Home at Chestnut Creek

by Laura Drake

  Lorelei seems a bit stunned but recovers fast. “See you guys on Monday,”

  Nevada looks at me, brows raised.

  “Café’s closed on Sunday.”

  “Oh.”

  I step outside and head for the truck. “We’ll stop at O’Grady’s on the way home and get you some groceries.”

  She ducks her head. “I’m good.”

  The Nevada I saw with Mary is a different species from this one—caring and tender, and almost soft. How can those two people be in one compact package? “So, you’re not eating on Sunday?” Independence is a good trait, but she seems determined to take up as little space in others’ lives as humanly possible.

  “Oh, all right.”

  I pull out to the road and turn back to town. “You called me Joseph today. How come?”

  “I gotta call you something.” She shrugs. “Fishing Eagle is a cool name, but it’s too long. Fish is just plain stupid. You don’t look like a ‘Joe.’ So that leaves ‘Joseph.’”

  “My mother is the only one who calls me that.”

  “You look like a Joseph.” She glances at me. “You said you were in the Army?”

  “I was.”

  “I’d never sign up for that. Somebody in your face all the time, telling you where to be, what to do. Did you hate it?”

  “That’s hard at first. But you get used to it. I kind of liked it by the end.”

  “Then why did you get out?”

  “When I left here, I never planned to come back.”

  “So why did you?”

  Because it was a better choice than jail. I scan the landscape visible in the headlights. “Going away gave me perspective. Before I left, all I saw was what was wrong with where I lived. But the more I saw of the world, the more I realized that it wasn’t so bad here.”

  “Funny, I’ve found exactly the opposite.”

  “How so?”

  “Never mind.”

  We ride in silence. Nevada reminds me of a prickly pear; barbs on the outside, but the inside is soft. I pull into the crowded parking lot of O’Grady’s.

  “Damn, I didn’t know there were this many people in this burg.”

  “Probably most are stocking up since you can’t buy liquor in Unforgiven on Sunday.” I follow her to the door.

  We both grab a little plastic basket with a handle, and head down the first aisle.

  She drops two of those just-add-water soup cups in her basket. “I’m done.”

  “You’ve got to get more than that.”

  Her chin comes out. “Mind your own business.”

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “Look, I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen. I don’t need you telling me what I ought to do.”

  “Hey, girl.” A big guy with a spare tire, a patchy beard, and a greasy parka walks up, a twelve-pack of beer in each hand. “This Indian bothering you?”

  He aims bloodshot eyes at me, and I’m washed in a wave of beery halitosis. Adrenaline shoots into my blood.

  Nevada straightens and frowns. “Buzz off, Yeti.”

  He rears back like she slapped him. “What kinda’ way is that for a lady to talk?” He squints, trying to focus on her. “Unless you’re with this Injun, which means you ain’t no lady a’tall.”

  I take a step, but she steps up, into his face.

  “How is it your business if I’m a lady? Do I ask you how you live with only a brain stem?” She squints, and her mouth peels back from her teeth in a sneer. “I’m just curious. How do you remember to breathe?”

  It takes him a few seconds to process the insult. “Hey.” He raises his dirty hand.

  I step between them, ready to swing, but only if I have to.

  “I was tryin’ ta help. Why you wanna be mean?”

  She leans around me. “Because you’re breathing your stinky ignorance all over me. Go get arrested for DUI, Bubba, and leave us alone.”

  This is going to degenerate, and fast. I take hold of her arm and walk away. She has no choice but to follow. I hustle to the produce department, practically dragging her behind me.

  “What’s with you? I didn’t even swear. Do you know how hard that is—hey, lemme go.” She stops and rips her sleeve away. “I told you, nobody touches me.”

  I round on her. “Do you want to end up in jail tonight?”

  “Jail? He started it. Stupid drunk. I should—”

  “What, call the cops? It’s our word against his. You want to take that chance?”

  A flash of something like fear crosses her face. “No.”

  Me neither. “Then shop. And don’t tell me that’s all you’re buying.” My words are as cold as anything in the freezer section.

  “Fine.” She walks to a display of apples and puts a small one in her basket.

  When we go through the check-out line a few minutes later, the drunk is mercifully nowhere to be seen. I don’t even try to pay for hers; I know better.

  I recognize the taut line of her shoulders as she walks ahead of me to the truck, her head swiveling. Her radar is up. The feisty little thing wants to protect me. A warm spot fires in my chest. “Thanks for sticking up for me back there; that was a kind thing to do. Misguided, but kind.”

  I’m on the road out of town before she relaxes, as much as she ever does. “Does that happen often?”

  “What?” I keep my eye on the road, watching for black ice, but I can hear her sigh.

  “Prejudiced jerks like that, giving you a hard time.”

  “Not often. He’s probably just passing through. People from around here treat me like anyone else, most of the time.”

  “You say that like you’re not.”

  I lift one shoulder. “I’m not.”

  “I’ll say.” She mutters, but I catch it. “I get being different.”

  “I thought you would.” I hold in my smile.

  “Do you like it—being different?”

  “Yeah.” I need to tread carefully. She’s like trying to pet a wild bird—it can be done, but it takes time and patience. “Don’t you?”

  “Don’t know any other way.” She stares out the window. “I think it’s harder, though.”

  “But you get the benefit of being unique in a world of sameness.”

  “Says you.”

  “Do you want to be like everyone else?”

  “As if.” She picks at a cuticle. “It’s tiring, though. Like you’re always going uphill, fighting a cold wind in your face. You know?”

  From what I’ve seen, she’s been on her own for a long time. It makes me want to wrap her up. Keep her safe. “That’s because you haven’t found your tribe.”

  She chuckles; a dry sound that has no humor in it. “I don’t have a tribe.”

  “Everyone does. I was lucky; I was born into mine. You have to gather people to be in yours. Family shelters you against that cold wind.” I take a breath. “But you have to take chances. You have to let people in.”

  She’s silent for a half mile.

  “That’s how people hurt you. You let them in, and they claw you up inside.” It’s a whisper in the dark.

  It’s a start.

  Chapter 4

  Ma,

  A lot has happened since I left Houston. I’ve got nothing to do at night, and I’ll go crazy if I just sit and think, so I’ll tell you.

  After the mess at the apartment, I ran, but I didn’t want to leave you, or the city. I was dumb and thought that running to Waco Street would be far enough. I slept in the park during the day, but it was scary at night. Sketchy. So when a kid told me about a place I could go, I checked it out. I thought Haven House would try to push God on me, or try to make me go home, but they didn’t. When it got cold, I stayed there all the time, and to pay my way, I helped out in the kitchen. They taught me to cook.

  I guess I should’a known Cisco would track me down. Luckily, I spotted his minion first. I ran farther, the next time.

  Anyway, I gotta go. People in Unforgiven are mostly nice, but
I’m keeping an eye out. Even the middle of nowhere is a place on the map, and I’m not kidding myself that Cisco has given up looking.

  Maybe I’ll write more later. It kinda helps to write to you. Makes me feel a connection, you know?

  I hope you’re somewhere safe now.

  Nevada

  * * *

  Nevada

  I have no idea what I’ll do with this whole day. I fed the sheep before dawn, and the lamb (I’m calling him Little Dude) follows me around like a shadow, baah-ing all over the place. It’s nice to sink my hands into his coat and warm my fingers. I think he likes it, too. He’s a good listener. I don’t need to worry about him telling anybody.

  I walk all around the place while the sun comes up. Not much to see, just dead grass, old snow, rocks, and brush, rolling away forever. At least the wind isn’t so bad today. I’m about to go in and read the back of a soup box when Joseph steps out of his house, axe in his hand.

  He hasn’t seen me. I freeze, wondering what he’s going to do.

  He walks behind the scruffy tent thing, where a pile of long logs lays scattered in the dirt. He puts his foot on one, and the axe falls with a hollow chunk! He raises the axe again, and chunk! Wood chips fly. He speeds up, whaling on that log like it dissed him.

  In minutes, dark sweat stains his T-shirt, under the arms, and a thin line down his back. I could stand and watch him all day. His body is beautiful. I can make out his features: focused and fierce.

  My feet lead me closer.

  His head comes up. “Hey!”

  I jump. “What?”

  He lowers the axe to the ground. “You want to go running with me?”

  No. But there’s all day to do nothing, so…I shrug. “I guess.” I walk over.

  He looks me up and down. “You want to go change?”

  “There’s a dress code for running, too?”

  “No. But do you have any other shoes? Those Keds aren’t exactly the best for running. You need some support.”

  I look down. “It’s this or flip-flops.”

  “Then you’re ready.” He jogs to his house, and in five minutes, he steps out and pulls the door closed. His hair is in a braid down his back, and he’s wearing sweats, a hoodie, and fancy running shoes. “Think you can do a mile?” He bends over, stretching and warming up.

  I cram my hands in my jeans pockets. “Sure.” Running may be a tradition for his people, but where I grew up, it was survival. Kind of hard to outrun a bullet, though. Cisco’s cruel features flick though my mind, and I glance around, feeling watched.

  Joseph has started a small wood fire behind the flimsy tent-like thing. “Is it okay to leave that?”

  “Yep.” He takes off at an easy lope.

  I follow, taking two strides to his one. We each take a tire track, and head for the blacktop. The sun has barely cleared the horizon, making a rim of gold. Birds chirp and scree overhead. The only other sound is the thud of our feet, hitting the dirt.

  My muscles warm, and I relax into a rhythm. The cold air feels good on my flushed cheeks. Most people feel like they need to fill up the air with talking. I’m glad Joseph isn’t one of them.

  By the time we reach the road, I’m breathing deep and heavy, and still feeling good.

  He looks over at me. “We turn back now, it’s a mile.” He glances right, down the empty tarmac. “Or go a bit farther. Which?”

  I turn right and take off.

  When he catches up, he’s smiling. “You’re pretty good. I run with the Diné Wings twice a week.”

  “What is that?”

  “There’s an organization, Wings of America. I started the chapter here. It’s to teach Native youth the tradition of running, and all the benefits that come from it.”

  “That’s good.” The slap of my feet on the pavement matches a beat inside me. I realize that I’m having fun. When was the last time that happened?”

  “Let’s turn around.”

  “I can go more.”

  “That’s enough for your first day. You don’t have to prove anything.”

  “Like I need you to tell me that.” But I’ve got to admit, I’m proud I’m able to keep up.

  He spins, and we start back.

  By the time we hit the cutoff to his place, the backs of my heels are throbbing from these shoes. I jump off into the dirt, jamming my toes into the thin canvas.

  Sweat slides down the side of my face and slips down the knobs of my spine. I’m breathing like a buffalo.

  Joseph slows his jog.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Hey, I’m tired, okay?”

  He’s not breathing half as hard as I am, and I’m having to work not to limp. Blisters, for sure.

  Finally, we pull up in the yard. I stand, hands on my knees, dreading limping my way to the trailer.

  “Okay, I’ve got something to do for a bit, but come on over to my place for lunch.”

  “Nah, I’m okay.”

  “What, are you going to sit in the trailer all day?”

  “None of your business, is it?”

  He tips his head. “You still don’t trust me.”

  “Don’t take it personal. I don’t trust anybody.” I take a step. My muscles clamp like a vise, squeezing my bones. My heels are killing me.

  “Nevada.”

  I look up at him.

  “You can trust me.”

  A bead of sweat rolls down his long cheek, glistening in the sun. His eyes are black pools of—what? I feel the need to name it, because the emotion brings an echo in me. So faint and so old, I almost don’t recognize it. Inner strength. Of course I can’t trust that, but just the same, it relaxes my shoulders and loosens the long, taut muscle in my stomach.

  Maybe I can learn that from him, because I’m so tired of being afraid. But that would mean getting close, to observe? The thought sends squirrels scurrying in my mind.

  The silence that was good earlier is starting to feel uncomfortable. To me anyway. He looks like he could wait all day for an answer. Hell, it’s just a meal. And if he pushes, I’m in the wind. “O-okay.”

  “I’ll see you in a couple hours.” He strides off to tend the fire.

  I make sure my back is straight and I’m not limping (much) as I walk to the trailer. When I peel off my socks, there’s blood. I hobble into my Barbie bathroom and take a long, hot shower. When I get out, I dry off and fall onto the bed.

  I don’t know how long later, I bolt upright in bed. Something woke me, but I’m so bleary with sleep, it takes me a second to realize where I am. I catch a whiff of smoke and tweak the curtains to look out, half expecting it to be night. It isn’t.

  There’s smoke coming from the flimsy hut.

  Fire!

  I push off the bed, take a running step, and almost go down. The muscles in my legs have shrunk two sizes while I slept. I look down to realize all I’m wearing is underwear. My brain is muzzy, working half speed. “Get a grip, Sweet.” Driven by the smell of smoke, I move as fast as I’m able. I pull on my jeans and a T-shirt, step into my flip flops, and hobble as fast as I can to the door. The step down almost takes my legs out, but I keep my eyes on the column of smoke. Fire—hurry!

  Where is Joseph? At the corner of the house I see a coiled hose with a spray nozzle. I crank the spigot all the way and drag it to the hut. There’s something like moaning coming from inside. Oh my God, is he in there?

  I rip back the flap; my hand spasms to a fist on the nozzle. The spray is explosive.

  “What the—”

  Sun pours in the doorway along with the water. Joseph jumps to his feet.

  “There’s a—I thought there was a—” I force my fingers to relax, and the spray shuts off as abruptly as it started.

  Joseph stands there, dripping, skin slick and shining…naked. He reaches down and snatches a pair of running shorts, steps into them, and pulls them up.

  But not before I see. He is a god. Long muscled legs, taut muscle at his hip, a broad, smooth chest with swimmer
’s lats, and of course, there’s that long, crow’s-wing-black hair…and a pissed look on his face.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I woke up and smelled smoke. It looked like there was a fire. What are you doing?”

  He reaches up and squeezes water out of his hair. “A sweat. Or I was.”

  Humiliation explodes in my brain, splashing heat onto my face. Anger isn’t far behind. “How was I supposed to know you didn’t need saving?” Steam billows from a pit with rocks in the middle of the tiny space. “What’s a sweat?”

  He steps into flip-flops and, shaking his head, pushes past me. “It’s part of our religion. We come here to pray, and be purified, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.”

  Oh God. I disrupted a sacred thing. “I’m sorry, Joseph.” But I’m not sorry for the picture etched in my brain. His body is like a cat’s, sleek, supple, sinuous. I want to gather his hair, testing its softness in my palms, to trace the rivulet of sweat down the long muscle of his back with my finger, then raise it to my mouth, to taste it.

  “I guess you meant well.” He glances to the house. “Give me a half hour. You’re still coming for lunch, right?”

  “Only if you let me cook. After this, I owe you.”

  He smiles for the first time. “You’re on.”

  * * *

  Joseph

  I’m getting dressed when Nevada knocks. I throw a black denim shirt on over my jeans and pad barefoot to the door.

  I was too embarrassed before to notice what she was wearing: jeans and a black T-shirt with white lettering: I’ll try being nicer, if you try being smarter. I keep forgetting how small she is. Not petite, just short, athletic, and compact. The short hair makes her look even younger.

  She slaps by me in flip-flops, limping. “You know your hair is dripping on the floor, right?”

  I pull the towel from my shoulder and squeeze the rest of the water out, then pull the comb from my back pocket and run it through. “Sit at the bar. I’m going to get you something for those blisters.”

  “I’m good.” She heads for the fridge, pulls it open, and peers inside. “What do you want for lunch?”

  “Come, télii.” I pat the back of the bar stool.