A tribute to the creative genius of Craig Johnson…
Your characters sing to me of the smartass, acerbic, loving people inside my real world.
Your communities are our communities,
The daughter of military & law enforcement men and women the world over.
Kudos, brother.
And more stories, please!
… - - - … - - - …
"Walt."
There was a pregnant pause.
"Twenty-three years ago I became involved with a young woman."
"Hell, Bear, twenty-three minutes ago you became inv-"
"This one bore me a child."
… - - - … - - - …
I took the two seconds I needed to digest that announcement.
"How long you know about it?"
"That twenty-three minutes response of yours is actually an acute assessment."
"How'd ya find out?"
Bear took an envelope out of his back pocket. It looked like a regular ole' harmless Hallmark card envelope, a little ragged at the edge where Bear had peeled up a corner to get into it—not too ragged, though, because that's how he was. It was red and had been folded in half once against the weight and heft of the cardstock inside so that it would fit in his pocket.
"The mail ran."
I took the extended envelope. I could feel something in it. Something beyond the expected card.
As I examined the neat, feminine but practical writing across the front I paused to look up at him. "Any reason for me to be careful handling this?" I asked.
The Bear shook his head.
I took note of the writing again. It was to his personal address. Rather than the business.
"Mailman bring it all in here?"
"He does—unless I am not here. Then he leaves personal mail at my home."
I pursed my lips. Took in the Laramie, WY postmark. The "forever" stamp—one of the old ones from before they started going up every year six or seven years ago. The handwriting caught my eye again. Her letters—"her" because I'd decided this was from Bear's erstwhile paramour—were a freestyle mix. Some uppercase, some lowercase, even at the beginning of the names and locations. Some printed, some looped in a bastardization of cursive. The effect was artistic and easy—not an affectation on the premise of being artistic. Probably a rolling ball pen—dark blue by my estimation based on how it appeared on the dark red of the card.
"Keep going," he sighed.
I nodded and slid the now-bend card from its carrying case. A soft blue card slid out. Perched on the cover were two large butterflies—one in red, one orange—with a smaller white one down near the corner.
"Good God," I breathed as I read the cheery "Happy Father's Day!" embossed near the top.
"This is exactly how I felt-" he checked his watch. "Twenty-four-and-a-half minutes ago."
I flipped the card open. Inside the handwriting continued. I'd been right. Classic navy blue ink, the trails the words left indicating the free-flowing ink of the rolling ball tip. Probably medium-fine. I'd say 0.7mm.
'Surprise…' she began. Her handwriting changed throughout the page. It was smaller here—she must have known she had a lot to say and written to save space. It also seemed to reflect her mood. Sometimes the words and letters appeared even. Others ran together or her penmanship slipped into more of a lacey scrawl. I could see the indentations of her words in a couple places. She'd felt a lot as she wrote that missive. As she should.
'…or maybe I should say "It's a girl!" and send you balloons. This is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. You were kept out of a secret a long time ago. Race & nationality played a role in it. As did pride. And apparently the fact that you're free & loose with how you give your love.
'Once upon a time you met a young woman. From what I gathered in her journals she worked for you for a brief time—sang in your bar, danced your native dances, and ran your taps. I've looked up your establishment. Your website hasn't been updated since it was uploaded. You had 1,700 hits when I checked. It looked like a good place.
'My mother was too young for you. (I've gotten hold of your records, too. I apologize, but it's what I do.)…'
"Hmph," I grunted.
"Where are you?"
My thick, weathered finger stabbed the sentence that had caught my curiosity.
"It is interesting, is it not. She reveals some hidden truths about herself throughout."
I went back to reading.
'…it's what I do.) She seemed to have gone to a lot of trouble to be someone she wasn't; to get away from that which she was. Apparently my grandparents argued. He was Irish & came out with the railroad. She was half Crow. I don't know what the other half was. Being around you inspired her to seek out her own bloodlines. I have those documents. It never reached the point of her joining the tribe or learning more about the People. I don't know any more about being an Indian than most folks who watch the Macy's Parade at Thanksgiving—Just enough to know that there's a lot of history I don't understand.'
"She's a respectful little thing," I murmured. I kind of liked her writing style. Plain spoken but beautiful. Honest and harsh. Like a cactus out west with flower petals so soft they feel like silk—and spines that'll kill a man.
"Yes."
"And she uses the right terminology. Capitalized 'People' as she should."
"I have noticed this, too."
"Both of us have a lot of respect for people willing to admit their ignorance."
"Yes." His voice was pretty broken, so I went back to reading.
'…I don't understand.
'This is a lot for you to take in. I can appreciate that. And it may or may not be something you want to pursue or share. I can understand that, too, to a point. I'm not asking for anything. I don't need anything. But I never had any real concept of having a father out there somewhere. (The line of "uncles" in my life doesn't count.) And the man she'd told me was my father—the man whose name I grew up with—was a blonde, blue-eyed oompa-loompa. Now I know why he hated me.'
A chuckle escaped. It turned into a harsh sound in my throat.
"Where?" Bear asked.
I pointed again. He nodded.
"Wanna go get 'im?"
"Wait."
I went back to reading. His voice sounded like there was something coming that would play in.
'…me. But then, as beautiful as my mother was, when a woman bears you a full-term-sized baby at seven months you oughta be smart enough to ask questions. Her Native bloodline doesn't show much. She was exotic looking, but not necessarily strong-featured. So gorgeous she got away with it when I had the wrong cheekbones, the wrong brow, and hair that lent itself far more to black than to her brunette. Stupidity is its own reward, though.
'If you're interested I'll forward you her journals. I can send you the research she commissioned regarding her own heritage. I think the totem should be enough to jog your memory. Your craftsmanship, assuming you were the one who carved it, is unique and masterful. It is both ethereal and earthly and I love it. I'd like to have it back, after you've examined it, to keep in memory of a time when she was happy.
'Because you made her happy.
'Believe me, it was quite the accomplishment.
'And I believe that it isn't a fantasy she created, some truck stop souvenir she picked up. I hope deep in my heart that she didn't lie about this, too. I've put a great deal of effort into tracking her via these journals. And tracking you, too. I'm not foolish enough to think that we can pick up immediately. I'm not looking for a daddy . But I am interested in pursuing a kinship with you.
'I'd never force myself on you or make demands. If you'd rather I disappear again I'll do so.
'I would like my talisman back. And I'd like whatever documentation you have on your line. Someday I'd like to have children of my own. I'd like them to know their heritage, even if they, too, choose not to align themselves with any given tribe.
'I am trying—desperately—to deal with my anger towards her. She robbed me of all those years when I could have made cards and paperweights and dust catchers in elementary school, even if you turn out to be an unmitigated bastard. If you were a nice man, perhaps she robbed me of weekend visits, pictures from your beautiful town. Even a selfish father might have told me some half-truth stories of his time in the service. A caring one might have been there to cheer for me at the finish line and play one-on-one after work. I might have had grandparents. Someone to do Band-Aids and kisses.
'So I'm dealing—with various successes—with forgiving her after the fact.
'And maybe she did try to call you, try to tell you, and the result was unfavorable. Or maybe it's not you. Maybe you were the one she decided to choose.
'Whatever answers you can provide would be most welcome. I've included my contact information. If you are interested in further verification I can arrange to have clinical proof in the form of blood work or fingerprints done at a clinic of your choosing and forwarded to you at my expense.
'I have such hope in my heart that you and I can be at least friends someday.
'Amber Jade O'Toole.'
"My parents would have very much loved a granddaughter," he said quietly, angrily, when I glanced up at him. I skimmed down the letter again. "She played something—played some sport. Something that I was never there to pick her up from practice for. Something I never watched her compete in."
"Or it could be a hoax."
"It is not a hoax," he said thickly. He reached again for the envelope, whose disproportionate weight I'd forgotten as I read her message. He tipped it, cupping his hand to catch the sliver of bone that slid out.
It was shaped like an arrowhead, beautifully finished in the traditional shape & manner for spear hunting. And in even more minute detail was a vista of a waterfall, then a meadow, then roses tangling. He ran his thumb over the fine lines. I reached for it, remembering the piece, and flipped it over. His love was spelled out in his own beautiful script according to the promises made by his people in their language.
"Sweet Jesus," I whistled.
"I know who it was that I carved this for and begged forever from."
" 'The tree has grown in my chest…'" I quoted the poem from Ezra Pound.
He groaned at my choice.
"Damn, Bear. I don't know what to say."
"You will notice how cautious she is."
My eyebrows raised.
"She never names her mother. Only that she worked in my employ. Gives only a post office box, a generic email address, and the cell phone number."
"Did you call?"
"I did. I will call again. And again. And again and again and again as many times as it takes."
"I'll run 'er. See what I can come up with."
"Laramie is so close," he whispered, rubbing his chest.
I stuck out my hand. "Anything I can do," I assured him.
He nodded. "I have a daughter, Walt. A precious daughter. I will not be a friend to her. I will-"
"You will contact her, being as cautious as she's been. And you will ask her for not only the paperwork from the tribal council that her mother generated, which is what I know you want, but for her birth certificate, social, and driver's license numbers. Then you will let me do what I do. Do you hear me?"
He smiled. His old smile. "I hear you, Sheriff. But you will find that these things are unimportant."
He started to turn, stuffing the envelope back into his pocket. The necklace was still in his hand. This I watched him loop around his own neck.
"She is accomplished, this daughter. My Amber. My ho'honáhke."
I smiled at him. The man was smitten already. I would have expected nothing less of a child of his own he'd expected. And I aimed to keep this woman from breaking his heart.
He was reading my mind.
"I will have care, my friend."
"I'll just back you up, all the same. You get me those numbers."