by Laura Drake
She glares from across the seat.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.” It pops out before I think. The heat in my neck rises to my face. “I don’t mean—”
“Right. Don’t lie and try to make it better.”
Lie? “Do you really believe that no one could find you desirable?”
From her startled rabbit look, she’s found that hard place, too. “Nope. Really don’t want to talk about this.” She turns to look out the window.
That makes two of us. I don’t know what shocked me more—Asdzáá’s words, or my surprise at finding some truth in them.
* * *
In the middle of the lunch rush, I’m so swamped that when Nevada asks to help, I let her.
But it’s awkward, two in a space that I normally take up by myself. We reach for the same knife, at the same time, and our hands brush. She leans left as I lean right, and our hips bump. I lean away, but with a grin, she bumps me again.
Well, you can’t retreat from a bully. Everyone knows that. I bump her hard enough to push her back a step.
We’re both chuckling when a voice comes from behind.
“Well, she’s getting along better with you than she ever did me.”
We jump apart. Carly and Lorelei are standing at the door to the dining room, watching with interest. So is the baby. From her stroller, she laughs and claps her hands.
Nevada’s humor vaporizes. Her brows come down; her gaze falls to her feet. “We were just—”
“Working,” I say. Nevada acts like it’s a crime to laugh.
Carly is fighting a smile. “Hope they wanted those burgers well done.”
“Oh, crap!” Nevada lunges for the grill and slaps the burgers on the buns.
I pull up the basket of burnt fries. “This’ll just take a minute.” I dump frozen fries in the next basket and drop it.
“We’re not on the clock.”
Lorelei smiles. “You’re not in trouble, Nevada. What, I’m going to yell at you for working on your lunch hour?”
Carly studies Nevada. “It’s nice to see you having fun for a change. You are real pretty when you smile, you know. But I still can’t get used to you as a brunette.”
Nevada tucks hair behind her ear. Red climbs her neck. “Oh, shut up, Beauch—Davis.”
She winks. “Looks like you’re settling in fine.”
Lorelei pushes the stroller to the door of her office. “Faith and I have some things to discuss.” She tips her chin at me. “Carry on.”
Carly walks over and whispers, “You know, I was talking to Cora the other day.”
Nevada, who was slicing tomatoes, freezes.
If I weren’t so close, I’d miss Carly’s whisper. “She said you left her at the Fort Worth rodeo. Gave some lame excuse and lit outta there like your tail was on fire. You want to tell me what that was about?”
Nevada’s shoulders retract toward her ears. “If I’d have wanted to, you’d’a known by now, right?”
Carly sighs. “Same old Nevada—best defense is an offense. Fine, keep your secrets. But if you need help, you know where to find me.”
I pull up the fries, and when Nevada offers the plates I use tongs to drop some on each.
Carly watches as Nevada walks to the window, sets down the plates, and hits the bell for the waitress.
I go about my business as if I haven’t heard, but they have to know that I have.
Nevada lifts a plastic tub we use to collect dirty dishes, puts her butt against the door, but then stops. “I really don’t mean to come off as ungrateful.” Her glance bounces between Carly and me. “It’s just safer for everyone this way.” She pushes against the door and is gone.
There are commas of concern between Carly’s brows. “Safer?”
Through the serving window, I can see Nevada piling dishes at booth one. I shrug. “I’m working the puzzle that is Nevada Sweet.”
“I just hope you figure it out in time. Because it sounds like there’s a timer ticking down somewhere.”
“Yeah, but ticking down to what?”
Carly watches her, too. “There’s something about that girl…vulnerability she tries to cover with snark and orneriness that I find impossible to back away from, even though I probably should.” She takes a step and touches my arm. “I know you’re caught by her as much as I.”
I snort a laugh. “Caught. Good word.”
Deep worry clouds her green eyes, like a stirred-up surf. “Please keep trying, Fish. If you ignore what she says, and watch what she does, you’ll see she’s special.” She walks to her old office, and when she opens the door, I hear baby talk before she steps in and closes the door.
Nevada bends over the table, her soft shoulders swaying as she wipes it down.
It’s taken me all morning to shake off Asdzáá’s comment. I know Nevada’s thinking about it, too, because I catch her shooting me looks when she thinks I don’t see. I’m going to have to deal with my feelings about her. Soon. Somehow.
* * *
Nevada
The clock over the sink in the tiny kitchen reads ten when I look up from the paperback someone left in a booth at the café today. It’s about a girl with another weird name, Scout.
Something bumps the wall of the trailer. Blood pounds in my ears so loud I can’t hear over it. Bugs of worry scurry over my skin. I shoot a glance to the window, half expecting to see the pale moon of a man’s face, peering in.
They’ve found me. I’ve gotta get out of here.
I turn off the light and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I can’t see anyone from any of the windows, but that doesn’t mean no one is out there. I tiptoe to the kitchen, listening so hard, I’m like a bat, feeling for sound. I slide open the drawer and touch a steak knife. Not much, but better than nothing, even if it only gives me the guts to meet them in the open, not cowering in a tin box. I grab my jacket and slip out into the dark, stepping away from the door, watching for movement.
The wind chimes tinkle a lonely sound in the light breeze. I walk about fifty feet out and circle the trailer. Nothing. Even the sheep are quiet. Asleep, probably.
They’d wake up if there was danger, wouldn’t they?
It’s clear and cold, but since the wind has calmed a bit, it’s not bitter. A full flashlight moon shines bright enough for me to see my way as I walk out into the sagebrush, knife in a death-grip at my side.
The last time I relaxed, I almost got caught by Cisco’s people at the Fort Worth rodeo. If they’d found out I was working her food truck, it would have put Cora in danger. I’m getting too settled here. Too relaxed. There’s something about this town, but I can’t afford to get sucked in.
No matter what Joseph says about finding a “tribe,” it’s safest if I’m separate. Outside.
Otherwise, I’ll get to feeling all safe, which won’t last long, because then I’ll be dead. Cisco will never give up looking for me.
“Hey.”
I jump and crouch, knife held in front of me.
There’s no mistaking the lanky silhouette striding toward me, shotgun cradled in the crook of his elbow. “What are you doing wandering around out here this time of night?”
I drop the knife, straighten, and cram my chilled fingers in the front pockets of my jeans. I’ll come back for the knife in the morning. I don’t want him wondering about it. “I could ask you the same.”
“I always look around before I turn in, especially this time of year. Coyotes come in during lambing.”
Let’s just hope they’re only the four-legged kind. “Did you knock the side of the RV?”
“I did, sorry. Didn’t allow for the length of the barrel. Did I wake you?”
His shotgun should make me feel safer, but instead, I imagine Joseph in a shootout, his bloody body stretched out in the mesquite. A shiver runs through me, making my hands shake like a junkie’s. He may not care about me, but from my reaction, I can’t even pretend I don’t care about him.
He waves a hand
at my feet. “You going to tell me why you felt the need to bring a knife out here?”
“Well, duh. You scared the crap out of me. You try being a woman alone.”
He cocks his head and looks down at me. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.” His voice is soft, like he really cares.
Warmth shoots through my veins, melting my muscles, making me want to melt into him, to set down my worry and take shelter there in his strong arms.
Then I remember. He’s not interested, and I’m a fool. He was out tonight, protecting his flock, not me. I look for something else to talk about. “It’s really bright out here away from city lights. I’ve always liked the moon.”
He glances up. “Ah, tł’éé’honaa’éí. I’m not surprised, since the moon was created by the First Woman. Let’s walk. I’ll tell you the story.”
He walks slow, head down. “When the First People came from the underworld, they brought four lights, which they scattered over the four sacred mountains. But the people were unhappy because the lights carried no warmth and they needed more light to work. So, First Woman had two slabs of quartz gathered and had the craftsman shape them into wheels, which she decorated with sacred stones with special powers: turquoise and coral, horn and feathers. They were hung in the sky for heat and light.
“But the wheels didn’t move, so one side of the land was bright and hot, and the other in cold darkness. So two old wise men stepped forward, offering their spirits to be bound to the wheels to let them move across the sky. And that’s how the sun and moon came to be.”
“Makes as much sense as Bible stories I’ve sat through.”
“Why do you like the moon?” He sounds like he really cares about my answer. Like he really cares about what I think. I have to chill the soft spot on my heart before it spreads.
I stop walking to stare up at the familiar white face. “Growing up, I’d crawl out the window onto the fire escape, to watch it go across the sky.” The words slip out of the hollow place in me. “When you’re alone, the moon can be a friendly face.”
The shadow beside me says, “You were alone a lot.”
“You can be alone, even when there are people in the next room. Know what I mean?”
“I do.”
I turn back to the trailer; home, for now. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I can feel his gaze on my back as I walk away, and for some stupid reason, I feel safer.
* * *
Nevada
Saturday, midmorning, Lorelei calls me into her office and closes the door behind me.
“What now? I’ve been nice to customers.”
“It’s not that. You’re doing fine.” She lifts an open section of newsprint from the desk. “I didn’t want you to find out when someone asked you about this.”
It can only be one thing. I force my fingers open to take the flimsy paper.
BURIED TRUTH
By Ann Miner, lead columnist
You may have met our town’s newest resident, Nevada Sweet, the new dishwasher at the Chestnut Creek Café. I try to be a positive, upbeat person, but I’m also a reporter—it’s my job to tell it like it is. I’m surprised that Carly Davis would hire such a crude, churlish person to work food service. Perhaps she didn’t know.
Since Ms. Sweet declined an interview, I did some online research to get background for this article. Imagine my surprise when it revealed a criminal conviction for felony burglary.
I’m a magnanimous person. I believe in redemption, and second chances. But Unforgivians have a right to know who their neighbors are, so they can make up their own minds.
“I’m sorry, Nevada.” Lorelei’s eyes are pools of sympathy. “She had no right to tell the entire town, much less in such a nasty backhanded way.”
Her lack of surprise tells me that Lorelei already knew about my prison time. I imagine Carly told her. I hand her the paper, which is rattling from my shakes. “She is a b-witch, but she only told the truth. I just hope it doesn’t hurt business.”
“People know Ann, and her ways. I don’t think it will. Besides, where else would they go? The Lunch Box for a side order of grease with everything?”
The odds that this rag would be seen in Houston are small. Unless…“Do you know if this paper is online?”
Lorelei frowns. “I don’t know. I guess it could be.”
If it is, I’m dead. Cisco is bound to have a Google alert out on my name, and how many Nevada Sweets can there be?
“I gotta take a break, okay?” I jerk open the door. “I’ll be back.” I snatch my jacket and backpack from the peg and, ignoring Joseph’s startled look, run out the back door. The air is a cold slap before the heat of my flush hits. I jog past the truck and Lorelei’s ancient Smart Car, skittering when my tennies hit icy patches. At the edge of the building, I cut down the alley, splashing through slush. The deserted sidewalk has been salted, so I speed up.
I’m not only risking myself. If Cisco thought I cared about anyone in this town, he’d hurt them to get to me. I’ll pack tonight and have Joseph drop me at the bus depot on I-40 in the morning. Note to self: look up the schedule. Destination doesn’t matter; only the pickup time. I fly past the Five & Dime, and at the end of the block, I turn right and leave the town square behind. I know I saw it somewhere along here…Ah, there.
The Unforgiven Library is housed in a blond brick building, which, from the faded paint on the side, used to be a feed store. Bouncing on my toes, I hold the door open for a mother and her toddler, then rush in. My wet soles hit the waxed tiles and I slip, almost falling on my butt.
“Be careful!” A startled librarian rushes around the desk, reaching a hand to steady me.
I take a step back, breathing hard. “Do you know if the Patriot is online?”
“Sorry, it’s not, yet. I understand that’s in the works for next year. I do have past issues on microfiche, though. Were you looking for something in particular?”
I lean over, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath and not laugh my relief. “No, thanks, that’s all I needed to know.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good.”
“I am good.” For now anyway. “Thanks.”
I turn away from her worried look, pull open the door, and head back to the café.
It would be safer for everyone for me to stick to my plan and catch the bus. But dammit, I don’t want to. I’ve got a job that pays for my needs, and a warm bed at night. I’ve been hanging out in the wind so long, those two small things don’t seem so small to me. Who’s to say I’d find that much at the next place? And would I really be any safer? There’s something to be said for living miles from nowhere—and having a strong guy with a shotgun living only steps away.
Besides, I’d miss some things here. Lorelei, and some of the crazy-coot locals at the café. And Carly. She acts like she wants to be my friend. The last time I tried to have a friend was in elementary school. I even got invited to two birthday parties. But that was before their mothers found out my mom’s “career.”
But might as well not lie; I’d miss Joseph most. I’ve been here all of two weeks, but already he and I are falling into a routine. Like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes: they wouldn’t fit everyone, but they fit you just right. This is an odd feeling for me, fitting with someone. I try to ignore it, but it’s growing, like a special kind of secret. I find myself taking it out and turning it over in my mind, lying in bed at night and odd times during the day. I guess it doesn’t hurt if no one knows about it, and as long as I don’t delude myself, thinking that this could go anywhere. Even if I wasn’t leaving, he’s not interested in not-Navajo women. I turn down the alley next to the café.
If I let him matter, I’m gonna get hurt.
* * *
Joseph
“I don’t know when I’ll get out to see you, Ma. I’ve been busy.” I set the wrench on the fender of the tractor.
Her sigh rasps in my ear. “The last time you were here was
your grandmother’s funeral.”
And she doesn’t know what it took for me to be on the rez then.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just sell out there and come live here. There are more people who need you.”
“I have land to farm.”
“Oh, please. The rez is, what, seventeen thousand acres?”
“Besides, you know the tribal council and I don’t get along.” That’s one way to put it. On the rez, shame follows me like a second shadow. “Besides, there are almost as many Navajo here as there.”
“But your mother is here.”
“Ma, why don’t you come live here, with me?”
“You keep asking.” She sighs in my ear. “Joseph, only you hold your past against you. You belong here. Why don’t you just…”
I tune out the same lecture I’ve been hearing since I got back from the Army, two years ago. Always the same thing. Guilt is an acid that distills with time, eating through the holes you patch, hoping that this time it’ll hold.
“… and I’d think that you, of all people, wouldn’t do that.”
“Wait, what? Do what?”
Another raspy sigh. She’s got to quit smoking. “Take up with a white woman.”
“Whoa, Ma. Who told you that?”
“If you’ve forgotten how gossip flies like smoke from signal fires here, you have been gone too long.”
Yet another reason I didn’t return to the rez after the Army. “Let me set the facts straight. I have not ‘taken up’ with any woman, and you, of all people, know me better than that.”
“Oh, then you haven’t rented the trailer to a white girl?”
I feel my molars grind and force my jaw to relax. “I have.” I’ve said all I’m going to say. The silence stretches like a bow string. With just as much tension.
“So, tell me about her.”
I choose my words carefully. “Her name is Nevada. She’s a friend of Carly Davis’s. Carly asked me to keep an eye out for her, so—”
“Why does this girl need looking after?”
“Because she’s all alone in the world, and she’s running from something.”
“And this is your problem, why?”