by Laura Drake
“You’ll have to live with disappointment then, because I’m not doing it.” There’s a fine shake to my hand, so I fist it and shove it behind my back.
She squints up at me. “I think you’ll find this town an unfriendly place if you continue this type of behavior.”
I know her type: big fish in a toilet bowl, lording her made-up status over people who don’t know better. “Like I care.”
“What did you say?” Her voice ratchets to a screech.
“What’s going on?” Lorelei walks up. “Ann? What’s wrong?”
“This…this dishwasher of yours insulted me.”
The woman across the table whispers, “She was rude. To Ann.”
Lorelei takes the tea pitcher from me. “Nevada, why don’t you take your lunch break?”
I start to say something, but she gives me a tiny head shake. Fine. I stomp for the kitchen. I’ve screwed things up. But what else can I do? There’s no way I can have my name published in that paper.
* * *
Joseph
I jump at the hollow boom of the door and look up. Nevada barrels through with a full head of steam and a thundercloud expression.
“What happened?”
“I really tried to be nice. But that reporter lady is a mean old bi-witch.”
“Ah, Ann Miner. What did she do now?”
“Aside from act like I was gum on her shoe?” She paces from the counter to the back door.
“She treats everyone that way. Besides that.”
“She wanted to interview me for her stupid column.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
Her brows come down and she crams her fists in the pockets of her jeans. “Never mind.”
Lorelei bangs through the door next. “What the heck was that about?”
Nevada stands square, like she’s ready to take a blow. “Nothing.”
“Sure didn’t seem like nothing. Ann Miner is about to have apoplexy.”
Nevada stands, fists clenched, stiff and silent.
Lorelei’s bangs fly up on her exhale. “Look, I know you have a problem with authority, and I can see how Ann would fluff your feathers. But she’s an influential person in town, and people listen to what she has to say.”
“I don’t give a flying…I don’t care what that old witch thinks of me.”
“Not you. The Café.”
Nevada freezes for a heartbeat. “You mean she’d talk bad about this place to get back at me?”
Lorelei crosses her arms. “You met her. Do you doubt it?”
The mad drains out of Nevada like she has a hole in her shoe. “Oh, crap.”
“Now there’s something we agree on.”
“Can you talk her out of it?”
“I just tried. We’ll see. In the meantime, eat your lunch and cool off.”
“I really was trying to be nice. Right up ’til I met her.”
Lorelei rolls her shoulders. “I know, I heard you.” She walks to her office and closes the door.
Nevada stares at it. “Do you think she’s going to fire me?”
I’m shocked to hear that she cares, but I’m not saying that. It seems the wild bird is settling a bit. “What do you want for lunch?”
She looks up at me, a little kid’s hope in her eyes. “Can I cook for a while?”
She’s had a bad morning. I hand her the spatula. “You can cook while I’m eating. Deal?”
The clouds clear in her eyes. “Deal.” She steps to the order wheel and her lips move, reading the tickets. Then she turns and heads for the grill, her steps light. “What do you want to eat?”
“Fish sandwich?”
“I’m not going to say it—you make it too easy.”
I lean against the counter and watch her work. “What is it you’re afraid of?”
She carries on as if she didn’t hear.
“Don’t tell me you’re not; I’ve seen trapped coyotes calmer. You shoot glances out the front window like you’re looking for someone. You freak out about having your name in the paper, and you jump at loud noises like a stepped-on cat.”
She drops my fish into the basket and drops a burger on the grill.
“If you’ll tell me, I’ll try to help.”
She spins, holding the spatula like a weapon. “Did I ask for help? Do I look like I need help?”
No to the first, yes to the second. But I’m not saying either one. “You don’t have to get all riled about it.” I lean against the counter.
“What do you want?” Her eyes narrow. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I doubt she wants the truth, but people who don’t want to know shouldn’t ask. “It makes me sad to see someone who’s obviously never had someone care for them. About them.”
“Don’t you say that!” Fury flies from her mouth, and her face flushes crimson. “I have someone…had someone…I don’t owe you an explanation.” She heaves in a breath and turns back to the grill. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“Yes, God forbid you might take something you hadn’t paid for. Maybe carrots for a lamb. But something for you? Never.”
She nods and flips bacon. “Good. We understand each other.”
I head for the door to the dining room. “You don’t even know. Life is much richer when you let people in.”
Before the door falls closed, I hear, “Maybe in your world.”
What happened to her? There are so many facets to Nevada Sweet. Trying to figure her out is like working a Rubik’s Cube. What combination will unlock her secrets?
I can no longer pretend my interest is as a casual observer. I admire her. I like her. But I made an oath to my grandmother and myself, to live our traditions, and to pass them on to the next generation. Nevada is about as far from Diné as I’m likely to find.
And yet, I invited her to run with the Wings. The girls probably won’t be welcoming, but I think Nevada can hold her own.
It’s me I worry about.
* * *
Nevada
Thursday morning I’m up way before the sun, have the sheep fed when Joseph comes out his door. He’s wearing sweats and a hoodie, and his long legs eat up ground. He doesn’t notice me in the sheep pen, just beelines for the greenhouse. Lights come on inside.
I head for the trailer, but halfway, I remember there’s nothing to do there. And I have more than an hour to kill before we leave to run. Besides, my curiosity is up. I about-face and walk to the flimsy building. The plastic walls are intact, but they bulge and snap in the breeze.
The door opens quiet, and I peek in. Bare lightbulbs march down rows of warped wooden tables covered in pots, plastic flats, and dirt. Joseph stands at one, his back to me, filling more pots with dirt.
“Come on in, Nevada.”
I jump, just a little. “Is that an Indian thing, knowing somebody is sneaking up behind you?”
“Hardly. The cold draft told me.”
“Oh.” Don’t I feel dumb. I step in and close the door. “What’cha doing?” I take a few steps and slap a hand over my nose. “It smells like sheep sh—poop in here.”
“Planting, and it is. Sheep manure is great fertilizer.”
I step to the table. He’s measured out the exact same amount of dirt in each of five little cardboard pots, and he’s tucking two seeds into each. “Yuk. Is that sanitary? I mean, people eat the stuff, right?”
He chuckles. “Funny.”
“No, really. That’s gross.”
“Are you serious? You never studied the carbon cycle in biology?”
Not telling him I didn’t get that far in school. “Science wasn’t my thing.”
“Well then, get ready.” He hands me a little miniature shovel.
“For what?”
“Farming is my favorite subject, and I never get to talk about it, because everyone around here already knows this stuff. All you need to do is fill the rest of the pots, and I’ll plant, okay?”
“Got nothing e
lse to do.” I cram the shovel into a huge bag of dirt on the floor and sprinkle it into one of the pots. “What are you planting?”
“Tomatoes. I’ve already started lettuce, Brussels sprouts, and onions over there”—he waves his hand at the tables on the left—“and broccoli, cabbage, and eggplant over there.”
“Who’s going to eat all that?”
“I sell a bit of it to the café, but most goes to my friends down the road, and to the reservation. These are only the crops that need to be started indoors. In April, I’ll plant a bunch more outside.”
“Like what?”
“Chilis, pinto beans, peas, peppers, watermelons. I’m thinking about putting in some quinoa this year.”
“Wow.” Though I have no idea what a quinoa is. “Why?”
“Because I love it. Spending all my days outdoors, working with the plants and the dirt, creating healthy organic food for my people. I’d be a full-time farmer if I could.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because I give it all away.”
I totally don’t get the draw, but you gotta admire the effort. “I thought y’all were hunters, not farmers.”
“Don’t believe the Westerns. Almost every tribe in North America raised crops.”
While he gives me a farmer lecture, including the carbon cycle, we finish planting and he shows me how to water with a garden hose hooked up to a sprayer. It’s actually not bad in here, except for the smell. It’s snug and warm, and a lot bigger than my dollhouse trailer.
After about an hour, he dusts his hands and tells me he’ll meet me in the truck in a few minutes.
When I get to the RV, I wash my hands then change my shoes. My new runners feel like they were custom-made for my feet. Joseph was right: it’s better to spend extra for some things.
Not a lot, though. Only what can fit in my backpack. I keep everything in it, all the time, in case I have to run. I carry it out and sit in the truck until Joseph comes out fifteen minutes later. In the light of the security lamp, I can see him shake his head as he walks around to the driver’s side. The door squeals when he pulls it open.
“It’s like a meat locker in here. Why didn’t you come bang on my door?”
Holding my bored look, I avoid his laser eyes. “Might as well get used to the cold before the run.”
The truck cranks long enough that I think it’s not going to start. Come on. Come on…
Finally, the engine catches.
“I’ve got to spend some time Sunday working on that carburetor.”
When we hit the road, he turns away from town. “You mean people live farther out than you?”
“Many. While you’re running today, listen. You may hear the Gods speak, then you’ll understand why we live out here.”
“I thought I heard the missionaries came through here and converted y’all to the one-God thing.”
He chuckles. “We take a broader view. We incorporated their God into the ones we had already.”
“How many Gods do you have?”
“Oh, a bunch. But the one you’re most likely to hear on the run is Haasch’ééHi’í, the God of dawn.”
“Yeah, I don’t think a god has anything to say to me.”
He looks at me so long I’m afraid he’s going to go off the road. “Gods talk to all of us. But most don’t listen.”
“What are you, some kind of preacher?”
“We don’t need them. Every person communes with the gods through their daily lives and rituals.”
“Must be nice to believe that there’s a god or somebody, looking out for you.” I clamp my mouth shut. Idiot.
I may not know much about him, but I know that he noticed. Luckily, he lets my comment slide.
In about five miles, we bump off the road and drive to a cluster of homes: single-wides, hogans, and prefab.
“Here we are.” He stops in front of a group of about ten teen girls in sweats, bouncing around and stretching. They look through the windshield, spot me, and freeze.
Might as well get this part over with. I open the door and slide out.
The other door slams. “Everyone, this is Nevada. She’s going to run with us this morning.”
The oldest girl snarls, “She’s bilagáana.”
“Acute observation, Asdzáá. She is, indeed, white.”
She crosses her arms and leans her weight to one hip. “Well, I’m not running with her.”
At least I’m not the only one; he does that stare-through thing with the girl. “Then you won’t run with us.”
She tsks in irritation. “She doesn’t belong here.”
Like I need an Indian chick to tell me that. Been hearing it my whole life. I should’a stayed back at the trailer.
He looks from her to the other closed faces. “We know what it’s like not to belong. Why do you want to wound an innocent person with that?”
She flips her braid over her shoulder, sneers, and turns away. “Then she’ll have to keep up.” She takes off running. The others follow.
Joseph looks at me, then trots after them.
I stand, torn. Lots of other places to be in the world than where I’m not wanted. But I was invited. And since when do I need Joseph to tell me it’s okay? “Screw that.” I sprint after them.
My new shoes are tight in all the right places and cushy in all the others. My feet feel lighter; like I’m barely touching the ground, almost flying. I catch up to Joseph and pass him. My jeans chafe a bit, but my hoodie is snug. Only my hands, cheeks, and ears are cold. I pass the littler girls, huffing too hard to do more than grunt at me.
The path is just a trail worn in the dirt, and I dodge plants with waving fingers and pads of cactus. The wind in my ears blocks outside sounds, making me aware of inside sounds: my heart pumping, strong and true; my own breathing, fast and shallow.
I pass a few more girls and leave their whispers behind. It’s just me and the land. I hadn’t noticed, but the shadows are retreating; the black landscape is turning brown, the gray lightening to tan and sage green. The air smells of wildness and cold, and as I pull it in my lungs, tension flows out. I look up as the first laser blast of dawn hits my eyes. Is this the God that Joseph was talking about? Hello?
My cheeks heat. What am I doing? One God or a squad of ’em; it’s all BS.
My footsteps flush a small bird from a cactus. Its wings thrum and it flies straight up. Something in me rises with it. I recognize the feeling—I’m grateful to be alive, to be here, now, alone. I run on, grinning like a fool.
I follow the path that winds around and eventually leads me back to the truck. The older girls are standing around trying to look bored, like they’ve been here for hours.
Whatever. My elation is gone, replaced by snorts, strain, and sweat. I stop beside the truck and bend over, hands on knees to catch my breath.
“I heard that Fishing Eagle was renting to some white girl.”
I look up to the ring four older girls standing around me, arms crossed. “Yeah, so?”
“You can want him forever. He’s True Navajo—he’s going to marry one of us.”
I snort. “Good luck with that.”
The tallest looks down her long nose at me. “Huh?”
“Look, you got me wrong. I don’t want him, or any man. But you gotta admit, he’s pretty old for you.” I look from one to another. “And if he wanted to be married, why would he still be single?” I shrug. “Just saying.”
The one with the buck teeth smiles. “Oh, I get it. She’s gay.”
“Wrong again.”
Another with holes in the knees of her sweats shrugs. “Hey, we got nothing against gay.”
“I don’t like people, no matter what sex they are.”
“Then why not rent a room in town? Why live with Fishing Eagle?”
“He offered.” I toss her a witchy smile. “Eat your heart out.”
Her eyes narrow and she grabs my bicep. “You’re evil.”
I snatch her hand and throw it of
f. “And don’t you forget it.” I grind the words in my molars and spit them at her.
Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I sounded like a jealous girlfriend.
We’re nose to nose when Joseph runs in. “Hey, hey, what’s going on here?”
“Her, that’s what.” She whirls to face him. “Why are you, of all people, messing with a white girl?”
He straightens like she’s just slapped him. “I’m not messing with her, and you should know better. I’m surprised at you, Asdzáá.”
“I’m surprised at you, Fishing Eagle.” Anger and embarrassment redden her face even more. “Anyone can see you want her. The way you look at her. It says everything.” She spins on her heel and sprints for the farthest house.
Joseph looks after her, his expression shocked, like the girl hit him with a board instead of just words.
His shock burns me like iodine in a cut. Does he find even the thought of being interested in me horrifying?
And why do I care?
Chapter 6
Joseph
My thoughts are arrows, shooting in all directions. But I can’t keep from noticing, the air in the truck on the way home is frosty, and not from the temperature outside. Nevada sits leaning into the door, arms crossed, fuming. “So who am I, Quasimodo?”
“Huh?” I squint over at her.
“Never mind.” She huffs.
I shake my head to try to forget about what just happened and focus on her words. “What are you talking about?”
“Look.” She turns to me, lips tight, an angry line between her eyes. “You don’t see me as a person. I get that. But to diss me in front of—”
“Whoa up there. Where did you get that idea?”
Her cheeks redden, and she looks away. “You know what? I don’t want to talk about this.”
I rerun the post-run showdown through my mind, trying to see what…oh. Heat climbs my neck. “You think…that I find you…not…” How did I manage to squeeze myself between a rock and a hard place without seeing I was doing it? And how do I extricate myself without losing skin? “Um. You don’t understand.”
“I’m not dense. I get it. And that’s fine, because I couldn’t care less. Except, can you try not to show your feelings about me to other people? Especially ones who hate me?”