Free Calamity Jayne Heads West by Kathleen Bacus Page A

my tracks. There it was: an absolutely striking statue of Kokopelli, the hunch-backed, flute-playing, Johnny Appleseed of Native American fertility gods. I’d recog-nize him anywhere—with certain embellishments, that is. Gram had a small knockoff in her collection but I’d accidentally knocked off a certain part of his anatomy that was—shall we say—disproportionately represented. I’d tried to glue the—uh, appendage—back on with the rather unfortunate result that my gammy’s knockoff looked like he’d discovered perfor-mance enhancing pharmaceuticals.
    I’ve always thought Kokopelli a particularly colorful historical figure. When Gram added the art piece toher collection, it came with an equally colorful biography—one guaranteed to appeal to art aficiona-dos and hopeless romantics who love stories of randy Romeos who roam the countryside in search of fair maidens to plunder and pleasure. And in Kokopelli’s case, impregnate.
    “Eeow! Gross! Look at the ding dong on that dude!” Townsend’s nephew exclaimed and I shot him a dark look.
    “Hey! Have a little respect there, young man,” I said with a harshness that rarely escaped me. “Kokopelli is very much revered by the Native American culture. He was featured in cave drawings thousands of years ago. It was believed his arrival in a village and the lyrical tones of his flute chased away winter and heralded the coming of spring and warmth and rain.”
    Ranger Rick gave me a surprised look.
    “How do you know this stuff?” he asked.
    “Wikipedia, of course,” I replied with a dark look. “How do you think I know it? I learned it. Kokopelli’s cool. And as I understand it, quite the Casanova.”
    “How come he’s got such a huge, gigantic—?”
    Townsend shoved a hand over his nephew’s mouth, beating me to it.
    “Kokopelli is the Elvis of Native American fertility gods,” I explained. “He’s in charge of reproduction—be it crops or kids. Therefore, he is represented in a certain anatomically enhanced way.”
    “How come he’s all hunched over?” Kelsey asked.
    “If you had to carry that much weight between your legs, you’d be hunched over, too,” Nick said, once Townsend removed his hand.
    “Eeow! Make him stop, Uncle Rick!” Kelsey yelled, putting her hands over her ears. “Make him stop!”
    “For your information, he’s depicted hunched over because one legend says he carries a bag of seeds andsongs with him,” I told the trio. “The Hopi legend has him carrying unborn babies on his back to distribute to women.” I decided not to mention the myth that rendered Kokopelli’s penis detachable so he could leave it in the river to mate with the young women bathing there. I so didn’t want to explain that one.
    “And you think Grandpa Joe and Grandma Hannah would like that as a wedding gift?” Nick pointed to the figurine with an unbelieving look on his face.
    “For reasons known only to me and, maybe an addi-tional person or two, yes. Absolutely. I believe this would make the perfect gift for the happy couple.” I reverently picked the figurine up and turned it over. And about dropped it when I saw the price.
    “Holy bags of babies!” I yelled. “Three hundred and eighty eight smackaroos!” I gently placed Kokopelli back on the glass shelf and ever so carefully backed away, my hands out at my sides to motion everyone to remove themselves to a safe distance. No way was I gonna risk a you-break-it-you-bought-it scenario. Not when I had first-hand knowledge of how fragile cer-tain body parts were.
    Once out on the sidewalk I breathed a sigh of relief.
    “Dang it,” I said. “And that would have been the per-fect gift.” A bona fide Native American Kokopelli for my gammy with the sweet, sweet added satisfaction of Joe Townsend having to greet the legendary lover of epic proportions each and every day thrown in.
    Perfect. I sniffed. Just perfect.
    In a noble attempt to cheer me up, Townsend treated the four of us to