Dennison looked at the scrap of paper she'd handed him. "Elders' Council" was written in ballpoint. The address given was City Hall's.
"Who are they?"
"Elders from the Kickaha Reservation."
"They've got an office at City Hall?"
Debra nodded. "It's part of a program to integrate alternative methods of dealing with problems with the ones we would traditionally use."
"What? People go to these old guys and ask them for advice?"
"They're not just men," she said. "In fact, among the Kickaha— as with many native peoples— there are more women than men sitting on an elders' council. They're the grandmothers of the tribe who hold and remember all the wisdoms. The Kickaha call them 'the Aunts.' "
Dennison started to shake his head. "I know you mean well, Debra, but—"
"Just go talk to them— please? Before you make your decision."
"But nothing they say is going to—"
"Promise me you will. You asked me why I helped you last night, well, let's say this is what I want in return: for you just to talk to them."
"I..."
The last thing Dennison wanted was to involve himself with some nut-case situation like this, but he liked the woman, despite her flaky beliefs, and he did owe her something. He remembered throwing up last night and her catching the vomit in his garbage can. How many people would do that for a stranger?
"Okay," he said. "I promise."
The smile that she gave him seemed to make her whole face glow.
"Good," she said. "Make sure you bring a present. A package of tobacco would be good."
"Tobacco."
She nodded. "I've got to go now," she added. She stood up and shook his hand. "I'm really glad I got the chance to meet you."
"Wait a minute," Dennison said as she left the kitchen.
He followed her into the living room where she was putting on her jacket.
"Am I going to see you again?" he asked.
"I hope so."
"What's your number?"
"Do you have a pen?"
He went back into the kitchen and returned with a pencil and the scrap of paper she'd given him. She took it from him and quickly scribbled a phone number and address on it. She handed it back to him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then she was out the door and gone.
Dennison stood staring at the door after it had closed behind her. The apartment had never seemed so empty before.
Definitely flaky, he thought as he returned to the kitchen. But he thought maybe he'd fallen in love with her, if that was something you were allowed to do with angels.
He finished his coffee and cleaned up the dishes, dawdling over the job. He didn't know anything about the Kickaha except for those that he saw in his office, applying for welfare, and what he'd seen on the news a couple of years ago when the more militant braves from the reservation had blockaded Highway 14 to protest logging on their land. So he had only two images of them: down and out, or dressed in khaki, carrying an assault rifle. Wait, make that three. There were also the pictures in the history books of them standing around in ceremonial garb.
He didn't want to go to this Elders' Council. Nothing they could tell him was going to make him look at the world any differently, so why bother? But finally he put on a lightweight sportsjacket and went out to flag a cab to take him to City Hall, because whatever else he believed or didn't believe, the one thing he'd never done yet was break a promise.
He wasn't about to start now— especially with a promise made to an angel.
***
Dennison left the elevator and walked down a carpeted hallway on the third floor of City Hall. He stopped at the door with the neatly lettered sign that read ELDERS' COUNCIL. He felt surreal, as though he'd taken a misstep somewhere along the way yesterday and had ended up in a Fellini film. Being here was odd enough, in and of itself. But if he was going to meet a native elder, he felt it should be under pine trees with the smell of wood smoke in the air, not cloistered away in City Hall, surrounded by miles of concrete and steel.
Really, he shouldn't be here at all. What he should be doing was getting his affairs in order. Resigning from his job, getting in touch with his cousin Pete, who asked Dennison at least every three or four months if he wanted to go into business with him. Pete worked for a small shipping firm, but he wanted to start his own company. "I've got the know-how and the money," he'd tell Dennison, "but frankly, when it comes to dealing with people, I stink. That's where you'd come in."
Dennison hesitated for long moment, staring at the door and the sign affixed to its plain wooden surface. He knew what he should be doing, but he'd made that promise, so he knocked on the door. An old native woman answered as he was about to lift his hand to rap a second time.
Her face was wrinkled, her complexion dark; her braided hair almost grey. She wore a long brown skirt, flat-soled shoes and a plain white blouse that was decorated with a tracing of brightly coloured beadwork on its collar points and buttoned placket. The gaze that looked up to meet his was friendly, the eyes such a dark brown that it was hard to differentiate between pupil and iris.
"Hello," she said and ushered him in.
It was strange inside. He found him self standing in a conference room overlooking the parking garage behind City Hall. The walls were unadorned and there was no table, just thick wall-to-wall on the floor and a ring of chairs set in a wide circle, close to the walls. At the far side of the room, he spied a closed door that might lead into another room or a storage closet.
"Huh..."
Suddenly at a loss for words, he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the package of cigarette tobacco that he'd bought on the way over and handed it to her.
"Thank you," the woman said. She steered him to a chair, then sat down beside him. "My name is Dorothy. How can I help you?"
"Dorothy?" Dennison replied, unable to hide his surprise.
The woman nodded. "Dorothy Born. You were expecting something more exotic such as Woman-Who-Speaks-With-One-Hand-Rising?"
"I didn't know what to expect."
"That was my mother's name actually— in the old language. She was called that because she'd raise her hand as she spoke, ready to slap the head of those braves who wouldn't listen to her advice."
"Oh."
She smiled. "That's a joke. My mother's name was Ruth."
"Uh..."
What a great conversationalist he was proving to be today. Good thing Pete couldn't hear him at this moment. But he just didn't know where to begin.
"Why don't you just tell me why you've come," Dorothy said.
"Actually I feel a little foolish."
Her smile broadened, "Good. That is the first step on the road to wisdom." She put a hand on his knee, dark gaze locking with his. "What is your name?"
"Chris— Chris Dennison."
"Speak to me, Chris. I am here to listen."
So Dennison told her about his job, about Ronnie Egan's death, about getting drunk, about Debra Eisenstadt and how she'd come to send him here. Once he started, his awkwardness fled.
"Nothing seems worth it anymore," he said in conclusion.
Dorothy nodded. "I understand. When the spirit despairs, it becomes difficult to see clearly. Your friend's words require too much faith for you to accept them."
"I guess, I'm not sure I even understand them."
"Perhaps I can help you there."
She fell silent for a moment, her gaze still on him, but she no longer seemed to see him. It was as though she saw beyond him, or had turned to look inward.
"The Kickaha way to see the world," she finally said, "is to understand that everything is on a wheeclass="underline" Day turns to night. The moon waxes and wanes. Summer turns to autumn. A man is born he lives, he dies. But no wheel turns by itself. Each affects the other, so that when the wheel of the seasons turns to winter, the wheel of the day grows shorter. When the day grows shorter, the sweetgrass is covered with snow and the deer must forage for bark and twigs rather than feast on its delicate blades. The hunter must travel farther afield to find the deer, but perhaps the wolf finds her first."