“Possible. When is Darrius coming back? I’d like to get out of these wet clothes.”
“Soon. The dances are mostly over, but there is the—” Sounds of the host drum ensemble, Southern Splendor, who were located behind the large arena, took his attention. “The drummers are starting up again. This means they’re going to do either an honor song or a giveaway.”
Derrick was pointing at a large group of drummers standing in a circle. Several drums had paintings of sacred animals. “A giveaway? What are they giving away?”
“A particular person is selected for one reason or another—maybe someone who helped with setup; a needy family or someone who is to be honored for some other reason. They are presented with things from money, housing or whatever.” Squinting, he stared into the audience, his voice now a whisper. “I—I just don’t know who the honoree is this year. I know of no family in need other than the multitudes who are always in need in the area. There is a wedding, but the couple is honored with a song.”
Justine looked around but did not know exactly what to look for. “Can I at least take a few pictures?”
“It would be okay now to do that.”
Quickly, she grabbed her camera bag from the ground and hung her camera around her neck. She stooped and took pictures of the dancers still in costume.
When she heard the beating of drums, she looked up from the camera in time to see Darrius walking into the arena. There was something in his arms covered by a muted color shawl. What? What is he doing now?
The host drum ensemble, Southern Splendor, maintained the drums in a melodic, sensual tempo that matched every barefoot step Darrius took. Being a true photographer, she snapped a few photos of him as he approached a man in the audience holding a cane.
She watched as Darrius handed the man a metal sculpture of a war hero bearing a flag. Then the coordinator returned to the microphone, saying, “This year, our honoree is Justin Fleming, who returned home in one piece after risking his life in Iraq for the sake of America.” Everyone clapped and cheered and Justine continued with her photographing, knowing this would be a great picture to add to the others of this very special powwow. She saw Justin’s mother, Rita, the woman who had served them at the Eagle Café. Then she remembered the story of her son returning home alive. She smiled and knew that if anyone would be the honoree, it should be him.
After the cheers subsided, Justine saw Darrius walking in her direction with something else in his arms still covered. She looked at Derrick. “What is he doing now?”
“He also has something for you.”
“Me? But why? I’m certainly no hero.” She looked around the arena as people began to congratulate Justin. Then she looked straight into Darrius’s eyes. He was still in the Koshari costume, wet, sticky and looking a total mess. Then again, to her, he was perfect.
She stood to greet him, smiling. “What do you have covered in that beautiful shawl?”
“Please, accept my gift to you.,” he said, placing the item into her trembling hands. “Unveil it.”
Justine removed shawl and revealed the most exquisitely carved Koshari clown she had ever seen. He was a miniature of a real man. The delicate cottonwood figure had the musculature, proportioned paint, tasseled hat and face paintings of the one on her shirt. Justine looked up at Darrius, speechless.
“I haven’t done anything to deserve—”
“Don’t say a word, darling. I originally had him carved for myself by my main man Frederic K, the most talented carver I know. But now he’s yours. I want you to have him. Cherish him.”
Justine’s voice was choked with emotion. “But…why?”
“Because I’m in love, Justine. This is a first for me.”
He moved into her, taking her jaw into his warm hand. “I love you. I’ve never really wanted to love again since my last relationship, but it has happened, and I’m glad. You complete me. I felt it as you rode the plane into my land—into my heart. I beckoned you.”
“You beckoned me. I know. I felt it the day I looked into your face, Darrius.”
He gently kissed her lips, holding her slightly around the hips. When the kiss broke, their eyes locked for an eternity.
Finally, Justine’s voice creaked, penetrating the muggy warm air around them. “What’s next for us tonight?”
“Meeting my family.”
“They’re here?”
“Always here for Derrick and me. Only this time, I’m the main attraction—next to you. Now, answer one important thing for me. Are you still scared because of the famine dancer?”
“No, I’m no longer scared. He was only a dancer. Sometimes I can get spooked by unusual things.”
“Understandable. So, will you meet my family?”
“It’ll be my honor.”
“Do you like the kachina?”
“I love him.”
“And me?”
She kissed his lips once more. “I think I do.”
“Good enough—for now. Come, meet the rest of me.”
Hand in hand, the couple, along with Derrick, walked across the arena. Justine felt as though she was meeting the first family of New Mexico. Maybe she was.
In a little huddle stood two women and two men. Justine knew they had to be his family because they were the only ones waiting aside from all the action. She felt uncertainty rising again—not the fear of utter terror, but the fear of not fitting in. Although Darrius was a man who meant everything to her and made her feel like a queen, there was that little matter of withstanding a family’s scrutiny. After all, she wasn’t Native American. But what should it matter? She wanted to fit in, live her life with him. As far as she was concerned, nothing would get in her way. Yet, there they stood, four pairs of eyes watching their approach.
Her nerves seemingly tightening into knots, she let Darrius lead her into the middle of their group. She waited for Darrius to speak first, looking from member to member. His mother, a delicately framed woman, was as beautiful as she was dainty. Her hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck and secured with a hummingbird clasp. Her clothing was airy and simple, consisting of a silk-flower blouse and denim skirt. The twins looked like her.
His father was a tall, thin man who wore the traditional Western attire—bandana shirt, battered cowboy hat, jeans and boots so pointy they could have been considered ‘roach-killers’ in certain circles. His complexion was dark—dark caramel, like his twin sons, and his silver feather chains hung down the front of his shirt. He was very, very handsome.
Their brother, Jemez, was a younger version of Darrius and Derrick, but he also looked like their mom. He, too, was a tall, slender man with a flow of dark hair down his back. From the looks of him, he would never be seen in traditional Indian attire. No, he was decidedly contemporary in his jeans and white T-shirt with a Discman hanging from his belt. His eyes were darker, more mysterious looking than his brothers’. Now she knew why he was considered the trickster of the bunch, even more so than Derrick. His eyes gave him away, told of the levity within him. He, too, was very handsome.
