Home at Chestnut Creek

by Laura Drake

  It suddenly seems so hopeless. Is this going to be my life? Running from place to place, living in a bubble I create to separate me from people? No purpose, except to keep breathing. Living scared all the time, just waiting for the day that Cisco finds me?

  “Are you okay?” the littlest of the faces asks.

  “No.” I cough out dust, dirt, and despair. “I’m so tired. So very, very tired.” I hear the deadness in my voice, but I can’t summon anything else; it’s all I have. “Tired of running, tired of being afraid. Tired of being all alone.” Shut. Up. These are the last people I should tell. This is like stripping naked and asking their opinion. I try to hold in the words, but I can’t stop them any more than I can stop the tears falling in the dust. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I just want to stop.” I sink my teeth into my forearm to hold in the words. My skin tastes of sweat and fear.

  It’s quiet, except for a bird with tiny chirps, somewhere nearby. I try to focus on that and pull myself together.

  The littlest face above me whispers, “My brother is hiding out from the tribal police on the rez. I’m afraid for him.”

  The bird chirps for a bit.

  “My dad hits my mom,” another says. “I lie in bed with my little brother and sister and try not to hear his fists hit.” A single tear tracks down her dusty face to join mine in the dirt.

  Asdzáá’s face is in shadow, curtained by her hair. “My little sister fell down an abandoned well last year. She can’t walk anymore.”

  We just look at each other, suddenly recognizing: we’re sisters in survival. We’re the ones who knew long ago that fairy tales don’t come true and bad things happen to people through no fault of their own, and all you can do is hunker down and wait out the tornado. They get it—there are some things you don’t talk about. Not because they’re awful—of course they’re awful. But because there aren’t words to describe how you feel about them. Or if there are, I don’t know them.

  Asdzáá reaches a hand down. “Come on. Get it together. Fishing Eagle will be here in a minute.”

  I take her hand.

  I’m brushing off dust and embedded gravel when Joseph jogs up, his eyes wild. “What’s going on? Asdzáá, did you—”

  “Leave them alone.” I squeeze her hand, let go, and swipe at my wet face. “They didn’t do anything.”

  He puts his hands on my shoulders and bends a bit to look into my face. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just leave her be, Fish. She’s okay,” Asdzáá says. “Right, Nevada?” Her face is deadpan, but her lips are thin and tight. She’s telling me to put away my crazy.

  I straighten. “Yeah, I’m good.” I take a step and almost go down again.

  Joseph grabs my elbow. “You’re hurt.”

  “Nah. Just twisted my ankle.” I shrug off his hand and limp to the truck.

  The girls wave, then walk off to their own individual houses and their own problems.

  Joseph fires up the truck and pulls out. I lay my head against the seat back, drained. I’ve cried more in the past week than I have in my whole life. Is it something in the water here?

  “When we get home, I’m dressing that ankle. No arguments.”

  I’m all out of arguments, along with just about everything else. “Okay.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened back there?”

  Eyes closed, I smile. “I came in first, that’s what.” May not count for much in the world, but it means a lot to me. As well as what happened after, but that’s between me and the Wings.

  I sit trying to gather everything back into a pile: my energy, my thoughts, my dignity.

  He pulls out his phone and hits speed dial. “Lorelei? Fish here. I hate to do this on a Monday, but Nevada and I are going to be a little late. She had an accident this morning.” He listens. “No, no, she’s fine, just a twisted ankle, but it needs some attention. We shouldn’t be later than twenty minutes or so. Yeah, see you there.”

  I sit up. “Why’d you do that? I can be ready in—”

  “Nevada Sweet.” He points a finger at me, his face all stern. “You have to take care of your body if you want it to be there for you when you need it. No arguments.”

  He has a point. I’ve got to be ready to leave in two days. Wouldn’t hurt to let him do his Indian magic on my ankle. “Okay, you don’t have to get all bossy about it.”

  He mumbles something under his breath, and that’s all the talking we do until he pulls in the yard and shuts down the truck. “Stay where you are.” His stern voice warns me not to argue. He jogs around to my door, opens it, and tries to scoop me up in his arms.

  “What? No.” I slap at his hands. “Get away. I can do this myself.”

  “Really? Let’s see…” He backs up enough for me to slide out.

  When my feet hit the ground, there’s an ice pick stab in my ankle, and my legs try to give out.

  He grabs my arms. “Told you.”

  I lock my knees. “It’s because my legs are trashed from the run.”

  “Here.” He shoulders my backpack and slips his hand around my waist. “Okay?”

  I could get to the RV under my own power, but it would hurt. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Okay.”

  He leads me at an awkward hobble toward the door of the hogan.

  I tip my head. “Um. The RV is that way.”

  “You can take a shower at my place. I want to be sure you’re close. If you need me, I mean.”

  He’s sweated through his T-shirt, and the skin at the back of his neck is slick under my hand. His hip bumps me with every step. I’m sure I smell like a warthog, but he smells divine, like the sage has distilled, coming through his skin. I’m awkward, embarrassed, and uncomfortable…and I wish I could stay like this for a long time.

  He opens the door and we hobble in across the floor, past the kitchen and living area to the bathroom that’s too small for two people. I shoot a glance at the mirror. His skin is so pretty, muscles bunching underneath. He leans me against the sink, and I release my grip on his neck, but can’t resist letting my hand slide down his arm. God, he’s beautiful.

  His eyes shoot to mine. Too late for me to cover up what I’m sure he sees there.

  His eyebrows go up. Then come down. So do the edges of his mouth. “Gotta get you towels.” He turns to walk out.

  “Wait.”

  He freezes.

  I pull at my backpack, hanging on his shoulder. “My clothes are in there.”

  He releases it, and walks out, closing the door behind him.

  At least I’m not the only awkward one. I finger my short, sweaty hair. I wish I could let it grow out. Dishwater blond isn’t great, but it’s mine, and it bugs me to have to change it—like I’m not me. But that’s the point, isn’t it? I tip my head. Maybe black next? It’d make me look all goth, but it might throw them off. Maybe—

  There’s a knock and the door opens a crack, just enough for a rust-colored towel to fit through. “I’ll mix up some salve. Come on out when you’re done.”

  I know I’m making us even later, but showering in a place you can turn around without bumping body parts is so luxurious, I take my time. My muscles appreciate the hot spray, and I step out pink, my skin tingling. I dry off, limp to the sink, and pull on my “uniform”: jeans, the stupid denim shirt, and the T-shirt that says If you’re happy and you know it, it’s your meds (worn inside-out, of course). I run a comb through my hair, and I’m done.

  Socks and tennies in hand, I hobble out to the bar stools at the kitchen counter and sit. Joseph is waiting with his fingers in the jar of magic stuff. “This should help, but you’re going to be sore for a week or so. No running for you.”

  Oh, I’ll be running, just not the way he means. He sets my foot on his thigh and rolls up my pant leg. He rubs his hands together, and when he puts them around my ankle, an electric current shoots up my leg to my crotch. I shift my butt in the seat to stop the humming. His hands move slow, massaging the sa
lve in. He moves in smooth circles, and I’m hot.

  “Does this hurt?”

  I moan, “If you stop, I’ll punch you out.”

  He smiles and looks down again.

  When the massage gentles to more of a caress, I allow myself a fantasy, one that’s shown up the past week: what it would be like if I could stay. I know I could wear him down eventually—there’s a tender look he gets sometimes, which makes me think that maybe I’d have a chance, given enough time.

  But in a few days I’ll be gone. A small sigh escapes. I’ll ride away, and always wonder, what if?

  “That’s it.” He pats my ankle and straightens. “Don’t put your socks on. When I get out of the shower, I’ll tape it. That should give you some support.”

  He’s looking into me again. Just standing there, looking. Screw it. I have to try.

  I wrap my hands into the fabric of his T-shirt, open my knees, and pull him to me.

  Off-balance, he stumbles forward, catching himself with his hands on the counter and the seat of my chair. “What—”

  I tilt my head and catch his mouth. If I’m going to make a fool of myself, I’m going for a ten. His lips are still at first, probably with shock, but when I press my tongue against them, he opens to me. I take him in like air, just as needed, just as sweet, like wind off the desert.

  But it’s not enough. I let go of his shirt and put my hands on the sides of his face, to pull him closer.

  Safe.

  I feel it when his defenses let go. Things change fast, and he becomes the aggressor, his tongue stalking mine, exploring my mouth, his breathing, fast in my ear.

  My legs go around him without my say-so, and he lifts me, his strong arms holding me snug against his chest, hands roaming my back. My hips are plastered to his waist, and it sends bolts of wanting to my brain. I moan into his mouth.

  It’s as if the sound wakes him. He rears back, the look of a startled deer in his eyes. His arms loosen, and I slide back to the bar stool. He heaves a deep, shaky breath, runs a hand through his long hair, and steps back. His face gives me his answer: no.

  Then he turns and, still breathing heavy, bolts up the ladder to his bedroom.

  Chapter 12

  Joseph

  I hit the top of the ladder and strip, heading for the shower. No other way to say it; I ran away. Which would be embarrassing if my brain wasn’t still trying to absorb the rock-solid fact that Nevada kissed me. Knowing she wants me makes me want to drag her up here and spend the day exploring her. Exploring each other.

  Make that a cold shower—I’m hard as petrified wood.

  I used to think I was on top of things. Maybe it’s easy to do that from an impersonal distance; things get fuzzier the closer they get to you. I can run all the way across the state, chop all the wood in New Mexico. It’s not helping. I’m out of control. And I cannot live through another bout of blowing up my world. I can hear the gossip on the rez now: Fish? He’s a dime store Indian. Ran around like he was the savior of the Diné, and now he’s sleeping with a white woman.

  The cold water slaps some sense into me.

  I climb down the ladder, still not knowing what I’m going to say to Nevada. She’s sitting on the stool where I left her, but her face is a thundercloud of anger.

  “It’ll just take a minute to wrap that, then we’ve got to get—”

  “It’s because I’m white, right?”

  I don’t look at her, just walk to the kitchen and open a cabinet door. “No, it’s because you’re not Navajo. I made a promise, and I—”

  “You made a promise no one asked you to make. The one she asked you to make, you haven’t done yet.”

  I find the Ace wrap and round the counter. My face burns. I trusted her with my secrets. I didn’t do it to have it thrown back in my face. I kneel in front of her. “Hold your foot out.”

  She does. “So you can’t be happy, because of some twisted logic you made up? Are you like those medieval guys, who wore hair shirts to pay for their sins?”

  I glare up at her.

  “Hey, I may not have graduated, but I did learn some things in school.”

  I look down, and start wrapping. “It’s really none of your business, now, is it?”

  “Maybe, but from what you told me of your grandmother, I don’t think she’d be too happy with what you’re doing, would she?”

  I jerk the wrap too tight and have to start over. “Who are you to tell me about my grandmother?”

  “Nobody. I wouldn’t know, because I never had somebody love me like that. But I’d like to think if I did, I’d honor her last wishes.”

  I finish the last wrap, and hook the metal closures in. “Come on, we need to go.”

  “Joseph.” My name is soft, and it pulls my head up. “My mom used to play old music, almost twenty-four/seven. The words to one song stuck with me: the truth you might be running from is so small. See, when something lives inside your head for a long time, it gets bigger than it really is. You need to go to the rez. Talk to your family. I’ll bet you anything that they forgave you long ago.” She reaches out, strokes my hair. “We’re all idiots when we’re young. I know I was, and trust me, my sin was a lot bigger than yours.”

  I want to ask, but she pulls her foot away, slides out of the chair, and slips on her tennis shoe. “I gotta go.”

  “I know; we’ll talk on the way in.”

  “Nah, I’m riding the bike. I need the practice.” She walks for the door.

  “Nevada.”

  She doesn’t even slow.

  “You know it isn’t you, right? I’d love nothing more than to—”

  The door clicks shut behind her.

  She thinks I don’t care. I guess it’s better that way. I walk for the truck, trying to ignore the arrow lodged in my heart.

  * * *

  Nevada

  “Jeez, Nevada, what’s wrong with you today? That’s the second plate you’ve dropped, and the high school principal had to go home to change after you spilled iced tea on him.” Lorelei stands waiting for an answer.

  I shoot a look at Joseph, but he’s busy at the grill. “I didn’t break anything. And that dude is a pompous jerk and a bad tipper besides.”

  “And here I thought you were evolving.”

  “Nope. Your Cro-Magnon busboy, that’s me.” I bend to lift more glasses from the dishwasher. Why did I ever think this job was fun? Scut work, that’s all it is. Cleaning up people’s leavings.

  Might as well get used to it. I can’t work as a cook again, since Cisco will know to look for me in a restaurant. Maybe I could find a job working with animals down the road. Wonder what kind of experience you need to work in a vet’s office? Even if I’d just be cleaning out cages, it’d be better than this.

  Oh, that’s not true. I’m sulking. I glance at the back of Joseph’s neck, where my hands were, just a few hours ago. He’s acted like I’m invisible all morning. That’s okay. I know what happened. And it wasn’t just me in that kiss. He was all in.

  I feel my lips curve in a smile. The memory will last me a long time, when I’m all alone on the road. I have him to thank for that.

  Not that I will actually thank him.

  Joseph unties his apron and pulls it over his head. “Lorelei, I’m off.” He shoots me a soft look and a small smile as he walks to the back door.

  “Okay, Fish, we’ll see you tomorrow. Nevada, you’re up.”

  “Up for what?” Where is Joseph going?

  The door shuts behind him.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  She tips her head and squints at me. “I didn’t ask him. Why would I?” She waves a hand. “Anyway, you up for cooking?”

  “Cooking?” I hate the little kid hope in my voice, but the words are out.

  Lorelei throws a dishtowel over her shoulder. “Well, if I do it, it’ll drive away customers, so I guess that leaves the Cro-Magnon.”

  A huge grin stretches my lips. “Hey, cavemen were good with meat.” />
  “Okay, let’s do this.” Lorelei steps to the swinging door.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t cook without music. Do you have a radio somewhere?”

  She reverses and heads for her office. “I think I saw one in here once.” There’s banging of metal and grunting, but she returns with a radio that’s way pre-boombox. “Here. It must have been Carly’s nana’s. If it doesn’t work, you’re SOL.”

  “Thanks.” I plug it in. God, I hope they have more than pork futures and Bible-banging stations around here. Halfway down the dial I luck onto a metal station out of Albuquerque. Sweet.

  I check the orders on the wheel, then get to work. You get a bunch of orders going, and it’s like dancing, getting everything done at the exact right time. God, I’ve missed this.

  Megadeth is halfway through “Countdown to Extinction” when I drop the first order (a brat with fries) at the serving window. Before I can ding the bell, Lorelei skids up.

  “You’ve got to turn down that music. Three people have complained already.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure it’s possible to listen to metal below an eight on the volume dial. These people should get some taste.”

  Moss is at his usual spot at the bar and says through the serving window, “Hey, is that Slayer?”

  It takes me a second to process that this old guy with crumbs in his beard knows headbanger bands. “No, but you’re close. Megadeth.”

  “Oh, of course,” Moss says.

  “Got any of Ol’ Blue Eyes?” Manny Stipple slurs.

  When he sways on the stool like a drunken sailor, Moss shores up his friend with a push. I’m not sure of the sailor part, but he’s got the drunk part down.

  “We are not taking requests.” The look on Lorelei’s face tells me I’m about to lose the radio.

  “Okay, you win. Unbunch the panties.” I dial it back and put more burgers on the grill. It’d be nice to buy one of those MP3 players. Then I could put the buds in, and not catch flak from the uninformed. But it doesn’t matter, since I’m not going to be cooking wherever I go next anyway.