The lives of Anglo and Navajo families intersect in the New Mexican town of Shiprock, where a shuttered uranium mill is the centerpiece of Ann Cummins’ second novel, “Yellowcake.”

The suggestion of possible litigation on behalf of ailing mill retirees is a weak thread that weaves itself through the story; its impact is not nearly as hard hitting as the wildly popular “Silkwood” in the ’80s and “Erin Brockovich” in 2000—both exposés regarding toxic contamination by mega corporations that jeopardized employees and the general public.

In fact, Cummins’ title—that refers to the resulting chalk-like dust from crushed and ground yellow ore—implies that the reader might expect the story to be of that same genre—justice-driven and steeped in confrontation. Instead, Cummins opts to sidestep the political wrangling and expose the deepest emotions inside family circles. She doesn’t dwell on overdrawn landscape images; the author takes the reader beyond the reservation into the back porches and bedrooms where suffering and sacrifice are everyday occurrences for the Mahoneys and the Atcittys.

Like particles from processed ore sprinkled menacingly over a frilly wedding cake, plans for nuptials are clouded over by concern for the father of the bride’s raging battle with lung disease. Yet Ryland Mahoney, nearly tethered to an oxygen machine, is steadfast in his intention to walk his daughter, Maggie, down the aisle.

Mahoney, fiercely loyal to the memory of his work in the mill, seems troubled by the movement to identify parties responsibility for the medical problems that many former mill workers are experiencing, even though “... every breath he takes is a maggoty one ... .” He expresses ambivalence, saying, “One minute they’re telling you the stuff’ll save the country, the next they’re saying it’ll kill us.”

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Woody Atcitty, a Navajo, shows similar symptoms of the same disorder, one that his activist daughter, Becky, blames on radioactive poisons. Cummins describes the stoic man, “His arms and legs once ropy with muscle, have shrunk down to bone.” Becky and her small band of concerned citizens, in turn, are justifiably frustrated over the somewhat tepid response from the community—“the applause … a metronomic slapping like marching feet”—after Rosy Mahoney offers a vivid testimony, describing her husband’s debilitating condition.

Some explicit sexual encounters coupled with the occasional illegal antics of an exuberant young man—the result of an illicit relationship between an Anglo and a Navajo—put this novel is an adults-only category. But Cummins battles back to win over readers with a quiet, gentle portrayal of loyalty, patience, acceptance and non-judgmental friendship.