Home at Chestnut Creek

by Laura Drake

  She is an odd combination; equal parts swagger and fear. Once you realize the swagger is a mask, it’s easy to see the fear beneath. She’s obviously a city kid, but more than that, I think she doesn’t have much education past a keen survival instinct. “Did you finish school?”

  Her head whips to me. “Did you have a family?” It’s a taunt; an invitation to fight.

  “Sure. My mom lives on the rez. I have a dad, not that he hung around much after I was born. Last I heard, he was in Oklahoma, but he could be dead by now, for all I know.” I shrug. “You can’t offend me by asking questions. I’m kind of an open book.”

  “Really.” Her raised eyebrow adds a question mark. “Well, I’m not.” Arms crossed, head tipped down, she looks like a petulant child.

  “Apparently. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

  “We know each other enough already.”

  I keep my eyes on the road. “Okay.”

  The only sound on the twenty-minute drive is the hum of the engine and the whine of the tires. Fine by me. Silence is an old friend of mine.

  She’s out of the cab as soon as I brake to a stop behind the café. I take my time shutting the truck down and getting out. I unlock the door of the café and she goes in ahead of me. Hanging her backpack on the hook by the door, she shucks her jacket and pulls the hoodie off over her head. Beneath is a T-shirt, turned inside out, but I can still read the backward lettering: Who left the bag of idiots open?

  She glares as if daring me to say something. I put up my hands and back away. Not my job.

  With a quick nod, she turns and strides across the kitchen to the swinging door and pushes her way into the dining room.

  Days always go fast when you’re busy. By the time I take a breath, it’s one-thirty, and the waitresses are rotating in and out of the kitchen to eat lunch.

  First is Sassy. “That new girl is a good worker, but she’s got a crappy attitude. I asked where she was from and she about bit my head off.” She takes a forkful of salad, lightly dipping it in fat-free dressing.

  “Also, I think she’s trying to take my job. She’s always going on refill patrol.”

  I flip a burger, chuckling. “You’re wrong. She wants my job.”

  When Sassy leaves, Nevada wanders in. “Can I make my lunch now? I could eat the as—back end of a running prairie dog.”

  Lorelei steps out of her office, hand on her hip. “Nevada.”

  Her shoulders rise, her hands go out, palms up. “What? I didn’t swear. And besides, the customers can’t hear me.”

  Lorelei walks over. “I wanted to talk to you about your attire. Again.”

  She looks down. “They can’t read it.”

  Lorelei tsks. “I can.”

  Nevada’s features turn down: eyelids, eyebrows, and lips. Red spreads up from her collar. A muscle in her cheek twitches.

  Lorelei stands her ground and stares Nevada down.

  Defeat doesn’t come easy to this one. Slowly her face clears, her shoulders slump, and she looks at the floor. “I don’t have any other clothes.”

  Lorelei’s turn to go red. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll just give you an advance on your first week’s pay, and—”

  “I’m not wasting money on clothes. I have enough.”

  Lorelei rolls her eyes. “Right. You came in here with a backpack, and I didn’t see any other luggage.”

  “I travel light.”

  “Just run down to the Five & Dime. They sell T-shirts, socks, and stuff like that. You don’t have to buy more than one or two.”

  “This is bull—” She glances up at Lorelei’s face. Whatever she sees there tells her she’s already lost. She heaves a sigh so big I can feel the breeze. “Joseph, would you make me a burger and a chocolate shake? I’ll be right back.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Lorelei takes a step to the office. “I’ll just get some petty cash.”

  “I. Don’t. Need. Your. Money.” Nevada stomps to the back door, grabs her jacket, lifts her backpack, and she’s gone.

  Lorelei looks after her, shaking her head. “That one is a handful.”

  “You should let her cook some.”

  She turns to me, and her gaze is assessing. “You want to trade jobs with her, Joseph?”

  “I’m just saying, during the busy times, I could use an extra hand.”

  Her brows come together. “I know she’s staying at your place. Why are you being nice to her? She’s as rude to you as the rest of us.”

  “Worse, actually. But I can’t help but feel sorry for her. You can see she’s had a hard way to go.” I point the spatula at my boss. “If you tell her I said that, she’ll kill me, and you’ll be out a cook.”

  Her expression softens, and she smiles. “You’ve got a soft spot for the strays, Fishing Eagle.”

  “Well, don’t tell anyone that, either.” But I know how she feels. I didn’t want to fit in, on the rez when I was young, then I found out what being on the outside really meant, when I tried to fit into the world outside it. I turn back to the grill and prep a plate. Nevada is a stray, but she’s also a strong, good-looking woman. How could I not admire her grit? Or her loyalty. She wouldn’t go for a better job, because it might hurt Carly. Better person than I, obviously.

  I have Nevada’s lunch ready when she slams in the door ten minutes later. She’s wearing a denim shirt buttoned over the T-shirt. When she turns to hang up the backpack, embroidered on the back is: Unforgiven: Home of the Fightin’ Billy Goats.

  I hand her the plate. “Nice shirt.”

  She rolls her eyes. “The least stupid in a display of stupidity.”

  “Hey, our track team made all-state last year.”

  “Yay goats.” Her tone is droll. She nibbles a fry. “What’s with you and running anyway?”

  I flip the bacon on the grill, then move to the cutting board to slice tomatoes. “Running is a tradition with the Diné.”

  “Translation?”

  “Diné? It’s what we call ourselves; it means ‘the people.’”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Running gives pride and self-discipline. It’s a part of our cultural identity. Besides, it’s fun.”

  She squints at me. “Are you one of those endorphin freaks?”

  “Pushing your body, testing your limits, greeting the Gods with the sun…doesn’t get much better than that. You should go with me one morning. You might like it.”

  She shakes her head.

  By the time we lock up, it’s dark. And cold.

  “Good job today, guys.” Lorelei pulls her ponytail out of her winter coat and shoulders her purse. “Nevada, thank you.”

  She takes her backpack from the hook. “You pay me to do a job, same as everybody.”

  “No, thank you for giving in on the shirt. I think you even scored points with the locals for wearing it.”

  She ducks her head. “Not a goal of mine.”

  Like anyone didn’t know that.

  Lorelei stops in the doorway. “Um, Fish, did you forget that you promised to come help me tonight?”

  I did. And that’s not like me. I turn to Nevada. “I need to swing by Lorelei’s house on the way home. You can wait in the truck if you want.”

  * * *

  Nevada

  I shrug. “Whatever.” It’s not like there’s anything to do out in the Great Empty anyway.

  We drive the opposite way out of town, and in two blocks we leave civilization (such as it is) behind. “So, what’s the deal?” In the dash light, his face is all hard ledges and dark hollows. It’s a strong face. A handsome one, if you notice stuff like that.

  So why am I noticing?

  “A while back, Lorelei’s mother had a stroke. She’s been through rehab, and now that she’s about as good as she’s going to get, Lorelei realized her mom needs to be on the ground floor. I offered to help her move. It’s just the two of them out there.”

  “Ugh. Poor Lorelei.” I know what it’s like to have
to look out for your mom.

  “It’s not as bad as it could be. It was a right-sided stroke, so she can talk. And walk, after a fashion. It’s mainly her mind that was affected.”

  “Does she drool?”

  He glances at me. “You really have no filter, do you?”

  “No, I don’t mean it mean. I’m just preparing myself, so I don’t say something dumb.”

  “It’s not like that. She forgets words, and has a hard time following complex instructions. She’s always been a sweet woman.”

  I wince inside. I’m cutting Lorelei some slack in the future.

  He catches my eye in the dashboard light. He nods with a half smile of approval. Is it for me being nice? Or me in general?

  And why am I noticing that, much less caring about it?

  He turns in at a dirt drive leading to a clapboard farmhouse with a deep porch across the front. We bounce over frozen ruts, and in the headlights I can tell the house used to be white, but now the flaky paint is more a dingy gray. Joseph parks and turns off the ignition. “Do you want to wait out here?”

  “Nah, I’ll come in.”

  “Okay then, be nice.”

  “I can be when I try, you know.”

  “Well then, try.” He steps out and slams the truck door.

  “Jeez, you make me sound like an ingrate.” I get out and follow him to the side door, lit by a yellow porch light.

  “The muscle has arrived,” he says through the screen door.

  Lorelei opens it. “I know this is probably the last thing—”

  Joseph’s hand on her arm stops her. “We’re both happy to help. Really. Now, show us what you want where.”

  I follow him in. I have to admit, he is a nice guy. No man I ever met would go out of his way to help somebody, after a full day’s work.

  Lorelei leads the way through a kitchen out of the ’70s, down to the avocado fridge. The dented and scratched front says it’s clearly not a throwback fashion statement, like at Carly’s. Next is a living room with the old people smell of cough drops and dust. The worn carpet matches the fridge, and there’s a floral couch and chair with doilies, no less. She stops in a doorway at the far end of the room. “This will be Mother’s new room. It’ll make our lives so much easier.”

  “I’m used to taking orders from being in the Army. Just tell me what to do,” Joseph says.

  There’s a steep staircase to the left of the room, and Lorelei flips on the light and starts up. “Honest, this shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

  At the top, she turns right, to a door at the end of the hall. There she hesitates for a moment, hand on the knob. She takes a deep breath, flips on a smile, and opens the door. “Momma, you ready to move? This is Fish and Nevada. They’re going to help us.”

  Lorelei looks older than me, but her mom is way older than mine. She’s a tiny, wrinkly woman with fuzzy white hair and little eyes magnified by Coke-bottle glasses, sitting in a rocker with one of those crocheted blankets over her legs, fuzzy socks peeking out from underneath. She frowns. “How are a state and a fish going to help?”

  Chuckling, Lorelei squats by her mother’s chair and pats her hand. “I meant their names are Nevada and Fish. Guys, this is my momma, Mary West.”

  Joseph actually bows. “I’ve been here before, helping Lorelei, but I haven’t had the pleasure, ma’am.”

  “You’re an Indian.”

  “Mom, that’s not—”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Good.” She nods and looks to me. “Your hair isn’t naturally brown.”

  Lorelei shoots me an I’m sorry look.

  Her mom may be impaired, but not about everything. “That’s true, Mrs. West. I dyed my hair.”

  “You should fire your hairdresser.”

  “Okay, Mom, we’re going to get started now.” Lorelei pushes to her feet.

  “Started with what?”

  “Moving you downstairs, remember?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Her voice gets high and shaky, and her lower lip wobbles like a baby’s.

  I could give a crap about regular people, but I can’t stand to see old people or animals hurting. I step to her rocker, sink to the floor, and put my arms around my knees. “Y’all go do what you gotta do. Me and Mary are going to have a good chat.” I look up at the wall and point to an old black-and-white photo of a couple coming out of a church. “Who’s that, Mary?”

  Her face goes all soft, and her little brown eyes sparkle. “Why, bring that down, and let me see.”

  I stand, and when my back is to Mary, I make shooing waves with my hands.

  Joseph picks up two boxes from the floor. I’d have to be blind not to see the V-shape of his back, or the jeans pulled tight across his lean rear end. Lorelei blows me a kiss, picks up another, and they walk out.

  I retrieve the framed photo and hand it to Mary.

  “Oh, now I can see it. That’s me and…” Her sparse brows wrinkle. “Me and…” Her mouth moves, searching for files that she clearly doesn’t have access to.

  “Looks like you were getting married, right?”

  “Bruce! That’s my Bruce.” She strokes the man’s face. “We were married fifty-five years and raised two daughters together.”

  So, Lorelei has a sister. Footsteps echo on the stairs, and a worried look crosses Mary’s face. “Who’s there?”

  “Tell me about those days. I’ll bet Lorelei was a handful, huh?”

  “I should say so. She was a wild one. We were afraid she’d come home pregnant in high school.”

  Lorelei walks in, Joseph on her heels. Her cheeks are pink. “Momma, that wasn’t me. That was Patsy.”

  “That’s what I said. And it’s impolite to interrupt.”

  Lorelei just shakes her head and takes another box. Joseph takes a huge painting off the wall: a house like this one, only way newer.

  “That’s my family homestead. Where do you think you’re going with that? I don’t understand—”

  Joseph freezes like a spotlighted deer.

  “Hey, Mary, tell me about this.” I take a jewelry box from the dresser, put it in her lap, and sit down again.

  Her face clears to the delight of a little girl. “Oh, how pretty. I forgot all about this.” She opens the simple wooden box with a cameo on the lid. “It’s a treasure chest. See?” She lifts an old-fashioned locket necklace and opens it. The picture inside is sepia, of a stern-looking woman in a chair, and a stringy man standing behind her. “This is my momma. She was born in this house, as was I, and my two babies.”

  “Wow.” I look around the room. I’ve always thought of rooms only as a way to keep out the rain. I’ll bet every dent in the wall, every nick in the window frame, has a story for her. What would it be like to live in one place all your life, and to know that your mom had, too? I can’t imagine.

  Joseph pads in, lifts the last box, and tiptoes out.

  “Yes. And this.” She puts the locket down and picks up a scuffed gold cufflink. “This was my daddy’s. He was a railroad man.”

  “What did he do?”

  Her face crumples. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s okay, Mary, it doesn’t matter.”

  “But it does!” she wails. “Life is being stolen from me, one bit at a time. You don’t know what it’s like…” She gulps a breath.

  “I’m sorry, Mary.” I pat her hand, wishing I could either give her back her memories or take enough away that she doesn’t remember the loss. The in-between part has to be a freaking nightmare. Especially since it sounds like she had such a good life.

  But at least she had it. Even if she doesn’t remember, she’s got two kids, and all those memories to leave them, both hers, and her parents’. A legacy they’ll pass down, through stories. I think most everybody does. Not me, of course, but most people.

  What will I leave? Nothing. I don’t have any stories from my parents’ past, and there’s none of mine fit to pass on. Besides, future generations wo
uld mean I’d have kids, and I’m not. No brothers and sisters, either. Guess the Sweet line dies with me. And that’s flat pathetic. Course, I haven’t had much time to build up memories yet. And if Cisco has his way, I won’t get much more. But if I somehow manage to survive this, I’m going to live. One hundred percent, flat-out. At least I’ll have that, whether it passes on to anyone else or not.

  Lorelei walks in, and seeing her mother crying, her eyes fill. “Oh, Momma.”

  “It’s okay. She’s just sad.” I pet Mary’s arm.

  “I know. She gets like that sometimes.” She walks over and puts out her hand. “Come on, Momma, time to go.”

  “Where are we going?” She takes her daughter’s hand and lets herself be pulled to her feet.

  “Just downstairs. I’ve put on the kettle, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. All right?” She puts her hand under her mother’s forearm for support.

  “That would be lovely. But my friend has to come, too.”

  She turns to me and pats my face. Her fingers are cool and papery, and emotion puts a knot in my throat. “I’m coming, Mary. Right behind you.” She only likes me because she doesn’t know me. And because she’s kinda losing it. But that’s okay. She’s a nice old lady.

  Lorelei smiles at me and leads her mother out. Mary’s left leg drags a bit, making her limp, and I can see where the stairs would be dangerous for her. Especially alone.

  Joseph comes in as I set the jewelry box in the seat of the rocker. He studies my face. “You okay?”

  The way he studies me, I can tell he’s seen behind my snark. Like he’s thinking there might be a good person underneath. I scowl. “Why wouldn’t I be? You worry about you. I got me.”

  He raises his hands in surrender, then crosses to open the closet door.

  I lift the rocker. She’ll want this in her new room, first thing.

  * * *

  Joseph

  An hour later, Mary is settled in her new room, we’ve turned down an offer of dinner, and we’re saying good-bye.

  “Seriously, you guys, I don’t know what I’d’ve done—”

  “Quit thanking us already.” Nevada steps to the door, looking like she’s afraid someone will make her stay.