseph's arm and, walking with the exaggerated care of the aged or just the very inebriated, led him back into the bustle of the market.
25
Cree felt a surge of relief when Joyce stepped out of her rental car. Some of it, she realized, was that, appearing magically in the dazzle of lights under the portico of the Navajo Nation Inn, her Long Island-born Chinese-Jewish colleague hadn't after all worn some kind of bogus Western outfit. Joyce was reasonably attired in a quilted nylon jacket over a sweater and trim black jeans, and she had already changed into hiking boots. Her jet- black hair was gathered into a simple fall on one down-plumped shoulder, and though she smiled broadly she radiated also a look Cree treasured: Joyce's getting-down-to-business look. A pro, with a pro's crisp readiness and alertness. Cree kissed her fervently.
Ed pulled his van behind Joyce's car, opened the door, and stepped blinking into the lights. He looked tired, but in his rumpled, khaki-clad, thoughtful way, just as much the pro as Joyce: the consulting physicist and engineer on a field research assignment. The two of them had flown from Seattle, rented the vehicles, and for the last three hours had caravanned in the dark from Albuquerque. Cree went to Ed and kissed him, too, a hard, long one despite his initial show of reserve. When his arms went around her, they felt greatly comforting, and Cree let go of him only with reluctance.
'Am I glad to see you guys!' she told them. 'Welcome to the Navajo Nation. Long drive, huh? Have a good flight?'
Ignoring the questions, Joyce looked her up and down. 'What do you think, Ed? Bandaged brow notwithstanding, she looks okay, doesn't she? Accent, I'd say is, oh, slight to moderate. Posture and body language are more pronounced, though, don't you think?'
