'He showed him a picture.' The words came from the woman in the wheelchair. She was looking out through the fence, and Chee didn't realize that the statement had anything to do with Berger until he saw the old man was nodding eagerly.
'Gorman showed Mr. Berger a picture?' he asked.
'That Indian showed that fella you're talking to there a picture,' the woman said. She pointed at Berger. 'Like a postcard.'
'Ah,' Chee said. The photograph again. Why was it so important? It didn't surprise him to see the woman's senility fall away. It would come again just as quickly. Chee had grown up surrounded by the old of his family, learning from them, watching them grow wise, and ill, and die. This end of the human existence had no more mystery for him than its beginning.
'Picture,' Berger said. 'His brother.'
'Was it a picture of an aluminum trailer with a man standing by it?'
It was.
'And Gorman said it was from his brother?'
Berger nodded again.
'I don't know what you meant when you said 'Not go.' I'm confused because we know Gorman went. Was it that Gorman had decided not to go and then changed his mind?'
Berger denied it, emphatically. He recast his palsied hands in the roles of Gorman and the blond man. The hand representing Gorman dipped its fingertip affirmatively. The hand representing the blond man shook its fingertip negatively.
'I see,' Chee said. 'Gorman wanted to go. The blond man said not to.' He glanced at Berger, who was agreeing. 'So Gorman was going, the blond man tried to stop him, they fought, and Gorman went. Good a guess as any?'
Berger shrugged, unhappy with that interpretation. He pointed to the dial of his watch.
'Time?' Chee was puzzled.
Berger tapped the dial, pointing to where the hour hand was. Then he moved his finger around the dial, counterclockwise.
'Earlier?' Chee asked.
Berger nodded.
'You mean this happened earlier? This business about Gorman wanting to go and the blond man telling him not to?'
Berger was nodding vigorously.
'Before the fight? Before the evening Gorman hurt Blond Man's hand? A day before? Two days?'
Berger was nodding through all this. Two days before was correct. 'And Gorman told you about that?'
'Right,' Berger said.
'Do you know why Gorman wanted to go?'
'Worried,' Berger said. He tried to say more, failed, shrugged it off.
The red-faced young man Chee had noticed earlier was slouching across the lawn toward them, whistling between his teeth. The woman spun her wheelchair and hurried it down the fence away from him. 'Mean old bitch,' the young man said, and hurried after her.
'Do you know what was written on the postcard? The one with the picture on it?'
Berger didn't.
'The woman said it was like a postcard,' Chee said. 'Was it?'
Berger looked puzzled.
'Did it have a stamp on it?'
Berger thought, closed his eyes, frowning. Then he shrugged.
'She was a very observant woman,' Chee said. 'I wonder if either one of you happened to see a Navajo girl show up at Gorman's apartment yesterday. Little. Skinny teenager, wearing a navy pea coat. You see her?'
Berger hadn't. He looked after the woman, wheeling furiously across the grass with the red-faced man hurrying after her. 'Smart,' he said. 'Sometimes.'
'I had an aunt like that,' Chee said. 'Actually my mother's aunt. When she could remember she was very, very smart. Yesterday our friend couldn't remember anything.'
'Excited,' Berger said. He tried to explain. Failed. Stopped. Stared down at his feet. When he looked up again, he was excited. And he had a plan.
'War,' he said. He held up two fingers.
Chee thought about that. 'World War Two,' he guessed.
'Son,' Berger said. He tried to go on and failed.
'In the war,' Chee said.
Berger nodded. 'Navy.'
