Chasing The Grave

By Mark Yazzie

No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks.

               - Mary Shelly

David Lamb moved his family to Perris California in late 1928, to escape the chaotic lifestyle of L.A. Sadly what was waiting for him in the small desert town, was an evil that he could not deny. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Desert Bone Publications
• Release date: Sep 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393539049

Mark Yazzie

I am whatever you read that I am, for if I am not? Then I guess I am not a good writer, am I?      

Book preview

Chapter 1

All  concerns of men go wrong when they wish to cure evil with evil.

—Sophocles

David Lamb, who had lost his father before he could even remember and who had been raised by his grandfather who recently passed 6 years ago, never expected to find himself embracing an elderly gentleman as a father figure as he entered his middle age, but that was precisely what happened . . . Although he greeted this man as a friend, as a grown man must do. When one finds a mentor within a biblical sense of fatherhood late in life. He met him the evening he and his wife and his two children moved into this dusty forgotten place of  Perris. They even took in the town stray, a dog with only three legs. Caleb was what his daughter Abby called him. David rescued poor Caleb from the fields and brought him along in hopes to set poor Abby's heart in tune with love for her new home. Big mistake.

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The farmer's bank moved slowly, the hunt for a house within commuting distance of Abby's school had been hair-raising as the school just let out, and by the time they neared the place where he thought the house to be—all the landmarks are right . . . Like the astrological signs that guided the dead unto there final resting places, David felt morbid—they were all exhausted and tensely on edge. Lev was cutting teeth and fussed almost ceaselessly. He would bitterly fight sleep, no matter how much Isabelle sang to him. She offered him feeding on her breast, off his schedule. Lev knew his dining schedule as well as the—better, maybe—and he promptly bit her with his new teeth. Isabelle, still not entirely sure about this move to Perris from L.A., where she had lived her whole life, burst into tears. Abby promptly joined her. In the back of the covered wagon, Caleb continued to pace restlessly as he had done for the few days it had taken the horses to drag them to the newfound desert land of opportunity. His yowling at night had been bad, but his restless pacing after days of traveling in the hot sun of Southern California had been almost as unnerving.

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David himself felt a little like crying. A wildly attractive idea suddenly came to him: He would suggest that they go into the main town front for something to eat while they waited for help to unpack the wagons coach area, and when his three hostages to fortune got out, he would unhitch the good horse Shadow and drive his heel deep into its ass and ride away without so much as a look back, wind in the face, the horse just barreling through the open plains of this strange new place. 

He would leave them the loyal red mustang of Isabelle’s named Aries. The damn thing was gifted to her on her 14th birthday, though now she is 30 years of age (which she aptly denies). Aries was old, tired, and completely stupid. Worse yet? Completely stubborn! Making the beast wholly useless and a tax to work with across county lines. If Isabelle loves him so much, she can keep him, David thought.

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He would ride south, all the way to San Deigo, where he would get a job at the seaport as higher muscle, under a new name. But before he hit the town sign the read, Now Exiting Perris on old 215 southbound—he would stop by just at the Indian reservation sign and where the Indians erected their new card house and drink himself some courage from the bars beer tap and drown the painful memory of why they left L.A., exactly.

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Then they came to the final curve, and there was the house that only he had seen up until now. He had spent three months cutting its timber from the land and nailed every stud solidly in place with his own hammer and mortared every brick into place, this was the house he had built: a big old Mexican Hacienda (fully mud packed insulated; with two iron stoves for heating, while horrible enough, we're not out of line in terms of consumption), three big rooms downstairs, four more up, a colossal storehouse might be converted to more rooms later on—all of it surrounded by richly green of lawn, lushly healthy with no hints of brown, even in this August heat..

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Beyond the Hacienda was a large field for the children to play in. And beyond the field a rolling set of hills in the desert that went on damn near forever. The property abutted state lands, the bank had explained, and there would be no development in the foreseeable future since no land markers had been inquired for by the public land share office. The remains of the Indian tribe that used to call Perris home salted all of its 42,000 acres. In Perris and in the towns east and south of it, there was proof that this land indeed belonged to others before Americans planted themselves in the valley. And with the complicated history of the town folk with the tribe? Involving the federal government as well as that of the state might be best to not go beyond what the eye could see.

Isabelle stopped crying abruptly.

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She sat up. Is that—

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That's it, David said. He felt his throat quiver some, he felt scared. In fact, he felt terrified. He had built this house in a town he knew absolutely nothing about for a sheer chance to be free of what happened in L.A.

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He swallowed.

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What do you think?

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I think it's beautiful, Isabelle said, and that was a massive weight off his chest-and off his mind. She wasn't joking, he saw; it was in the way she was looking at it as they turned in the cobblestone roadway that curved around to the shed in back, her eyes sweeping the naked windows, her mind already ticking away at such matters as curtains and shining oil for the floorboards, and God knew what else.

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Daddy? Abby said from the back of the wagon. She had stopped crying, as well. Even Lev had stopped fussing. David savored the silence.

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What, amore?

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Her eyes, brown under darkish blond hair swayed in the wind as she peaked her head out of the wagon, as she also surveyed the house, the lawn, the big tree she could convince daddy to plant a treehouse in, and the big field-stretching up to heaven through a sea of mountains.

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Is this home?

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It's going to be, honey, he said.

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I.T.'S PERFECT! she shouted, almost taking his ear off. And David, who could sometimes become very irritated with Abby, but this was a new chance for her away from the city. And far away from the gangster spilling blood in its streets.

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He pulled the carriage in front of the shed and slowed the horses to a halt.

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The horses panted. In the silence, which was sincerely welcomed after L.A. and the bustle of late-night escapades that one could hear from just outside their old apartment window and the paperboy, yelling for attention in the early morning hours killing a quiet moment to enjoy ones coffee hot off the kettle.

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Home, Isabelle said softly, still looking at the house.

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Home, Lev said complacently on her lap.

David and Isabelle stared at each other. In the rearview mirror, Abby's eyes widened.

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Did you—

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Did he—

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Was that—

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They all spoke together, they all laughed together. Lev took no notice; he only continued to suck his thumb. He had been saying.

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Ma for almost a month now? And had taken a stab or two at something that might have been Daaa or only wishful thinking on David's part.

But this, either by accident or deliriousness from being in the hot sun without fresh water, had been a real Word Home.

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David plucked Lev from his wife's lap and hugged him.

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That was how they came to Perris, California in the August summer of 1928. The forgotten farm town just east of paradise of the ocean cities and south of the famed City of Angels that cast out more outcasts than the unique people it brought into its glow from the Hollywood lights. 

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Like everyone else in this dusty town, no one asked where they came from or why they talked funny compared to the locals. Indeed, this place is where someone can truly be a nobody and get lost from seasons past.

Chapter 2

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David Lamb's memory always held a magical quality—partly, perhaps, because it really was magical, but mostly because streets of L.A. made it a coffin of memories to never escape from. In this very chaotic moment, however, peace nor memory would come to mind.

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David remembered he had stored the shed keys away neatly (he was a neat and methodical man, was an ex-beat cop could be) in a small pouch near the shut gun seat of the wagon. A pouch which he had made from a rabbits pelt, that he bought for a mere penny. He had put the keys away in the rifles main holster bag where the rifles cleaning kit would be. He was absolutely sure, wasn't he? Now they weren't?

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While he hunted for them, growing increasingly irritated, Isabelle hoisted Lev onto her hip and followed Abby over to the tree in the field. He was checking under the seats for the third time when his daughter screamed and then began to cry.

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David! Isabelle called. She's cut herself!

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Abby had fallen from the tire swing and hit a rock with her knee.

The cut was shallow, but she was screaming like someone who had

just lost a leg, David thought. He glanced at the house across the road, where a light burned in the living room.

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All right, Abby, he said. That's enough. You are definitely a white girl. Hush now, or people around here will think someone's being murdered or tortured.

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But it hurts!

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David struggled with his temper and went silently back to the wagon. The keys were gone, but the bottle of whiskey and bandage box were in plain view of the main copra of the carriage. He got it and came back. When Abby saw it, she began to bite down on her lip hard, waiting for more pain to come.

"No! Not the stingy stuff I don't want the stingy stuff, Daddy!

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No—"

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Abby, it's just bandages and water, and it doesn't sting—

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Be a big girl, Isabelle said. It's just—

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No-no-no-no-no-—

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Will you please stop? 'Cause if not, your ass will sting, David said.

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She's tired, David, Isabelle said quietly.

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Yeah, I know the feeling. Hold her leg from squirming.

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Isabelle put Lev down and held Abby's leg, which David poured a cap full of whiskey on it in spite of her increasingly hysterical wails.

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Someone just came out on the porch of that house across the street, Isabelle said. She picked Lev up. He had started to crawl away through the grass.

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Wonderful, David muttered.

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David, she's—

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Tired, I know. He capped the whiskey after taking a quick swig and looked grimly at his daughter. "There. And it really didn't hurt a bit. Fess up, Abby.

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it does! It does hurt! It hurrrr—

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His hand itched to slap her, and he grabbed his leg hard.

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Did you find the keys? Isabelle asked.

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Not yet, David said, snapping the bandage case closed and getting up. I'll—

Lev began to scream. He was not fussing or crying but really screaming, writhing in Isabelle's arms.

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What's wrong with him? Isabelle cried, thrusting him almost blindly at David. It was, he supposed, one of the advantages of having married an ex-cop who once was a medic for two years in the Army—you could shove the kid at your husband whenever the kid seemed to be dying. David! What's—

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The baby was kicking and squirming about, screaming wildly.

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David flipped him over and saw an angry white knob rising on the side of Lev's neck. And there was also something on the strap of his jumper, green, with a slight red hue.

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David began to find a deep annoyance, poison ivy the ill-begotten plant from hell,

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Ah, DAMN IT! David yelled in frustration, the pressure of this small move from L.A. to Perris was now beginning to ramp up intense discomfort.

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I'm going crazy, David thought wonderingly. Wheeeeee! Do something, David! Can't you do something?

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Got to put some aloe on it, a voice behind them rasped. That's all. Get the stinger out and put aloe on it. That's after you bleed it for a minute." But the voice was so thick with a Hispanic accent, the words almost sounded foreign in nature to poor David.

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He turned and saw an old man of perhaps seventy—a built and healthy seventy—standing there on the grass. He wore a dark brown coat sown from light cotton made from years of hard work from the vast fields of Hemet just outside of Perris and a hat that looked to have been worn down by the dry wind of the land. His face was sunburned, and he was smoking from an old oak pipe made from Indian wood only found on the reservations.

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As David looked at him, the old man snuffed out the pipe and tapped out the pipes ashes with the heal of his boot. He held out his hand and smiled crookedly . . . A smile David liked at once—and he was not a man who took to people. L.A. made sure David would be a hard man to get taken by, but something gentle about Samuel put David's stone heart to ease.

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Just saying, mehoe, he said.

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And that was how David met Samuel Cortez, the man who would teach poor David the right way of things in this not so commonplace. The Desert Oasis of the Valley. At least that was the lie David was sold, to get him to uproot and plant his family here.

Chapter 3

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Sam had watched them arrive from across the road and had come across to see if he could help when he knew it was safe as the heat of disgruntled arrangements most young couples that come out this way to settle in from wherever they were originally from.

While David held the baby on his shoulder, Samuel stepped near, looked at the swelling on Lev's neck, and reached out with one calloused, firm hand. Isabelle opened her mouth to protest—he was a stranger, and she was relatively new to these part—

But before anyone could say a word, the old man's fingers had made a single decisive movement, like Jesus healing the sick or sending coins into conjurer's limbo. And Lev's intense screams began to cease.

Oh Dios mío, he remarked. You white people and your wimpy kids. Isabell isn't thinking of having another one from you is she, gringo?

David burst out laughing.

Samuel took to him with that crooked smile and said, Mija, just ‘cause white people got good money don't mean they're smart. You see, the Mexican is already fixin' the white boy shit.

What did he say, Mommy? Abby asked, and then Isabelle burst out laughing too.

Of course, it was terribly off the collar to the point of being impolite, but somehow, it was okay.

Samuel pulled out a small thimble of oil from his pocket, dipped a bit on the tip of his finger.

Samuel nodded at them pleasantly as they laughed while Samuel rubbed gently on Lev's neck— even  Lev was chortling now, in spite of the swelling of the bee sting—and Samuel resealed the oil with one hand as if it was magic from the old world. Mexican witchcraft, David jokingly thought to himself. Isabelle knew what it was, same oil her mother used when she was a young girl in Mexicali.

While still laughing and held out the hand that wasn't supporting Lev's bottom—Lev's newly wet and warm bottom, that now seemed to dampen his hand. I'm pleased to meet you, Mr.—

Samuel Eduardo Cortez, he said and shook. But most people just call me Sam.

Right... um.. David Lamb. This is my wife Isabelle, my daughter Abby, and the kid with the bee sting is Lev.

Nice to know all of you.

I didn't mean to laugh . . . That is, we didn't mean to laugh . . . It's just that we're . . . a little tired.

Tired—that was way under par—caused him to giggle again. He felt totally exhausted.

Sam nodded. Come on, he said, "Why don't you take your babies over to the house? Got warm food and freshly crushed wine, if your feeling to it.

We can put some honey on a washrag and cool that off some.

Maybe distract the young ones with some pie for a bit after. Don't have many neighbors coming out to these parts. You are definitely a lovely welcome. Except for the white boy. "

Both laughed again, Sam's humor was unique. Unfitting for most, but warm and welcome.

David has been ribbed before by his peers on the force in L.A. David could tell right away Sam was just ribbing him to make sure he had the tough skin that it takes to make it in these parts.

Isabelle glanced at David, who agreeably nodded.

That would be amazing, Mr. Cortez.

Just call me Sam, meho, he said.

There was a rustling noise, a motor Truck was coming up the road with a few boys in the back of it, and as soon as anyone could say a word— it was lumbering—into the cobblestone path that led to the house.

Ah crap, and I don't know where the keys are to the storehouse, David said.

That's okay, Samuel said.