Dance of the Bones

And that is why, nawoj, my friend, even to this day we have red clouds at sunrise and sunset, because of those red balls of dust.

BRANDON WALKER HANDED OVER HIS drink ticket and put a buck in the bartender’s tip glass. Then, taking his clear plastic cup of red wine—-Turkey Creek merlot—-he made his way through the University of Arizona bookstore teeming with the noisy chatter of enthusiastic partygoers. He found himself a quiet corner where he could be out of sight while still keeping an eye on the proceedings around him and also on the group of adoring fans clustered around his wife. Fame seemed to follow Diana Ladd wherever she went, and it was easier for Brandon to keep watch from a distance than it was to be constantly elbowed out of the way.

This cattle--call gathering in the bookstore on Friday evening marked the opening event for that year’s Tucson Festival of Books. The reception came first, followed immediately by the Authors’ Dinner in one of the student union’s upstairs ballrooms across the breezeway. Since Diana was thought to be one of the local literary luminaries, it was only natural that she would be front and center. Her recent biography of Geronimo, Trail’s End, had turned into a surprise blockbuster. So far it had spent seven weeks on the New York Times nonfiction list, clocking in this week at number eight.

The critics had raved about it: “Ladd’s lyrical prose transcends the whole idea of scholarly biography and brings a tragic American icon to life on the page.”

Brandon tended to focus on positive reviews, and those were the ones he bothered remembering. Diana had taught him to mentally deep--six those that weren’t so kind.

He realized that part of what had made Geronimo “come to life” on the pages of Diana’s book had to do with the fact that she had spent most of her adult life living among the original settlers of the American Southwest, most particularly among the Tohono O’odham, whose traditional homeland had, since time immemorial, been the vast valley surrounding what was now metropolitan Tucson.

Brandon understood that Diana’s deft treatment of Geronimo had grown out of the presence of their son--in--law, Dan Pardee, in their lives. Dan’s Apache heritage and the able assistance of Dan’s grandfather, Micah Duarte, had given Diana, an Anglo, entrée into the world of Apache oral history and tradition that was accessible to only a select few. Without that, details of Geronimo’s life both before and after his surrender might have been treated as little more than footnotes by a less talented writer.

Trail’s End, along with Diana’s several other books, accounted for why she was being feted tonight at the Authors’ Dinner and for the remainder of the weekend. Brandon’s role in the festivities was that of escort and backup. Even though he was halfway across the room, he sipped his wine and kept her in view through the crush of -people milling around her.

Brandon knew what to watch for—-the fans who stayed too long or who monopolized her time and attention, the -people who took it upon themselves to lay a hand on her in a more personal way than a simple handshake or greeting. And if someone became too pushy and Brandon happened to miss the warning signs, Diana could always summon him from across the room by using their secret hand signal. A simple touch to her right earlobe would alert him to the fact that one of her fans was being troublesome and needed to be encouraged to go elsewhere.