Indians

I arrived at the school just as classes were letting out. I waited for the children, all running for automobiles, bicycles, buses and some just running to clear out. I then walked, I hope purposely, towards the entrance. I wondered where room number six would be, then thought, Claire, if hundreds of small children can find room six, then so can you. And sure enough I did. I knocked on the open door frame and responding to a nod, came in.

The man putting things in a cabinet near the front of the room turned and looked at me. Then he smiled.

"I'm Claire Yates. I came about the goat."

"My name is Jerry Wilson. Happy to meet you, Miss Yates. Please have a seat. I'm afraid I don't know anything about a goat."

"I came about the goat, or rather, about the note about the goat."

He paused, looking intently at me. "I'm pretty sure I know who wrote the note. I compared the printing with some samples from my file for last year. Can you tell me something more about the goat?"

He wasn't telling me the kid's name. I noted that. Everybody is being very careful with information. I wondered why. "Well, it's not so much about the goat. I mean, what can you say about a dead goat? Besides the fact that it's dead, and obviously got that way by intent, not by accident or disease or old age. This particular dead goat has been shot and left in my driveway with the note attached to it. I was going out for the mail when I saw it.

"Despite what the note suggests, I didn't kill the goat. I would like to tell whoever wrote that note that I didn't kill their goat and don't know who did. In fact, I have no connection whatever with a goat, alive or dead. But to do that, I have to know who wrote the note, and I don't. But whoever wrote the note thinks I do, so I'd like to straighten him out about that."

"Why did you come to me? Why come to the school?" He sounded suspicious, or maybe just still being careful, like the FBI agent school secretary.

"Look at the note. The handwriting looks like that of a child. The paper is the kind small children are required to learn to handwrite on. That made me think of the school, that being where one is likely to find children, so I came here. I want to find the kid who wrote the note.

"I see." Mr. Wilson clearly did not see. He wanted to know more. He went to the same FBI school as the school secretary. He doesn't believe what I told him and is trying to figure it out for himself. But he doesn't know what to ask. So he asked, "Where do you live? Where is this driveway?"

"The pretentious oversized abandoned estate east of town. I call it the castle, sometimes. I'm telling you that in case I forget and call it the castle to you. This way you'll know what I mean, if I say that, I mean.

"A really rich guy owns it. He is almost always absent. I live there full time. I'm the caretaker."

That seemed to help. His face softened a little bit. Maybe it was just my incoherence that persuaded him.

"I'm not supposed to reveal the names or contact information of my students to anyone without their parent's permission. Now that I've heard a little more about the situation, I think can help you. I'm pretty sure I know his name and where he lives. I think it would be better to approach his family first, before we confront the boy. Can we go to see the boy and his family together? They would be more comfortable if I were there, I think. I believe I was his teacher last year and I have met the family. More importantly, the family have met me."

He looked at his watch, then at me. "Yes, we can."

So we did. He drove. I followed in the van. It wasn't your usual drive in the country. We drove right past the castle. I hoped he noticed it. Right after that the road turned into dirt. It was only a road by the most general definition possible. But we got there. Jerry parked about 50 feet from the house. I parked next to him.

The house was part of a farm. Even a city girl like me could see that. There were outbuildings, including a barn, and a stable-looking pen. I could see sheep in the pen. It made the goat more likely to have come from here, I thought. We walked towards the house. Mr. Wilson pushed the doorbell. I stood behind him. A woman answered the door. She knew Mr. Wilson and welcomed us inside, but she seemed troubled about something. We followed her into the front room where I got a much better look at her.

She was an Indian, probably Navajo. There was a reservation somewhere close by. She matched the stereotype, to a point. She had the brown face, dark brown eyes, and really black hair. She also had on a solid bright blue blouse over a blue and white dress with a wide brown tooled leather belt . Her face was a mixture of concern and pride. She looked at Mr. Wilson.

"Is it about Edward?"

Now I had it. It all came back to me in a flash. I was reading too much into the Indian look. She was as normal a mother as my own. She thought Edward, who must have been the boy who had written the note, was in trouble and his teacher had come to complain about it. I remembered all that from my own childhood, but of course at the time I was the one in trouble and it was my mother who was nervous.

"Yes, in a way. First, let me introduce you. Mrs. Toadlena, this is Claire Yates. She is the caretaker for the estate up the road from your farm. Claire, this is Margaret Toadlena. She owns this farm."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Yates. Please sit down."

I was speechless. I had no idea whatever what it would be like to be introduced to an Indian. And I couldn't remember ever being Mrs. Yates. I didn't quite look around to see who she was talking to. Not quite. I was a potter, not the queen of England. I wasn't Mrs. Yates, and hadn't been since the last time I was arrested for drunk driving.

I sat on the couch behind me. Mr. Wilson and Margaret Toadlena sat in chairs on either side of the small fireplace. The room was warm and friendly, unlike the public rooms in the Castle. People lived here. Mr. Wilson spoke.

"I think it's best if Miss Yates explains why she is here. Then perhaps we can speak to Edward."

The boy who wrote the note, and possibly deposited the dead goat was named Edward. Well, that was progress. "My name is Claire, please. I'm the caretaker, which is a fancy name for housekeeper, of the pretentious monster estate west of here. This morning I found a dead goat in my driveway. It had been shot. There was a note attached to one of its horns. The note looked like the writing a child might do. So I went to the school. Mr. Wilson recognized the handwriting. He offered to come with me to see you."

"May I see the note please?"

Mr. Wilson handed the note to Margaret. Toadlena. "I think Edward wrote the note. Claire didn't kill the goat. She wants Edward to know that."

Ms. Toadlena looked at the note. Her lips compressed. She looked angry. Yeah, she knew something about it all right. "Wait here, please. I'll get everyone."

We did that. After several minutes the room began filling with family members. First to appear was Edward himself.

"Hello, Mr. Wilson," he said politely. Then he sat down. He seemed frightened, but something more than that. He seemed stoic, and so far unapologetic. There was more to this story than just a prank or even a mistake. Young Edward was being careful.

Next to arrive was an older lady who looked like Edward's grandmother and very likely was. She sat in what was obviously her chair in the corner of the room where she could see everyone. I was glad that I had not taken that chair. She had nothing to say, but like Edward, seemed a lot more serious than seemed necessary. What had I gotten myself into? I wondered.

Then a man walked in, followed closely by Margaret. Toadlena. He had work clothes on. Like Grandmother before him, he nodded to Mr. Wilson and me and sat without speaking. When all were seated, Margaret Toadlena made introductions.

"Grandmother, this is Mr. Wilson, who was Edward's teacher last year. He is here with Ms. Yates, who lives in the mansion down the road from us. Ms. Yates, this is my mother, Elena Toadlena."

"Please call me Claire. I haven't been called Ms. Yates since the last time I was in prison." I don't know why I said that. I just do that sometimes. I hadn't spent any time in prison. Well, not any real time anyway. But there it was, blurted out. I guess I was getting pretty desperate with all the formality. I hadn't come to impress anybody.

Margaret Toadlena looked a little shocked. Grandmother smiled a little. I rejoiced at that. "I'm pleased to meet you, Claire," she said.

The other introductions proceeded a bit more casually. The man's name was Joseph and he was Margaret's brother. Margaret was Edward's mother. Edward broke the rule and addressed me as Ms. Yates. I let it pass. Why did they all have English sounding names if they were Navajo, I wondered. Were they trying not to be Indians? But anyway, I was pleased with the ever so slight lowering of formality. I had been on best behavior since I met the school secretary and was getting pretty tired of it.

Margaret started out. "Edward, tell us all about the goat, everything you know."

"I saw my goat lying in front of the door when I came home last night for dinner. It was dead. They shot it. They shot my goat. Why did they kill my goat?"

"Never mind about that right now. What did you do when you saw the goat?"

"I dragged it into the barn, so nobody else would see it. Then I asked Uncle Joseph to help me take the goat to where the bad guys live. That's when I wrote the note. Why did they kill my goat, mother? And who is this lady?"

"This lady is the lady who lives in the house where you took the dead goat. The bad guys don't live there. Why did you think they did?"

"When they came here last time, I saw their car. I even wrote down the license number. Then one day, I saw them turn into the driveway of the house up the road. I saw it from the window of the school bus. So I knew where they lived. So that's where I took my goat." He looked directly at me. "Who is she? Is she one of the bad guys?"

He looked at his mother. Was he asking for reassurance, or was that defiance in his eyes? Either way, he seemed more serious than afraid.

I spoke up. "I'm not one of the bad guys, whoever they are. I don't know who killed your goat. It certainly wasn't me. I came here to tell you that."

Mr. Wilson spoke up, carefully and quietly. "Edward, when did you see the car turn into the driveway? Was it this year or last year?"

"It was last year, I think. It was getting hot in the school, I remember."

And suddenly, I had a lot of answers. A lot of things made sense, things Rose had pointed out to me. The new furniture downstairs that didn't quite match the style of the furniture upstairs. The new paint job downstairs. The house still smelled faintly of paint, especially downstairs, when I first moved into it. And the new carpet in the living room. The house had been occupied before I moved into it.

Of course it had. Why would I think it hadn't been? Why had the owner been so careful with me, with my interview?. The guy even checked some of my references. I knew that because I knew them and they had told me that he had called them. The previous tenants were slobs if not actual vandals. They had damaged the property. The owner had spent money fixing it up before he put me into it. Edward really had seen a car he recognized pull into the driveway. Now who were these guys and what did they want with the Indians? How did they get to be the bad guys?

"The people in the car you saw must have lived in the castle before I moved into it." I saw grandmother smile and nod her head. Then I remembered I had called the place the castle. I grinned back at her. "How did they get to be the bad guys?

Theoretically I was asking Edward, but it was grandmother who answered. With everyone looking at her, she began telling the story.