Free Moonlight Water by Win Blevins Page B

Tony. “Look, I Love Lucy’ s on TV.”
    â€œI like I Love Lucy .”
    Virgil crept sofa-ward.
    â€œYou heard that joke,” said Zahnie, “one of the benefits of Alzheimer’s is that you meet new people every day. Virgil really takes it to the limit.”
    â€œI love it,” said Tony, “every single time. I love it.”
    Virgil plopped onto the sofa, happy and safe among his new friends.
    â€œWe’d better arrange the sleeping,” said Zahnie. “Red, you get Winsonfred’s room.”
    Red looked down at the Ancient One, and noticed that he was following their conversation with glittering eyes. “Don’t you need your room?”
    â€œI like this recliner.”
    To Zahnie: “What about Gianni?”
    â€œHe has a semi-permanent bedroom upstairs.”
    â€œAnd you?”
    â€œI live out back, in what we call the Granary.”
    â€œYou live in a grain shed?” His voice suppressed laughter.
    â€œIt’s got plumbing and electricity and it’s mine.” She hesitated and said, “Winsonfred’s room is free and available for as long as you want it.”
    She did an about-face and headed into the kitchen. Thinking delightful thoughts, he watched her move. They were only somewhat spoiled by the hard edge of the reality of Zahnie.
    The Ancient One grinned at him.
    *   *   *
    Mumbled words.
    Red started awake on the sofa. He looked around the room, dark except for the faint glare of a muted TV. Everyone seemed to be in bed. Even the house felt as if it were asleep
    â€œI want to talk to you,” came the words again.
    â€œWho’s that?” Red craned his head around and fingered his head. Damn, that new buzz cut still didn’t feel right.
    An arm waved, lit eerily by a boob tube. Hosteen Winsonfred, sitting in his recliner.
    â€œLet’s go outside and talk,” said the Ancient One. His slow speech didn’t seem like feebleness, rather a high degree of attention. He polished the words and set them out one by one.
    Red offered Winsonfred a hand, suspecting what the old fellow really wanted was help walking outside.
    He stood sturdily without help. “I want to talk to Ed, too, while we’re out there.” he said. He scooped up his dish of pudding with one hand. They walked to the back door and into the pleasant, shimmery night air. The old man went down the back porch stairs nimbly enough and sat on a wooden bench.
    â€œHere will be fine,” said Winsonfred.
    â€œWho’s Ed?” Red blurted out.
    â€œI sent him a message. He’ll come in a minute or so,” said Winsonfred. He spoke softly and precisely, like a precocious child. “Ed is a buzzard.”
    Red thought, Oh, shit.
    â€œYou don’t have to hide words like that from me,” said Winsonfred. “I know what they mean. Like most Navajos, I just choose not to say them.”
    Jeez, thought Red, then corrected himself. Anonymous Source, he even knows my thoughts.
    â€œWho is Anonymous Source?” said Winsonfred.
    â€œThe Big Man Upstairs I don’t believe in.”
    â€œOdd that you’re talking to Him, then.” Winsonfred set down his pudding carefully, reached into his shirt pocket, and drew out the makings.
    Red watched fascinated as a single 103-year-old hand-rolled a cigarette, flipped a Bic, and lit up. The younger man wondered why the Ancient One didn’t use both hands.
    He drew deep on the cigarette, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “Tony doesn’t let me smoke in the house,” said Winsonfred. “He’s so modern he acts like tobacco isn’t sacred. If you’d like a cigarette, help yourself.”
    Red wanted to try to roll a smoke with one hand. He licked the edge of the Zig-Zag paper, and tobacco fell into his lap. Winsonfred smiled. Red fumbled. He fumbled some more. Finally, he gave up, rolling it badly with two hands, and he flicked