in his hands and wept. It was the first time Diana ever saw her husband cry.
Her own nausea totally forgotten, she hurried to comfort him and to bring him a glass of chilled iced tea. Whatever was wrong, she would do her best to fix it for him. Whatever it was, she would somehow smooth it over. After all, she had Iona's shining example to follow, didn't she? That's exactly what her mother would have done, had done for all those years, all her life. Smoothed things over. For everyone.
Fat Crack's tow truck looked at home among the others parked in the dusty San Xavier parking lot. Many of the vehicles had out-of-state licenses or rental stickers, but by far the majority were beat-up old pickups, station wagons, and sedans that belonged to the regular parishioners. Hard as it was for out-of-state guests to fathom, the musty-smelling mission still functioned as a church, with a regular schedule of well-attended masses.
While Looks At Nothing stayed in the truck, Fat Crack went to the door of the church and waited for Father John to come out. He did at last, accompanied by a somewhat younger-looking priest.
'Father John?' Fat Crack asked tentatively.
'Yes.'
'My name is Gabe Ortiz, Juanita's son, Rita Antone's nephew.'
A concerned frown furrowed the old man's forehead. 'I hope your aunt's all right.'
Fat Crack nodded. 'She's fine. She's in the hospital, but fine. I have someone over here who needs to speak to YOU.'
'Of course,' Father John said, excusing himself from his colleague.
Fat Crack led the way. They entered the row of parked cars a few vehicles away from the tow truck just as Looks At Nothing climbed down from his seat. The old medicine man stood leaning on his cane. He seemed to stare right through them with his glazed and sightless eyes.
Father John stopped abruptly. 'This is . . .' Fat Crack began.
'S-ab Neid Pi Has,' Father John supplied, speaking Looks At Nothing's Indian name in perfectly accented Papago. 'This old siwani and I have met before,' he said.
Father John stepped forward, reached out, took Looks At Nothing's gnarled old hand, and shook it. 'Nawoj,' he said. 'Welcome.'
Brandon Walker was worn out with trying to find a comfortable position on the post-modern waiting room furniture, but he had nonetheless managed a few catnaps during the early morning hours while his mother came and went from brief visits with her husband. It was just like when President Kennedy died, Brandon thought. The doctors didn't tell everything they knew all at once for fear of starting a panic. Brandon suspected they had there was no hope of recovery they wanted to give the family the situation. Brandon took the of mercy from a God he was still believed in. Louella might wasn't true, couldn't possibly be true that Toby was dying, but her son knew better.
Each time a pale and shaken Louella emerged from the room, she was that much more entrenched in her disbelief.
'I want a second opinion,' she announced ' at last.
Brandon rubbed his forehead. 'What's a second opinion going to buy you except another doctor bill?'
His question provoked Louella to outrage. 'How can you mention money at a time like this? That man in there, that known last night that for Toby Walker, but a chance to adjust to news as a direct act surprised to learn he continue to insist it so-called doctor, says we should turn off the respirator.
Just like that. As though it's nothing.'
'Pop's not there, Mom,' her son said gently. 'He hasn't been for a long time, really. Turning off the machine would be a blessing.'
He started to add 'for us all,' but thought better of it 'No!
Absolutely not. I won't have it.'
'If he lives, he'll be a vegetable, Mom. He won't know either of us.
He won't be able to eat on his own or stand or breathe.'
'But he's still alive!' his mother hissed. 'Your father is still alive.'
Too tired to argue anymore, Brandon capitulated. 'I'll go talk to the nurse about a second opinion,' he said. _ He went to the nurses' station and asked to speak to the head nurse.
'She's on her break,' the clerk said.
He nodded. 'That's all right. I'm going to the cafeteria for some coffee. I'll talk to her when I get back.'
He walked down the long breezeway to the cafeteria. It was midmorning now and hot, but he felt chilled inside and out. The air-conditioning seemed to have settled in his blood and bones.
How would he ever make Louella see reason? She was his problem now and no one else's. Toby was still breathing with the help of his respirator, but he was really out of the war zone. It didn't seem fair for the focus of the battle to be immune to it.
Brandon took his cup of muddy coffee and a cigarette he had finally bought a pack of his own---to a table in the far corner where someone had left most of a Sunday paper lying strewn with a layer of toast crumbs and speckles of greasy butter.
He started to toss the paper aside, and then stopped when he recognized Davy Ladd's serious picture staring out at him from the top of the page.
He read the article through twice before his weary brain fully grasped the material.
Why in the world would Diana Ladd have permitted Davy to be featured in the paper like that? He would have thought she'd want to preserve her privacy. After all, if she had an unlisted phone number, why go advertising her
