Then I hear the shuffle of Chad’s ropers on the saltillo tile floor.
I slide out of bed, avoiding the cold patches of floor on little islands of dirty clothes, to gather up my jeans, thermal top, and field coat. Socks, matching clean socks, prove to be evasive little suckers. So, I’m bent over, looking under my bed, when he softly knocks at my bedroom door and busts through, without waiting for me to answer.
Great view.
“Great view,” he says.
“Shut up. I’m looking for socks.” Then I spot a pair, dive under my bed for them, and realize that my room is a complete mess.
“Don’t look,” I say, coming up for air. Once again, he’s in my bubble.
“At what?” he says, a grin teasing across his lips.
“My room,” I say. “It’s a disaster.”
“I’m not,” he says, looking long at me. I step back for a moment, admiring his farm clothes: worn jeans, sheepskin-lined jean jacket, close-fitting thermal top, and winter felt cowboy hat.
“Good. Now shoo,” I say, smiling. “You gotta give a girl her space.”
“Right. Sorry.”
A couple minutes later, I emerge, closing the door behind me. Hopefully Sicheii won’t catch on.
Sicheii looks up questioningly from his paper, still in his jammies, but hair groomed into his tsiiyeel, or Navajo bun.
“Woodcutting,” I say.
“Hmm,” he says. “We could use a few pieces here.”
“Will do.”
Chad tips his hat to him, and we’re on our way.
Loaded with tools and mounted up on Yas and Beau, we take the mesa top deer trail, so Cassie doesn’t see us. It’s a surprise. The silver dome of clouds arcs overhead and is rimmed in blue at the horizon. I pause to watch a pair of ravens ride down the cliff face, feather-fingers spread wide, reeling and turning, bodies in perfect form.
“How do they do that?” Chad says, pulling up alongside me. “Like how do they know when the other one’s going to turn? It’s crazy.”
The wind is cool and energizing against my cheeks. I feel the color rise. It’s good to be alive. The trail turns down a bit, and I motion for Chad to slow. Our approach startles a doe. Her fall fawn rises from their leaf-lined bed under a scrub oak. We wait for her to gather herself and her little one and wander off. Chad pulls beside me again and quietly puts his hand over mine to point out a grey fox crossing the dirt road below.
“It’s a regular zoo around here,” he laughs.
I nod and smile, enjoying the weight and warmth of his touch. He gathers his reins again, and we drop down east of Cassie’s to Bear Tooth Creek where the trees grow long and lean, perfect wood for a New Year’s bonfire.
“There’s some dead and down over here, and up higher I noticed some dead and standing. Lightning struck,” I say. “It’s going to take a while to get enough wood. Let’s buck what we can, pile it, and come back for it tomorrow.”
Chad gets to work stripping oak, juniper, and ash of their branches, building a stack of kindling, a stack of larger sticks and long, lean logs. We work like that for hours in comfortable silence, side-by-side, anticipating each other’s movements. In time we climb higher and fell the dead and standing, piling kindling, sticks, and then logs like before. This city boy has some promise.
And then he says, “I hope she likes it.”
I almost forgot about Cassie. Well, I didn’t forget her, but I just didn’t think about her right then. Not like I should. I get a sudden feeling that I betrayed her. But why? The cold has pushed its way through my layers and begun to seep into my bones. I have this urge to go to Cassie’s before she finds out. And then I think, Finds out about what? I don’t like this. The confusion. Something about Chad has shifted. Or, more accurately, something about the way I think about him has.
“I gotta go,” I say.
He looks at me quizzically. Yeah, I know, weird. But I just have to go. I gather the tools, load them in the saddlebags and swing a leg up on Yas. Then I leave in such a hurry that I forget Sicheii’s wood.
Out on the dirt road leading back to Cassie’s I feel at ease again. The afternoon sun breaks through the clouds a moment, enough to spark a shine on some crushed quartz on the rise of the hillside. I climb down from Yas and gather the pieces in my jeans pockets, semi-precious crystals that glitter like snow.
I make it to Cassie’s driveway with Yas, dismount, and let him into the corral with Beau and Cinnamon. Up on the cement porch, the screen door creaks as I pull it open to knock on her door. Inside I hear Grandma Alice’s laughter, a familiar tenor, the voice of the “Commander,” and Cassie’s bare feet in winter as she shuffles to the door.
“Hey, you’re up late,” she says, opening the door wide. Alice, Norm, and Maverick are gathered around the kitchen table enjoying a late cup of coffee. Seeing Maverick, I breathe a momentary sigh of relief.
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
“We were looking for you,” Cassie says. Then she must know I wasn’t home. Yas was with me. I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
“Coffee?” Grandma A says.
“That would be great,” I say.
“We were just discussing your charms,” Maverick says teasingly, easing back into his chair.
Cassie, at the table now, looks up at him knowingly.
“Really,” I say, taking a seat next to Cass. I want the tightness in my chest, the unfamiliar, unsteady sensation, to go away.
Wait.
That’s what it is.
I am feeling.
Sitting next to Cassie, I try not to make any sudden moves. I haven’t felt anything but hole-in-the-heart sorrow for a long time. I try to sit still long enough to absorb it. I am feeling.
Then I say, “Oh,” absent-mindedly, a super delayed response. I’m not sure what Maverick means about my charms, so I play along.
“You know like being in a conversation and not saying anything…”
“I gotta go,” I say.
“Sudden exits.”
“You just got here,” Cassie says.
“I know but…”
“And unfinished sentences,” he says.
I dance like I always have,
tall, floating above the earth.
“Let the dress sing back to the drummers,”
she said.
My eagle feather fan carried my prayers.
The first jingle dress dancer was a young girl,
one who was sick and could not get well.
Her father’s dream told him
build a singing dress and teach her
to never cross her feet,
never go backward,
and never complete a circle.
The girl put on the dress
and danced like this
until she was well.
When she was strong,
Ama used to float with me,
dresses chanting,
prayers feather-lifted.
We danced traditionally,
so we would never forget.
Then one day her feet crossed,
her steps drew back.
That’s when I stopped believing.
I used to dance for Ama,
Thinking I could heal her.
But now I dance for me,
So I can feel her.
(found caught up in the sunflower stalks in the field)
Chapter 6
The crystals are just what I needed. In the light of a new day, sprawled on the floor of my sanctuary, I pull Cassie’s collage out from under the old T-shirt. I reach for my dirty old jeans and gather the stones from my pockets. Lint, an old gum wrapper, and crushed leaves from a forgotten gathering of willows litter the lode. I pull each tiny crystal from the rubble and place them in the water glass next to my bed. With a scrap of cardboard I scrounged from the recycling bin, I return to the collage to reinforce the mosaic of horse hair, handmade paper, photos, dried flowers, and earth in all its local color: red, yellow, grey, white, black, and brown.
I scoop the crystals from the glass to let them dry on the T-shirt.
There’s a knock at the door.
I open it, distracted.
“What?” I say shortly before realizing who it is and that we’re nose to nose.
Maverick grins. And Chad peeks out from behind him.
“If you don’t come to us, we’ll come to you,” Chad says. “We have a job to do, and Maverick says he’ll help.”
At first I’m lost, my head caught up in my creative process.
“The wood. The pit,” Chad reminds me.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, I…”
“Come on, Ahzi. Ready for chores?” Maverick says.
“I still don’t get why I’m the one helping you guys. Sometimes, honestly, Cassie is such a princess.”
“Cass has her work cut out for her,” Chad says.
“Yeah,” Maverick chuckles. “She’s spending the whole day in town grocery shopping, waiting for Alice to get her hair done, and going to the sewing store. Sounds pretty boring.”
“We’ve got wood to chop and haul. And Norm wants a fire pit. So let’s go,” Chad says, with that come-on-soldier tone.
I look at both of them. Maverick’s wild hair, warm brown eyes, strong jawline and those jeans (I swear I’m not looking down) and Chad’s green sparkling eyes, sexy hair, off-white Henley buttoned down just enough to catch a glimpse of… and those jeans (I’m still not looking down). And I agree. I might have a tough case of the blues, but I’m not dead. How does a girl turn them both down, let alone one?
“Okay,” I sigh. “Give me a sec.”
“Yes!” they say and high-five each other.
I still don’t get what the big deal is. I feel like the target of some outreach program, but I go with it.
Under mixed cloud cover, light grays fading to light charcoals in patches, we get to work. The temperature hovers just above freezing, keeping us moving. Up at the field, Maverick opens the tool shed and outfits Chad with a wheelbarrow for loading logs. Then he pulls picks, shovels, and grass rakes for us to prepare the pit.
We set out to find a location far from the trees and undergrowth that could catch fire and far enough away from the road to keep the neighbors happy. The dried, withered corn stalks, squash plants and sunflowers glazed in white crystals mark the abundance of the summer harvest. The heavy frost hangs from tan blades of grass suspended in time. Maverick chooses a flat patch, and we get to work.
The cold nips at us if we stand around too long, so I don’t. I mark a ring for the fire with the pick and begin to hollow it out, while Maverick clears grasses along the outer ring.
After a while, Maverick says, “Remember the first time we met?”
“Yeah,” I say casually. And the time after that, and the time after that.
“What did you think of me? I mean, what was your first impression?”
“I don’t know,” I say, lying some more. What I would say, if I were going to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, is that I started to believe in God again. Not necessarily the Christian sense of God, but close. I started to feel like God noticed us, Cassie and me, because he finally realized that we need a little more man around here besides Irwin, the nerd, and Little John, the overgrown truck enthusiast, at school. I also started believing in Hollywood because I always thought the film industry was feeding us a lie about how hot guys can be. No joke. But I don’t say any of that ’cause: A) it sounds crazy and B) it sounds crazy.
I have no idea where he’s going with this line of questioning. And it actually makes me uncomfortable because Cassie saw him first. Dibs.
“You wanna know what I thought of you?” he says.
Yes. No. Maybe. And mostly no. “No, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you just asked me,” I say, stating the obvious.
He pauses, resting his chin on the back of his hand curled around the rake handle.
“Okay,” he says, getting back to pulling weeds away from the pit. “Two words. I’ll give you two, and you give me two. It’ll be painless. I’ll start. Confident. Beautiful.”
“Dangerous. Taco,” I say.
“Taco?”
“Yeah. I was hungry.”
“Taco?” he repeats.
“Uhunh,” I say. Here’s the real reason I thought taco. I’d like to wrap up with him, meaty and spicy, the next time I’m hungry. But I’m not. I’m on a diet. From boys, not tacos. Let’s not get too lost in extended metaphors. Then I’m super grateful that no one has invented mind-reading because I would be in deep trouble now.
“And dangerous,” he says. “Dangerous. I like that. It’s kind of macho.” He grins.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, going back to digging concentric circles in the pit.
Chad approaches with his first wheelbarrow full of wood, stacking it in a gradation of sizes. He works quietly. I like that. There’s more time to notice, like his biceps and how they push at the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt when he dumps the load or the pink rising in his cheeks in the cold. You know, quiet thoughts.
Chad retreats for another load.
“What are you afraid of?” Maverick asks, casually.
“Me? Afraid? You got the wrong girl.”
He stops what he’s doing and steps closer. Not too close. And then with a very light touch on an invisible, but very real bubble, he says, “Pop.”
“Okay. Point taken,” I say. I move to look away, but I can’t.
He catches my gaze in that instant and asks again sincerely, “What are you afraid of?”
The way he looks at me with soft, warm, chocolaty-center eyes that say I can see you, you cannot look away, you cannot hide any more, melts a pinhole in my icy surface. The answer rises in me, but I can’t fit it through the hole. At least that’s my excuse. I look down, envious of the grass held in animated suspension until spring.
He exhales, unconcerned with my silence. What he doesn’t know is that the pinhole is progress.
Maverick goes back to minding his own business, but it’s only temporary.
“What do you like most about me?” he says.
“What?” If that’s not the most egotistical question, I don’t know what is.
“Really,” he says, “I’m curious.”
“Your keen fashion sense,” I say, borrowing a line from a hundred teen movies. Actually, that’s true. I do like the way he dresses. Did I mention his jeans? Oh, yeah. You’re up to speed.
Chad rolls up again, drops his load of wood and turns to go. I want to yell “Wait for me,” but he’s off. That would be weird anyway, but certainly not unexpected coming from me.
What’s with Maverick today?
My slapstick—or is it slap-face humor—pushes him into silence again. He works on, completing a broad fire line around the pit. And I’ve worked my way to the center. All that’s left is to dig it deeper to hold all the ash and embers.
Then he says, “What’s your favorite place to be kissed?”
And I lose it. Something snaps. I throw down the pick and go at him, shoving him down in the dirt, screaming, “What’s the deal with you?”
And then he grabs me back by the forearms, and I fall on top of him. I break free from his grasp and set my palms on either side of his head, ready to push myself up to standing. He sits up, and I pull back from him—too late. In an instant he takes the upper hand with his riveting eyes. His lips full and warm take mine. And then I let him. He takes the top lip and then the bottom with unspeakable tenderness. The icy shell falls.
He pulls back and looks at me, places a finger to my softened lips and says, “You don’t need to yell.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Chad says. His hurt is hard to hide.
Crap. I pull myself together, push Maverick off of me, and steady myself to face him.
“You don’t have t
o pretend for me,” he says and turns to go.
I know. That’s the problem.
Sicheii says, “You look like her.”
“Look here… in the mirror,” he says.
“See. Your mom is there.”
A center part
Hair shining, loose, raven black to my waist
High cheekbones, defined
Set under brown-black eyes
That spark in gratitude when he’s there.
I also see
Long turquoise beaded loops
One piercing each lobe
A girl becoming a woman
Despite her protests to Time
A girl becoming a woman.
(found in the bed of Sicheii’s truck.)
Chapter 7
The clouds break. The late afternoon sun casts crisp, defined shadows, burning clear light into what is most certainly unclear. I gather my tools and pull them back into the shed. I swing a leg up on Yas and disappear.
Home. I push through the front door and head straight for my room, holding my breath until the door to my bedroom clicks shut. Exhale. This is why I don’t go out. This is why… I close the door. I don’t want to hurt. I don’t want Cassie, Chad, or Maverick to hurt. I don’t take chances any more with petal-open, soft-kisses, warm-hugs love because it ends. Because it ends.
And now it’s too late. In one stupid move I hurt Chad, and I hurt Cassie, too. I need to be locked up and shut up.
I go back to working on Cassie’s collage. I wish I could rewind seamlessly to this place, where all I wanted to do was add crystals to gather light for her. Quartz fragments, charged from their mineral bath on the bed stand, collect golden rays from the setting sun. Cassie’s face is full of laughter. The sunflower blossoms tucked behind our left ears spill color across the page. Her expression, full of trust, hope, and the land that draws us together, will fall.
Diamonds at Dawn Page 3