“Where are you living, Dad?”
“Condo. Army pension pays the rent and then some. Got myself two bedrooms, so there’s plenty of room for you. Got cable ‘cause the dish don’t do well with all the wind.”
Living with his father-his new father-took some getting used to.
Edward Two Moons’s two-bedroom condo on the south side was more honestly described as a “one plus study.” Darrel’s space was an eight-by-nine room walled with bookshelves and filled by a sleeper couch that unfolded to a double bed.
Books on the shelves-that was something new. American history, Indian history. Art. Lots on art.
Incense burner in his dad’s room and for a second Darrel wondered: Dope?
But the old man just liked burning incense when he read.
No ceramic bears in sight. Darrel didn’t ask because he didn’t want to know.
One thing was the same: His dad got up at six a.m. every day, weekends included.
No more one-handed push-ups, though. Former gunnery sergeant Ed Montez greeted each day with an hour of silent meditation. Followed by another hour of bending and stretching to one of a dozen yoga tapes.
Dad taking instructions from women in leotards.
After yoga came a long walk and a half-hour bath, fry bread and black coffee for breakfast, though by then, it was closer to lunchtime.
By two p.m., the old man was ready for his drive out to the Santa Clara Pueblo, where the cheery, corpulent Sally Montez sat in her studio out back of her spacious adobe house and fashioned gorgeous, jewel-inlaid, black-clay masterpieces. The front room of the house was a shop run by Sally’s husband, Bob. He was Sally’s second cousin; Sally hadn’t needed to change her name.
As Sally made pots, Dad hunched at a nearby table, brow furrowed, chewing his cheek as he fashioned his bears.
Families of them, in various poses.
The first time he saw the tiny animals, Darrel thought of Goldilocks. Then he thought: No way. They didn’t even look like bears. More like pigs. Or hedgehogs. Or nothing recognizable.
Dad was no sculptor and Sally Montez knew it. But she smiled and said, “Yes, Ed, you’re coming along.”
She wasn’t doing it for the money; Dad wasn’t paying her a dime. Just because she was nice. So was Bob. And their kids. And most of the people Darrel met on the pueblo.
He started to wonder.
Dad didn’t mention the name-change thing again until six months after Darrel moved in. The two of them were sitting on a bench in the Plaza, eating ice cream on a gorgeous summer day. Darrel had enrolled in UNM as a business major, gotten a 3.6 his first semester, met some girls, had some fun.
“Proud of you, son,” said Ed, handing the transcript back to Darrel. “Did I ever tell you the origin of my name?”
“Your new name?”
“My only name, son. The here and now is all that counts.”
His hair had grown another four inches. The old man still smoked, and his skin looked like ancient leather. But the hair was thick and youthful and glossy, even with the gray streaks. Long enough for a serious braid. Today it was braided.
“The night I decided,” he said, “there were two moons in the sky. Not really, it’s just the way I perceived it. ”Cause of the monsoon. I was in the condo, cooking dinner, and there was one of those monsoons-you haven’t seen one yet, but you will eventually. The sky just opens up and bam. Sheets of rain. It can be a real dry day, bone-dry, then all of a sudden things change.“ He blinked, and for a second his mouth got weak. ”You have arroyos turning into rushing streams. It’s pretty impressive, son.“
Ed licked his butter pecan cone. “Anyway, there I was cooking and the rain started coming down. I finished up, sat there wondering where life was gonna take me.” Another blink. “I started thinking about your mom. I never talked much about how I felt about her, but, trust me, I felt about her.”
He turned away, and Darrel watched some tourists file past the Indian jewelers and potters sitting in the alcove of the Palace of Governors. The Plaza across the street was filled with art kiosks and a bandstand with an open mike for amateur singers. Who said folksinging was a lost art? Or maybe that was good folksinging.
“Thinking about your mom made me low but also a little high. Not like in drunk. Encouraged. All of a sudden I knew I was doing the right thing by coming to this place. I’m looking out the window and the glass is all wet and all you can see of the sky is black and a big, blurry moon. Only this time, it was two moons-the wet glass bent the light in a way that created this image. Am I making myself clear?”
“Refraction,” said Darrel. He’d taken Physical Science for Non-Science Majors, pulled a B.
Ed regarded his son with pride. “Exactly. Refraction. Not two totally separate moons, more like one on top of the other, maybe two-thirds overlapping. It was beautiful. And this strong feeling came over me. Your mom was communicating with me. ”Cause that’s what we were like. Together all the time, but we were separate people, just enough overlap to make it work. We were fifteen when we met, had to wait until we were seventeen to get married ‘cause her dad was an alcoholic hard case and he hated my guts.“
“I thought Grandpa liked you.”
“He came to like me,” said Ed. “By the time you knew him, he liked everyone.”
Darrel’s memories of his grandfather were bland and pleasant. Alcoholic hard case? What other surprises did his father have in store?
“Anyway, the two moons were obviously your mom and me, and I decided then and there to honor her by taking the name. Consulted a lawyer here in town, went over to the courthouse, and did it. It’s official and legal, son, in the eyes of the state of New Mexico. More important, it’s sacred-holy in my eyes.”
A year after Darrel moved in with his father, Edward Two Moons was diagnosed with bilateral small-cell carcinoma of the lung. The cancer had spread to his liver, and the doctors said to go home and enjoy the time he had left.
The first few months were okay, just a dry, persistent cough and some shortness of breath. Dad read a lot about the old Indian religion and seemed at peace. Darrel faked being relaxed, but his eyes hurt all the time.
The last month was rough, all of it spent at the hospital. Darrel sat by his father’s bed and listened to his father breathe. Watched the monitors idly and got friendly with some nurses. No tears came, just a deep ache in his belly. He lost fifteen pounds.
But he didn’t feel weak. Just the opposite, as if drawing upon some kind of reserve.
The last day of his life, Edward Two Moons slept.
Except for one time, middle of the night, when he sat up, gasping, looking scared.
Darrel rushed over and held him. Tried to ease him back down, but Dad wanted to remain upright and he fought it.
Darrel complied and his father finally relaxed. Lights from the monitors turned his face sickly green. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. Struggling to say something. Darrel looked him straight in the eye, but by now his father wasn’t seeing anything.
Darrel held him tight and put his ear next to his father’s lips.
Dry rasping came out. Then:
“Change. Son. Is. Good.”
Then he sank back to sleep. An hour later, he was gone.
The day after the funeral, Darrel went over to the courthouse and filed papers for a name change.
5
Katz thought about Olafson’s murder on the drive home.
Doc and Darrel had talked about anger, and maybe they were right. But if anger was the prime motivation, you’d have predicted multiple blows, not one massive crusher.