A Kachina Dance by Beverley Andi Page B

all in faded jeans and worn boots , see the difference? ”
    I have to laugh. “OK, point well taken. Next time I come , I’ll remember to pack my grubby clothes and forget about buying new clothes for the trip.” I take a swallow of beer as Jay’s eyes smile at me. “What?” I feel like his eyes can see right through me.
    “Oh, I was just imagining you in your grubby clothes. Now tell me about yourself , ” he says with his quiet voice .
    “ Well, my name is Kate Knig h t ly as you may have found out already from the motel . I work for the American Museum of Art in Manhattan or AMA as it’s called. I’ m an assistant curator. ”
    “Hmm , impressive.” He nods and give s that slight smile again.
    “ It sounds like a wonderful position and it is , but , remember , the museum is huge and has many curato rs and many assistant curators. I have always been interested in art and history. ” I stop and take a swallow of beer as his gaze unsettles me.  
    “ I guess I began reading about the Anasazi in my early twentie s and became fascinated with the beauty of their pottery and their my sterious disappearance . M y first trip was to the Four Corners Area to visit the cliff dwellings . Of course, in doing so I fell head over heels in love with the beauty of this land. So every vacation I can, I end up back here learning a little bit more about the c ulture. That’s why seeing the K a china da nces is so important. Your people are the descendants of the Anasazi. I am trying to understand the society. Oh , and one more thing…I’m not the kind of woman who usually goes off with men I’ve j ust met, especially on the back of motorcycles.”
    My words rush out; I talk fast when I’m nervous.  
    “So why did you come?”
    “ Hmm, good question. Well , let’s just say I had a h unch you weren’t like those guy s inside. Ther e’s something about you…” I ta k e a breath. “ I sense an artist ic nature in you, am I right? ”
    “So it shows…you are very clever.” He gi ve s that slight smile . “Yes, I am a painter. ”
    “A painter! I knew it. Your hands gi ve you away. You have rema rkable hands for a man. They foretell your art istic nature even before you speak . There’s something else… your voice .. .” I stop, trying to find the right words as he gazes at me with a quizzical look. I sit up in my chair more animated, more excited . “I know what it is. Your voice is soft but has a sensitive quality to it. I can image you reading poetry or even playing a guitar and singing …”
    “Whoa, you do get carried away.” He grim aces and drops his head.
    “Sorry,” I say softly, knowing I’ve embarrassed myself. “Have you ever been to New York?”
    He looks up. “Yeah, I worked in Manhattan for a while in my twenties , as an art handler for some of the galleries in SOHO. That was right after my two years at community college. Something I did for my mother. She wanted one of her son s to go to college so I went.” He takes a swallow of beer. “That’s when I first knew I had to paint…tha t first college painting class. I was never much good at expressing feelings in words but once I got a paint b rush in my hand I could talk.” H e smiled ever so slightly again . His voice is soft; his manner is calm.
    “Did you go to New York to study painting?”
    “ No, I couldn’t afford classes. I could hardly live on what they pa id me. No, I was young and foolish and thought I ’d take the art world by storm. It didn’t happen and I felt suffocated after a while by the city. I couldn’t see the sky, some thing a Hopi needs to breathe. So I came home.” He drinks his beer and looks off in the distance.
    “ I’ m sorry; I guess we all have those knoc k- em -dead daydreams in our twenties . There’s more to your story , would you go on…single?  m arried ?” I feel myself drawn in. I sip my beer and wait.
    “Divorced. Well, painte rs can’t live off their paintings unless their work