Protectors

by Kris Nelscott

  Best to keep the authorities from looking too closely at A Gym of Her Own because sure as shit, they’d try to shut it down.

  “Didn’t expect to see you this morning.” Jill’s tone suggested she didn’t want to see Eagle ever, not just this morning.

  “Good morning to you too,” Eagle said, and mentally added, asshole.

  Jill walked to the counter. She shoved the donut box aside with her forearm and set the bags of groceries down.

  “Someone hurt?” Jill asked, her voice even frostier than it had been a moment before.

  Not yet, Eagle thought.

  “No,” she said.

  “Hmm,” Jill said, her back to Eagle. “I didn’t think you liked spending time here.”

  As if Eagle had no reason to be here at all unless someone was hurt. As if Eagle didn’t belong here.

  I don’t like being here when you’re here, Eagle almost said, and had to actually bite her lower lip to keep from adding, Besides, I have as much right to be here as you do.

  She set her plate beside the sink.

  “You’re going to wash that, I hope.” Jill was pulling some bread and bologna out of the bag, putting them next to a gigantic jar of mayonnaise that she had already removed.

  “I would wash it,” Eagle said, hoping her tone sounded measured, “but this is a tiny kitchen and there’s no room near the sink.”

  “You could help me put the groceries away,” Jill said.

  “Why did you even get groceries?” Eagle asked before she could stop herself. “Are we feeding the classes now?”

  “No.” Jill’s response was curt, and Eagle suddenly understood. Someone was going to sleep in the gym overnight.

  Eagle hated it when Pammy approved overnights. If Jill and Pammy wanted to discuss possible liabilities, this was the one that made Eagle the most crazy. Several of the women who had stayed here in the past were tripping or coming down from some kind of high.

  Others were running from someone, or had an abusive spouse, or had been thrown out of their apartments. Both Jill and Pammy were a soft touch. That sweet-sister mentality would bite them both on the ass at some point.

  Over the past year, Eagle had tried to explain her worries. She knew it was only a matter of time before an angry husband would break in, or a careless druggie would light a candle and set fire to the whole place. And then what would Pammy do? Her insurance guy would probably deny her coverage because the event could have been foreseen.

  Besides that, women—who weren’t supposed to fight or defend themselves—were really not supposed to flee their spouses either. Or do anything without some kind of male approval.

  Hell, Eagle had had enough trouble just opening a checking account without a man to vouch for her. She couldn’t imagine how the authorities would treat a woman who was trying to flee her man because he had threatened her.

  Eagle took a deep breath. She was going to have to give her lecture all over again, and she knew it would fall on deaf ears. She would have to find a way to speak to Jill, maybe talk about insurance or fires or some other kind of business liability. Because talking to Jill about misplaced compassion just pissed her off.

  The kitchen door banged open. One of the hippie girls swanned in, her long brown hair held back with two hairpins, dying daisies tucked in each as decoration.

  “You see that flyer?” she asked Jill, and then saw Eagle. “Oh, hey. You’re that doctor woman, right?”

  Eagle never knew how to answer that question. She didn’t want to tell someone wearing a tie-dye shirt tucked into a skirt made of dirty white gauze that she had been a combat nurse in Vietnam. But Eagle also felt like she had to correct the idea that she was a doctor, because she wasn’t. Although she did have more medical knowledge—at least of traumatic wounds—than any doctor she had ever met stateside.

  “She’s the medic,” Jill said, managing a tone that was both informative and disapproving at the same time.

  “Groovy.” The hippie girl shoved the bag of groceries she was carrying into the crook of her left arm and extended her grimy right hand toward Eagle. “I’m Strawberry. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Strawberry had introduced herself as if they were equals, as if Eagle should have heard of her. And maybe Eagle had; she usually tuned out when Pammy discussed the students.

  Eagle looked at the girl’s outstretched palm, thought about not shaking it for just a moment, and then decided she didn’t want to be rude. Eagle took Strawberry’s hand. It was dry and warm. Eagle shook, just once.

  “Eagle,” she said.

  “Hey, cool,” the girl said. “You Native or something?”

  Eagle flushed, her breath catching. It had been years since anyone had asked her that. No one here ever had.

  She almost felt like she’d been caught lying.

  Jill half-turned, eyebrows raised.

  Great. Just great. Eagle had to answer the question, and Jill was here.

  If Eagle was going to lie, now was the time. But she had a code. She believed in truth. And yet, at this moment, she didn’t want to divulge it. She didn’t feel like her heritage was anyone’s business.

  “Something like that,” Eagle finally said.

  Strawberry half-smiled, and tilted her head, studying Eagle. Strawberry’s clear brown eyes had no telltale sign of drug use, not even the redness that came from smoking too much pot. She had a golden tan, and her cheeks were flushed with good health.

  Eagle probably had that pot-smoke redness, and the sallow skin of someone who drank too much and never went outside.

  For the first time in a long time, she felt inferior to someone. And that someone had been named after a fruit.

  “Well,” Strawberry said matter-of-factly, “you got the hair. That rich black stuff. Only Oriental girls and Native girls have it. And you don’t have the eyes for Oriental.”

  Eagle wasn’t used to such rude honesty, not about herself or about anyone, really. Although she had met a few other people like Strawberry, mostly young men. They just said whatever came into their heads, without censoring any of it.

  Eagle took a deep breath, reminding herself that Strawberry was just trying to make conversation. She hadn’t said “gook” or “chink” or any of the other slurs, although Oriental bordered on it. And she hadn’t said Indian either. Eagle hated that word, as did most anyone who had some Native American blood.

  “Oh, wait, I forgot,” Strawberry said. “You could be Mexican or something too. But your face is a little too flat. Maybe—”

  “Lakota.” Eagle couldn’t take the girl’s babbling any longer. “My mother was Lakota.”

  Jill turned the rest of the way, clearly interested.

  Eagle sighed silently. Jill would tell everyone. You hear that Eagle is Indian? she would say. People would treat Eagle differently. They’d watch her, especially if they hadn’t considered it. And then, a few of them would ask her rude questions, just like Strawberry was doing.

  A few others would stop talking to her altogether.

  Jill was already giving Eagle The Look. Jill was assessing, trying to see the Native American characteristics in Eagle’s features. And as usual, just Jill’s expression made Eagle feel defensive.

  “So your dad wasn’t Native?” Strawberry was smarter than Eagle had realized. She had heard the distinction in Eagle’s answer, only listing her mother as a Native American. Not her father.

  Jill was frowning.

  “Was he white?” Strawberry asked. Then she nodded, as if she were having the conversation all by herself. “Of course he was white. That’s what makes it hard to guess your heritage completely.”

  Eagle felt her heart sink. She had never had anyone make such astute judgments based on her looks before. She wasn’t sure if she liked it.

  Strawberry set her bag on the table. “That’s so progressive of him, marrying a Native woman. I bet they had bigots peeing their pants.”

  Eagle had no idea. Her parents had never talked about that. Not once.


  Maybe no one had known. When her mother was young, she wore her hair short and dressed well. She could have passed for some other more “acceptable” ethnic group.

  Or maybe her parents hadn’t had enough time together to deal with bigots. Her father certainly tried to ignore them. His second wife was a big fucking bigot and he never put her in her place.

  “Lakota,” Strawberry was saying. “That’s like middle of the country. Sioux or something, right?”

  Jill crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. She seemed to be enjoying Eagle’s discomfort.

  Strawberry didn’t seem to notice. “I’m majoring in archeology and it’s kinda amazing how little we know about the native peoples here in the States. I mean, how little I know. Y’know?”

  Jill’s mouth had gotten thin.

  “You mentioned a flyer,” Jill said to Strawberry.

  Eagle looked at Jill in surprise. Jill shrugged one shoulder, and Eagle suddenly realized that Jill had been upset at Strawberry’s inadvertent bigotry.

  For the first time, maybe ever, Jill and Eagle were allies. If only for a moment or two.

  “Oh, yeah, the flyer.” Strawberry reached inside the bag and pulled out three cartons of fresh raspberries. “Pammy has it taped to the counter. Didn’t you see it?”

  “No,” Jill said. “I usually don’t stop at the counter.”

  “Unless you’re working it.” Strawberry’s tone was blithe. Apparently she’d been here enough to know that Jill helped Pammy whenever she could.

  Eagle sighed. She missed a lot. She didn’t know most of the routines around here. She was grateful for that. She almost wished she hadn’t missed a previous encounter with Strawberry, though. Someone else’s encounter with Strawberry, so Eagle would have known to avoid her.

  Ah, well. Eagle knew now. She hated prattlers and Strawberry didn’t seem to shut up.

  “What’s on the flyer?” Jill asked with barely disguised impatience.

  Strawberry took one of the raspberries and popped it in her mouth. “Some girl vanished. Again.”

  Eagle felt her heart rate increase.

  “Again?” Jill asked at the same moment that Eagle said, “You know the girl?”

  Eagle’s heart lifted. It would be wonderful if the solution were so easy. At least one missing kid would be going home then.

  “No, of course I don’t know her,” Strawberry said in a tone that implied Eagle was dumb for even asking. “I mean, I don’t think so. Because, y’know, not everyone is using their real name these days.”

  She winked at Eagle, as if they had set the trend themselves.

  “I noticed,” Jill said with that same tone of disapproval she had used earlier.

  “So maybe I met her, but not, y’know, with the hair and makeup and stuff.” Strawberry opened the small refrigerator and put the raspberries inside it, taking one more raspberry before closing the door.

  “But you said ‘again,’” Jill said.

  Eagle nodded before she could stop herself.

  “Huh?” Strawberry reached into the bag and pulled out two cartons of small, squished blueberries.

  “You said some girl vanished again,” Eagle clarified.

  “As if you knew her,” Jill added.

  Eagle glanced at her. How odd that they had both come to the same misunderstanding.

  “Oh, y’know, I meant some new girl vanished. Y’know, like I mean, again. Somebody vanished. I mean, lots of people vanish. Y’know?”

  Eagle parsed the sentences out, wishing the girl didn’t use so much jargon. Strawberry didn’t seem to notice Eagle’s confusion.

  Strawberry raised her shoulders a little, grimaced, and then shuddered. “It’s getting creepy around here.”

  “I think it’s been ‘creepy’ for a while,” Jill said in her pedantic way. “With martial law, and everything….”

  “Yeah, that’s not creepy.” Strawberry picked up the empty bag and folded it along its lines. Eagle hadn’t expected that level of neatness from her. “That’s just…y’know…scary dangerous. When I say creepy, I mean creepy. People just disappear.”

  Eagle glanced at Jill, who was frowning.

  “Maybe they went home,” Jill said. “I’m not sure I’d want to stay in Berkeley right now.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Old people think it sucks here,” Strawberry said, her back to Jill. Good thing, too, because Jill straightened, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks, her eyes sparkling with something like fury.

  Eagle shook her head, then waved Jill off. It wasn’t worth either of their time to get mad at Strawberry. Eagle had learned long ago to let prattlers prattle.

  “But it doesn’t suck here,” Strawberry shut the fridge, then turned around. “I mean, everyone’s here, and there’s always some kind of action or something, and if you want to change the world, this is the place to do it.”

  Not Washington D.C.? Not New York? Not Vietnam? Eagle glanced at Jill and wondered if Jill was holding back responses as well. Jill’s eyes had narrowed, and she did not look pleased.

  “You probably don’t understand,” Strawberry said with a younger version of the same pedantic tone Jill had used earlier, “but this is a happening place. If you gotta fight the Man, this is the place to do it. I’d rather be here than, say, y’know, Denver or somewhere. Totally Dullsville.”

  Denver. That was an interesting choice. It was amazing how much information a person revealed about herself in a casual conversation.

  But Eagle didn’t remark on that. Instead, she gripped the back of one of the chairs. She needed to return the conversation to the missing girl.

  “You said other people have vanished?” Eagle asked.

  “Yeah,” Strawberry said. “People you wouldn’t think would go. They would, y’know, leave their stuff and everything. Not that most stuff is worth taking, but they wouldn’t tell us, ‘Hey, take my stuff and use it for the general good’ or whatever. They’d just split, and then we’d never hear from them again.”

  “I’m sure they went home.” Jill turned around and pulled both mustard and catsup from the nearest bag. She was clearly done with this conversation. It probably made her uncomfortable.

  Strawberry caught Eagle’s gaze, then rolled her eyes. Apparently Strawberry didn’t respect Jill any more than Jill respected her.

  “Maybe one or two went home,” Strawberry said, “but not everybody. The people I’m thinking of, they’re, y’know, Movement people. Deep inside, very committed. Some had dropped out to protest all the time, y’know.”

  “And drop acid.” The phrase sounded odd coming from Jill, as if she were trying to be cool and failing.

  “Well, some of them, sure,” Strawberry said. “But acid freaks, they have their own pattern, and they burn out really fast. Most people in the Movement don’t want anything to do with acid freaks. I mean, those folks are seriously fucked up. And I don’t get it. I mean, why would anyone do that? Mess up their brains and stuff. I had laced Kool-Aid at the Fillmore once. It was a Dead concert and Jesus, I never want to do that again. It was horrible. Everyone’s faces were melting and the lights bled into their eyes, and I still have nightmares about it. Everyone was tripping and no one was helping and the music…”

  Her voice trailed off as she got lost in the memory. Eagle was grateful. She didn’t want to hear any more about drugs or this girl’s opinions. Eagle just wanted answers to a few questions.

  “You said Movement people.” Eagle kept her voice neutral. Her non-judgmental how-did-you-get-that-injury voice. “Are you referring to a particular movement?”

  “You mean like AIM or something?” Strawberry asked.

  She clearly thought Eagle knew what she was talking about. Once again, Eagle felt inferior. She knew it was because Strawberry had discovered Eagle’s Native American roots, because she felt Strawberry saw her as a Native, and Eagle’s experience was that whenever someone discovered her heritage, they would treat her badly. Strawberry wasn’t treating he
r badly at all, but Eagle couldn’t shake the feeling.

  “What’s AIM?” Jill asked.

  Strawberry looked at Eagle. “Tell her, man.”

  I have no fucking idea, Eagle almost said. But she managed to hold that back, and say calmly, “You brought it up.”

  Jill looked at her a little too knowingly. Jill knew that Eagle had no idea what AIM was but Strawberry seemed oblivious.

  “The American Indian Movement, trying to stop that red ghetto shit. Y’know? The Minneapolis stuff, Rainbow Coalition, Fred Hampton, all that?” Strawberry looked at Jill. “Y’know?”

  Jill looked confused. Which relieved Eagle, because she was confused. Strawberry’s explanation explained nothing. Eagle had no idea what the “Minneapolis stuff” was. She had never heard of a rainbow coalition, and she had never heard of this Hampton person. She hadn’t heard of a red ghetto either, but she had a hunch she knew what that meant.

  Jill was shaking her head, as if she were trying to clear it.

  “So,” Jill said after a moment, “let me see if I get this right. You think the girls who disappeared were American Indians.”

  Strawberry let out an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t say that. I didn’t say girls disappeared either. I said somebody vanished.”

  Eagle couldn’t take this particular girl much longer. “Initially,” Eagle said, struggling to maintain that non-judgmental tone, “you did say ‘girl.’”

  Strawberry sighed again. This sigh was deeper and even more dramatic. “Because, y’know, this time, it was a girl. But it’s been guys too. Movement people. And I don’t mean AIM.”

  And then she pinned her gaze on Jill, clearly making her point about ignorance without saying anything.

  “If you haven’t heard of AIM,” Strawberry said, “maybe you know the Native American Student Organization? They’re, y’know, real active.”

  “Here in Berkeley?” Jill asked.

  “God, yeah,” Strawberry said.

  “And people from that group are disappearing?” Jill asked.

  “No. Jeez.” Strawberry looked at Eagle, as if she thought Eagle could help explain Strawberry’s point.