I made the drive up from Fort Collins on a Thursday. I left in the morning and stopped at Dick’s Dogs in Laramie for an ill-advised early lunch. I loved the dogs, but they never loved me back. I drove into a stiff early-winter wind that caused my Jeep to burn more gas than usual. The high-profile, flat-faced vehicle felt like it was on its heels as I pressed into the breeze. I hit Lander midafternoon and drove straight through to Ethete. Ethete was just a gas station with a convenience store. There was a yellow light at the intersection that flashed yellow in all four directions. I stopped and grabbed myself a cup of coffee.
A heavyset woman rang up my drink and the packaged cake I’d put on the counter.
“Think it will snow?” I asked.
“Eventually,” she said.
I nodded. “Can you tell me how to get to Roberta Cloud’s house?”
“She’s on Seventeen Mile Road.”
“Where on the road? Closer to here or Riverton?”
“Did you know it ain’t seventeen miles, that road?”
“How long is it?”
“Changes,” she said. “I’ve never measured it myself. Some people say it’s only thirteen miles. Dewey St. Clair said it’s nineteen, but I think he just said that because he was always late for work.”
“How will I know Roberta’s house?”
“She’s at the first bend. There’s a purple propane tank in the yard. Big one.”
“Thanks.”
I drove back to Seventeen Mile Road and turned east. After a couple of miles I saw the bend and there was the big purple tank. Someone had scrawled Indian Country across it in white paint, but the last letter of the first word and the last two of the second were worn off, so it read India Count. I rolled into the yard and waited behind the wheel for a few minutes. A black dog came trotting from the house next door. I got out and opened the back of my Jeep. I placed a carton of cigarettes on a stack of three new dishtowels and a twenty-dollar bill on top of that. The dog walked me to the door.
I knocked lightly. I didn’t remember Roberta all that well. I recalled only that she was the oldest person I had ever talked to. She looked to be ninety back then. The gift was customary. I didn’t know if she smoked, but the tobacco was important. I knocked harder and a woman called for me to enter. I did.
Roberta Cloud sat in a rocker across the room, backlit by the sun through a window. She didn’t rock.
“Ms. Cloud?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Jack Keene.”
“Mr. Keene, you came.”
“Yes ma’am. You call, I come. That’s the way it works.”
“I could get used to that,” she said.
“I have a few things for you,” I told her.
“Thank you, Mr. Keene.” She pointed to the table.
I put down the towels, cigarettes, and money. “Please, call me Jack.”
“Sit down, Jack.”
I sat on the sofa under the window. The sun came through the glass and hit my neck.
“I was wondering if you got my letter,” she said.
“You didn’t give a phone number and I knew I could get here faster than the mail.”
“And here you are.”
“Here I am. What can I do to help you?”
“I want you to find my son.”
“Ma’am?”
“My son. I’m one hundred and two years old. I’m going to die and I want to see my son one last time. I haven’t seen him in a bunch of years, maybe thirty.”
“Ms. Cloud, I’m not a detective.”
“He’s a good boy. I was twenty when I had him and he never gave me any trouble.”
I did the math. “Ms. Cloud, that would make your son eighty-two years old.”
“I reckon that’s right.”
In my head I did more math. I was told once that the average Native American man lives to be forty-four. I wasn’t sure I believed the statistic, it being so shocking and sad, but I was certain it wasn’t a gross exaggeration. Ms. Cloud’s son would be defying the odds if he were still alive.
“So, you’re telling me you haven’t seen your son since he was fifty-two years old.”
“His name is Davy.”
“Do you know where I should look for David?”
“Davy. His name is Davy. That’s what’s on his birth paper. His name is Davy.”
“Davy.” I looked at Roberta Cloud’s wrinkled face, her cloudy eyes. I wondered if she could see at all.
“When I met you years ago I knew you were a good man,” she said. “And here you are.”
“I’m glad you think that,” I said.
“That’s why I wrote to you.”
I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or like a sucker. “Ma’am, I have to say that I don’t think I’m the person to try to find Davy.”
She nodded. “You’ll find him. I believe with all my heart that you will find him.”
“Why do you believe that, ma’am?”
“Let’s just say I have a good feeling about you.” And then she let out a high little laugh that seemed incongruous.
“I see.”
“The last I heard he was working in the restaurant in Lander. The restaurant would be a good place to start.”
“There are many restaurants in Lander, Ms. Cloud. Do you know the name of the restaurant?”
“No, I don’t.” She reached over to the table beside her rocker and picked up a photograph. She pretended to look at it and then pushed it toward me.
“Ms. Cloud, eighty-two is kind of old to be working in a restaurant. Working anywhere.”
“Here’s a picture of Davy.”
I took the photo and looked at it. I looked at the olive-skinned man with a long braid. He looked familiar. The man in the picture looked to be in his midforties. “It’s an old picture, Ms. Cloud. Do you think I’ll be able to recognize him?”
“You’ll know him when you see him,” she said.
I wanted to ask her if she was sure he was still alive, but thought better of it.
“What’s his birthdate?” I asked.
“The second of December,” she said quickly.
“The year?”
She directed her useless eyes at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” she said. Maybe she was crying.
“Ms. Cloud,” I started.
“Mr. Keene,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I’m going to die in one week. I can’t stop it, that’s the way it is. I know you will find my Davy.”
There was nothing for me to say. Actually, there were many things I could have said, but none of them to Roberta Cloud. But I said the one thing that I could say to her and that was “Yes ma’am.”
“Well, you had better hurry, Mr. Keene. The clock’s ticking.” She laughed.
Needless to say, I did not. Hurry, that is. What was I supposed to hurry up and do? I rose, bid her good-bye, and walked out into the cold March air. I looked at the propane tank and was sorry it had been so easy to spot. I stood just outside the door and heard no movement from inside. I wondered briefly what had prompted me to respond to the old woman’s letter. Briefly, because I answered the question in short order. I was there because I was a stupid do-gooder, a typical idiot with a slight messianic complex. I thought I’d come up here and the old woman would ask for something simple, like a repair on the aforementioned propane tank, and I would do it, feel good about myself, and help out an old woman. I got what I deserved for being a nice guy.