Free Zuni Stew: A Novel by Kent Jacobs

left the Navajo Reservation and began climbing in altitude. Zigzag turns, steep drop-offs. A twisted guardrail left a precipitous gap. An unnecessary sign warned of ‘Dangerous Driving Conditions During Inclement Weather.’ More signs warned of 6% (sharp) downgrades, (sharp) curves, rock slides.
    The land broadened into vast meadows. He was on the Jicarilla Apache reservation. The clinic, surrounded by pine trees, was easy to spot. A woman wearing a plaid shirt with snap buttons and faded Levis was sitting on the steps. Black hair bound in a knot. Coral earrings matched the blouse. As he approached, she pulled on a white lab coat.
    “Hi Doc. I’m Gloria. Lots of sick kids,” she said with no inflection, and led him to three young patients, aged six to ten.
    High fever, red throats, whitish-yellow exudates on the tonsils and back of the throat. Difficulty swallowing, swollen lymph glands in the neck. He told Gloria to swab for cultures. The kids were quiet, even when he coated their throats with gentian violet.
    It was late when they locked up. Gloria gave him the key for the doctor’s residence across the street. He tossed the few belongings he had in an unused bedroom, then discovered a T-bone steak and some tater tots in the freezer. Things were looking up. He heard a knock on the door.
    He was met with the stare of a large man, hair braided, a red band tied around his head. “You new doctor?”
    “Yes, Doctor D’Amico. I’ll...”
    “I’m chief of Jicarilla tribe. Cousin to Toklanni, big shot at Mescalero Apache Reservation.”
    In a voice devoid of expression, the man proceeded to tell Jack what would be expected of him. The gist of which was not to interfere with the traditions of the Jicarillas. The chief simply turned and left on foot.
    Door closed, Jack said out loud, “Hum. What was that all about?”
    He fired up a grill on the concrete patio in the back, ‘borrowed’ a can of Coors, turned on the radio. He twisted the dial. Only Radio Free Europe.
    A twenty-minute wait for the charcoal to burn down. He called the lake house. No answer. Next, Winnetka. No luck. He could call the restaurant, but hesitated. Too late, plus he didn’t really know any of his father’s employees. Pasquale kept the business side of his life separate from his family. He and Nic should have worked as dishwashers or bus boys, or waited tables. No. Pasquale had other ideas, and not soft ones.
    He sent them Outward Bound, to learn survival skills. The only thing they knew about the restaurant business was to tip at least twenty percent.
    The steak was over the coals. He ripped off a chunk of fry bread, opened another beer and tried out a rickety director’s chair. The canvas sagged, but held. The bread was sour, but not bad.
    Two ‘stars’ near the horizon, rather than the zenith, glowed steadily. Planets, he knew, they don’t flicker. The clarity of the night sky was as exquisite as being in the mirage. A sense of peace swept over him. For the second time today.
    
    Lori awakened to the sound of a vacuum cleaner in the hall, a long hall, a vacuum cleaner not exactly working right. She never slept so hard—was it the bourbon or the Navajo tea?
    A fitted white shirt, tied above low-waisted jeans. Sandals. No time for breakfast. The Zuni hospital was her first stop.
    Dr. Bill Newman was immediately taken. She was flat-out beautiful. He found it hard to pay attention to what she was saying. “What was that you said?”
    “Jack and I are going to get married,” Lori repeated.
    “What?” Bill said abruptly. “He didn’t tell me.”
    “As soon as he finishes his tour of duty and is accepted into a residency.” He was mentally undressing her. “I’m here to surprise him. I just can’t be away from him for any length of time—do you understand?”
    Bill certainly understood, and told her she was a bit late. Head of Area Office had sent Jack on a temp assignment.
    Lori stepped close to Bill, who was now