went downhill from there and ended in divorce two years after retirement in Florida. She divorced me citing irreconcilable differences. The differences were one-half of my retirement pay, thanks to the Soldiers’ and Sailors Relief Act, the house and its contents, three timeshares, and a sizable alimony each month. She had a great Florida judge and I had a lousy lawyer!
However, I still had marketable skills, a decent second career offer in D.C. and for the first time in my life I was free to do what I wanted. Of course all of our friends became her friends, and my kids held me responsible for the divorce, so not only was I free, but I had a lot of time on my hands as well. I believe it was just about that time I realized there was more to life than the Beltway and semi-retirement.
Gazing at the ceiling one night in D.C., I remembered my safety deposit box in Virginia had been completely overlooked during the divorce. It hadn’t even been mentioned. I paid the bill every year, but there was really nothing of consequence or value in it. We’d rented it prior to my going to the Philippines, which was then very susceptible to a periodic coup. Upon return I’d almost emptied it, and just kept it for my mother’s things and some other old memorabilia that connected me to the past. The map too; the map my father had in his safety deposit box was still in there! For over twenty years, I’d considered it a great fabrication, and now I had time to prove it was junk; just the excuse I needed to go back to Arizona.
Chapter 5.
I didn’t have a million bucks in the bank, but had managed to keep a few dollars. My beltway boss relinquished his hold on my ass for a few months, I put my valuables, mostly photographs, in storage, and headed south on I-95 toward Hopewell, Virginia. It was nice to leave D.C. for anywhere with real mountains. I had to prove my identity at the Bank in Hopewell, but I got all my stuff, including the map, and turned southwest toward North Carolina and that strip of I-85 that would steer me more and more westward. I chose to take I-10 to I-8 just so I could go through Yuma again and re-trace the U.S. 95 route I’d taken so often back then. I had plenty of time to think as well.
I guess most people do their best thinking while driving. I sure do. I’ve often wondered why long-haul truck drivers don’t own most of the patents in this country. Maybe they get the ideas, but don’t have the eleven thousand bucks to get a patent. Who does? In any case, before I made the outskirts of Atlanta, I’d deduced a scheme to visit my fathers’ grave, and to quietly investigate the whereabouts of one Myra Page. Visiting my relatives and old friends in and around Phoenix took a distant third. So did visiting my father’s grave.
Of course, I fantasized endlessly about the meeting. Would Myra float gently into my arms after all those years, would she try to kill me, would she even remember me? She’d probably have older kids, and perhaps even be a fat grandmother. What if alcoholism or diabetes had taken her? My God, how short our lives are. I believed the worse possible scenario would be that she would treat me with a kind, detached indifference. How that would sear my useless soul.
All these things I pondered and more. Forever selfish is the ego! Never did I question my right to even talk to her. Never did I wonder if she’d think me evil or repulsive for not having the guts to divorce my wife and go to her like I should have. What impact would my arrival have on her family or her children? She never mentioned it, but what if we had a child she was too proud to share with me? What would my arrival do to her reputation within the reservation community, and why should she have to deal with it at her age? Never did I try to think like her. I just blundered into Parker at 2:00 a.m. on an unusually wet, cool breezy night in February. Nothing really looked the same, but I saw a familiar motel sign and the smell of desert was in my head again. I was nothing short of giddy.
Chapter 6.
That was two days earlier, including a stop for a pee break in the middle of U.S. 95, and I’d just started to sweat with a vicious nervous tension. I applied three times the deodorant I normally did, because nervousness can raise a stink and the knowledge alone exacerbates the process. I had a date! No, not a date with Myra Page, but with someone who knew her well; her cousin!
Lew-Lew was not your average Indian, or at least not what Hollywood would cast as a middle-aged “squaw”. She was entirely professional and entirely gorgeous. She kept her hair in a tight bun like Myra did, but with no furtive strands. She had an easy, elegant carriage with chin always up and nose in the air. Had it not been for her isolate demeanor and overbearing conversational demands, she might have been easy to talk to and easy to know. She was shapely and her skin was flawlessly olive. She dressed impeccably, to demonstrate her shape and announce her status. Her perfect makeup enhanced her cheek bones and beautiful black eyes. Yep, she was pretty, but I’d known beautiful.
I initially thought her lack of body fat stemmed somewhat from her desire to elude diabetes, which is such a scourge for some Native Americans. She definitely watched what she ate. No fry bread for this lady I guessed. With a degree in Anthropology, and a Master’s Degree in Native American Studies from Northern Arizona University (NAU), she’d become a teacher and political advocate for her tribe. Then she earned a law degree and turned into just another attorney. She did have a way with words though, and some people. Lew-Ann Lewis was formidable as she strolled into the Holiday Inn restaurant looking for someone she’d only heard about. I stood up and she found her way to my table.
“Hello, Miss Lewis.” I said with a grin, as she allowed me to help with her chair.
“Hello, Colonel.” No smile-no handshake!
“I appreciate you coming to look at the map. It’s probably a fake, but you never know. It was in my father’s things. We found it in his safety deposit box years ago and ... .”
“I have to drive over to Williams today Mr. Wayne. Could I see the map?” she interrupted.
“Sure, no problem,” I said, reaching for the small cardboard box I kept the map in. I took it out and unrolled it on the table oriented for her viewing pleasure. It still smelled faintly of safety deposit box. She didn’t say a word while she purposely reoriented it and took her time with every detail. I remained shut-mouthed. This thing couldn’t be real, could it? Did I care?
After what seemed like too long for someone wanting to drive to Williams, she gently rolled the parchment and placed it in the box like a baby.
I thought, “Shit, the thing is real.” I should have been jumping up and down.
“You may have something here Colonel,” she said with the faintest smile. “If I were you I’d take this to NAU, and have someone in Antiquities look at it.”
“Do you know anyone up there?” I asked, not really wanting to make that drive.
“Not well enough to recommend.” I know now she lied, more or less.
“Why do you think it’s worth pursuing?” I asked as genuinely as possible, thinking I’d never be able to steer the conversation toward Myra if this kept up.
“Well, there are a number of reasons. First, the Spanish script looks like Old Spanish; I’ve seen enough of that to know. Secondly, the Gila, and Salt Rivers are shown with stream beds very different from what they are today. At the confluence of the Gila and Colorado Rivers, there is a variation shown, which is how it would have been without flood control. In addition, any reference to the Hassayampa River is missing. Anyone wishing to counterfeit a map in modern times would surely include the Hassayampa and the Agua-Fria, which everyone knows were free flowing rivers back then.
“The omission may simply mean there was no need to include the other rivers or washes since it wasn’t meaningful, or because they didn’t flow directly into the Colorado, or because they hadn’t been explored yet. Also, the map just looks and feels right; genuine I mean. And why did you come back here to ask about your map Colonel?”
I felt my face go red, “Well, I wanted to visit my father’s grave and do some research in the library. Since this map may have originated around here, I thought perhaps I could find someone who knows about it,” I lied.
“Why me?” she asked, drilling me with those big, beautiful