The Last Shepherd

7. ZAZPI

| 38 »« 7 z a z p i Outside, the white-hot sun had already burned the color out of the town’s buildings. I cut across Miller Avenue and headed down Cotton Lane. Sunlight glared off of store windows, making it impossible to see through the glass, hiding what was inside. The oily smell of soft asphalt rippled up from the street. My eyes watered as I quickened my pace. The law office of Mr. Thaddeus Steele, Esq. was next to the Dairy Queen, and even though it was only three blocks from the diner, my armpits were ringed with sweat by the time I pushed open the door. Cool air splashed over my face. I blinked as I stepped into the darkness of the room. From that darkness, Mr. Steele’s voice boomed. “So you make any sense out of that crazy Basqu-oh language of yours, son?” “Some,” I said, not able to admit that I couldn’t read the Euskara of my father’s letter. As my eyes got used to the room’s light, I saw that Mr. Steele was sitting at a large metal desk eating a Dennis the Menace Peanut Parfait. The desktop was covered with peanuts that had rolled off Mr. Steele’s ice cream. On the wall behind him was a giant black-and-white map of Phoenix and the surrounding area. Green and red pins were scattered over the map seemingly as randomly as the nuts over his desktop. “I found this,” I said as I placed the black-and-white photo of the young Isabelle on the desk. “It’s the woman from the letter.” “Go-ri-in-ah?” Mr. Steele leaned over and peered at the photo. “Gor-e-en-ya,” I said. “I think my dad told me that it’s the name of our family house in the Basque Country.” | 39« » “I advised Fred to just be a . . . a candid about the situation with you, son,” Mr. Steele said, waving the red plastic ice cream spoon in the air. And I thought about telling him that my father’s name was Ferdinand, not Fred. But then I wasn’t sure why that would matter now, as the person who had used both names was gone. “He never said anything.” I looked for a place to sit, but Mr. Steele occupied the room’s only chair. “Well, you know your daddy.” I did. Or thought I did. But then it was turning out that my knowing had some pretty big pieces missing. “He kept insisting that he could take care of this—that his sister would see the light, so to speak. But hell, she never even opened one of his letters.” I didn’t know what to say to that. In fact, I didn’t know what to say to anything as I stood there shifting my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in front of a stranger who knew more about my family than I did. “But old Fred wouldn’t listen to my a . . . a consultation.” Mr. Steele began picking the peanuts off the desktop and popping them into his mouth. “Let’s hope you didn’t inherit his Basqu-oh hard head.” “This woman,” I said, “Isabelle—” “You mean your aunt, son?” “What do you know about her?” “All I know is that her name is on the deed to the ranch.” “But how can that be?” “You’d have to ask her,” Mr. Steele said. “But good luck on that. I tried to call her once—your aunt—never mentioned that to Fred, not that it mattered . Turns out she don’t even have a phone up in that a . . . a village she lives in.” “Urepel,” I said. “Is that how you say it?” “Dad’s parents were from Urepel.” “And this Isabelle Etcheberri still is,” Mr. Steele said. “Her name is Odolen now,” I said. “Huh?” “She changed her name to Odolen,” I said. | 40« » “Odolen?” Mr. Steele clicked the tip of his red spoon against his front teeth. “It means ‘in the blood’ in Basque,” I said. “It means she got married in any language,” Mr. Steele said as if that fact had some great importance. “Does that change anything?” “Logistically—no,” Mr. Steele said. “But the ranch is mine.” “Legally, son, it ain’t.” Mr. Steele sighed and pursed his lips together and tossed his empty...