Zuni Stew: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

went neon. Even the bull’s eyes flashed red.
    Fourteen rings and no answer. Probably Jo Lou and his mother were in the rose garden, or shopping—it was ten o’clock in Chicago. He would call from Zuni.
    He parked adjacent to a 50’s-looking concrete block building. Alone in the elevator, the brass fittings and wood panels shined. No hospital smells, no muffled screams, no rounds, no demands—he was completely alone. Everything was totally foreign, his future a blank.
    Ushered down a hall to a door marked with the engraved name of Dr. G. H. Martin, Assistant Director. He ran his hands down his sideburns, checked his zipper.
    A grey-haired man in short sleeves, tie tack too high, offered a chair. “Welcome to the Southwest, Doctor. We’ve been expecting you. We’re really short-handed out there at Zuni.”
    That was the first familiar thing Jack had seen or heard: Cook County Hospital was perpetually short-handed.
    Martin explained that the Indian Health Service operated in a quasi-military fashion. Rarely would he be on a military base. He was not expected to maintain military etiquette. It was hard for Martin to look into the young doctor’s clear blue eyes, knowing of the killings. He tried to hide his empathy. A hollow grew in the pit of his stomach. Luckily, the intercom buzzed, a secretary’s voice told them the admiral was expecting them.
    As they entered, Mark Zeller stood—six-foot, four-inches—and shook Jack’s hand. “Welcome to the service, Doctor. First time out west?” Jack nodded. “What do you think of it so far?”
    “I had some great chiles rellenos last night at La Placita in Old Town. And my first sopapillas. ”
    “You speak Spanish?”
    “Poorly, about as good as my high school Latin.”
    “Make sure you read this,” Zeller said, handing Jack a booklet. “From Indian Affairs. Wise advice. In Indian Country, you have to partner with the tribal police and the FBI. They have the trust and respect. They can open doors, especially for us in the Indian Health Service.
    “You’re going to see and have to report cases of suspected abuse and provide services to the victims. As outsiders we have a certain objectivity and reputation for fairness. To us, it doesn’t matter who is what tribe or clan. We just want to provide the best health care.”
    The meeting over, Zeller said uniforms were at the BX. “Then straight to Zuni?”
    “Yes, sir. Already checked out of the motel.”
    “Good.”
    Then the admiral did something Jack would later recall as unusual. Zeller reached out to shake his hand, and soundly clapped the other hand on his shoulder. The pressure was firm and seemed to last a bit long, considering he had just met the man, not to mention Zeller far, far outranked him.
    “The Zunis are a beautiful people. Handsome. A bone structure that is unique. Not Asian, not flat—no ovoid eyes. Kind of dignified. You will like them. You will find, well, for want of the right word, a level of solace in their world. Godspeed, son,” said Zeller.

    One hour later, Jack-the-civilian became Jack-the-Navy-Lieutenant-equivalent, shiny double bars on his lapel. All khaki—slacks, short sleeve shirt, socks—all very beige.
    He wrestled with the ragtop before leaving Albuquerque. The canvas was bleached, splotchy, threadbare along the seams, but in one piece.
    He departed the city on Central Avenue, crossed the Rio Grande, began the climb up Nine-Mile Hill. The land opened up. The narrow two-lane 66 was bordered by desert grassland, barb-wired fences, solitary rows of telephone lines. The sky was huge.
    Crossed the Rio Puerco through a truss steel arch bridge. A sign told him he was entering tribal land. Route 66 was stepping back in time. Laguna Pueblo. He regained control of his thoughts; his usual keen sense of observation and assessment returned. His physician’s mind, trained to notice any and all nuances, thought back to the brief conversation with the admiral. A distinct sense of urgency.