Home at Chestnut Creek Page 9

  “It’s not, Mother.” I try to soften the steel in my voice. “But she’s bright and obstinate, and so clearly needs help, in spite of being determined not to take anything from anyone.”

  “Oh, son, you can’t lie to me. I know every nuance in your voice, every shade of feeling. You can still be true to your people and be happy, you know. No one said—”

  “For cripes’ sake.”

  “I am not judging you. If this bilagáana makes you happy—”

  “Ma, I’ve got to go. I’ll try and get out to see you soon.” I lift the wrench and tap it on the edge of the crank case.

  “Bring your white girl with you when you come.” Click.

  “She’s not my white girl.”

  Twack! I hit the fender with the wrench, the metal sending shock waves up my arm.

  Dammit, focus. If this tractor isn’t running soon, I’m not going to be able to break on time, and then…

  Why is it that I’m surrounded by Diné, and yet it’s Nevada who has caught my interest? Her spunk. Her bravery. Her…body. We’re in the truck together an hour a day; breathing the same air, touching the same bench seat. I find myself wanting to reach across the gulf and take her blunt-fingered hand. Her face is world-weary, but her eyes are innocent. I want to dive into her secrets.

  But I have other obligations.

  I go back to work on the tractor.

  I’ve got to find a way to reconcile my past and my present. Soon.

  Chapter 7

  Joseph

  I know Nevada gets bored on Sundays, so I bang on her door at dawn.

  “Who is it?”

  Her timid voice stops me for a moment. That’s not like her. Who else would it be but me? “Joseph. Do you want to go running with me?”

  She pulls open the door and shrugs, but I see the sparkle she tries to hide. When I tell her I’m taking her somewhere special, and we’ll go in the truck, she changes shoes, then lifts that backpack full of money and probably everything else she owns, and follows me to the truck.

  Funny, in the time since Grandmother died, it never occurred to me that I was lonely, until Nevada showed up. I drive out to the road, and turn right, away from town. She’s leaned back against the seat, relaxed; as much as she ever is anyway.

  Much as I’ve tried to deny it, Asdzáá’s comment the other day was true. She saw the attraction I was hiding from myself. And now my mother has her too-keen nose in the wind, picking up scents from ninety miles away. That means I’m farther into dangerous territory than I realized. I need to turn away. Stop before I get far down this new path.

  And yet, Nevada is a mystery to me. I want to know more about her. Maybe if I can understand her, I’ll be free to put this down and walk away. “Did you graduate high school?”

  She tenses, frowning out the dirty windshield. “Nope.”

  “Didn’t you like it?”

  “It was all right. I liked English and reading. History was okay, if they didn’t make us memorize dates and other useless crap.” She shrugs. “Like I’m gonna need algebra to cook?”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “Why do the chicks in the Wings hate me?”

  Again, the subject change when I get too close. “They don’t hate you; they feel threatened by you.”

  “I never threatened them. Well, I didn’t start it anyway. Besides, they’re bigger’n me.”

  “You are small, but your snark is big. And sharp.” I glance over. “Most of their lives they’ve felt ‘less than.’ Now they have the Wings and running—something that celebrates their achievements and gives them pride. Then you come along, and they feel like their safe place is being invaded.”

  “Then why did you take me?”

  “You need to get to know the people who live here.” I keep my eyes on the road. “And they need to realize that their pride doesn’t need affirmation.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth twists.

  “So, why did you leave school?”

  She turns her head to the mesquite rolling by the window and crosses her arms over her chest.

  “The high school has GED classes at night. You could—”

  “Did I ask for advice?” She glares at me. “Stop poking at me all the time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m not going to be here that long anyway.”

  “Okay.” I keep my voice calm, so she’ll notice that we’re having a conversation instead of an argument. And it wouldn’t do for her to know it bothers me that she’s thinking about leaving. Even though it does. A lot.

  “You piss me off.”

  “Maybe you should look at what’s really bothering you.”

  “What are you, a shrink?” Her face reddens and she looks like she wants to throw something. “You don’t get to judge me. You clean up hurl when your mom gets a bad hit, lay on the couch, listening to her with a john, or go to school hungry…Just leave me alone.”

  I knew her childhood had to be bad. She admitted as much the other night. But poor, alone, and…no wonder she doesn’t trust, or expect anything from anyone. I swallow the pity she’d hate me for. It’s bitter as powdered aspirin.

  A fierce protectiveness rises in me like warm bread. I want to wrap her in my arms and promise life will be better. That I’ll keep her safe and make her happy.

  I’m a fool. I’d hoped to tame a wild bird. Instead, the door is swinging shut on me.

  I pull the truck off the road and stop.

  She looks around. “How’s this different than the land at your place?”

  I open my door and step out. “You’ll see.”

  She glances at her backpack on the floorboard, then toes it under the seat. “You’re gonna lock the truck, right?”

  “Right.” When she scrambles out, I lock it. “Let’s go.”

  I jog into the desert-scape, her footfalls behind me. No trail here—we dodge bushes and jump small stream beds.

  Flat-bottomed gray clouds cover the sky like a lid on the world, cutting off the tops of the mountains on the horizon. I take off, running away from the road. The wind picks up in small gusts, but unlike the past week, it doesn’t cut through my sweats. My leg muscles warm, and when I pick up the pace, Nevada follows, breathing easily.

  After a mile, the ground changes. The little trenches become arroyos we run down, and out of. At the deepest one, I turn, and run along the edge. I hope she’s not afraid of heights.

  When I stop, she slides, almost ramming into my back.

  “Why are we—oh.”

  She steps around me. We are standing at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the rocky plain that stretches to the mountains. I wave my arm. “This was all once our land.”

  “I’d be pissed about it, if I were you.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “You’d never know it to look at you.”

  I turn and look down at her. “Don’t believe everything you see.” I step to a path at the edge of the cliff. “Follow me.”

  “I don’t know about this.”

  The ledge is about a foot and a half wide, steep and rocky. “It’s safe. I’ve been coming here for years.” A big drop of rain hits the top of my head with a splat. “Best get where we’re going before Tó Neinilii lets loose.”

  She follows, hugging the rock wall, watching her feet. Rain patters down, each drop raising a puff of dust on the trail. About fifty feet down, I take the corner into what I call my “cave,” though it isn’t big enough to deserve the title. It’s more a depression, but it’s deep enough to keep us out of the rain.

  Her pasty face appears around the bend.

  “Come.” I reach out a hand, and she takes it. That last turn scared me, too, in the beginning.

  Then she’s beside me and we stand staring out at the rain.

  “This would make a good place to hide.”

  Before I can ask, she fires off a question.

  “What do you think happens to you when you die?” Her voice is thin, like she’s sque
ezing the words out.

  “We have a story about how men came to die.”

  She has a ghost of a smile. “Y’all have stories about everything.”

  “Almost.” The skies open, releasing sheets of rain that flow in pulses across the valley. The desert releases its thanks with a rich, damp scent. “Long ago, one of the early Navajo people placed an animal hide in water. If it floated, no one would ever die. When he turned away, Trickster Coyote threw some rocks on top, sending the hide to the bottom. Coyote knew that if no one ever died, the land would become too crowded. Coyote can cause problems, but he is wise, too.”

  Mist from the rain pouring off the overhang touches my sweaty face, beads on my arms. “Death is just another part of the cycle. The Afterlife is just another plane.”

  “So you believe that something of who you are goes on after you die?” She sounds like a little girl, hopeful that Santa is real.

  “I do. What do you believe?”

  “I don’t know. I hope all the religions are right, and you get to walk in the sunshine in some beautiful place forever.” I see the gooseflesh rise on her skin. She rubs her arms.

  This is the vulnerable side of Nevada Sweet. I’m careful to hold still, to not scare off the wild bird.

  “Do you think there’s a Hell?”

  “We don’t believe in that.” I look down to her worried eyes. “You’re too young to be concerned for yourself.”

  “No, not me. But I think we can make our own Hell, right here.” She heaves a sigh. “I guess you don’t read the paper, or you’d have asked by now. I’ve been in prison.”

  When I see she’s serious, the chuckle dies in my throat. “For real?”

  “Trust me. There’s nothing more real than prison.”

  Despite her hard edges, I know she has a good heart. I sit, lean my back against the stone, and pat the dirt beside me. There’s not much room in my cave. “Come. Tell me.”

  She tells an awful story, about working as a maid, taking money to help a runaway, and serving twelve months for larceny. She glances up, then away, like she’s afraid to see my reaction. I’m the last one to judge. At least when she did wrong, she was trying to do good. “My people have an old proverb. It’s wrong to have more than you need. It means you’re not taking care of your people.”

  “Yeah, like I said, I don’t have any ‘people.’”

  “You did then. That runaway.”

  She frowns out at the plain. “I guess I kinda did.”

  We sit in silence a while, watching the rain. If she can open up to me, I owe her at least as much. I swallow. “I’d be a hypocrite for judging you, since I know the inside of a cell.”

  We’re sitting, shoulder to shoulder, and she leans away, to see me better. “No way. You?”

  “Me.”

  She doesn’t prod, just waits.

  My eyes follow the sheets of rain. It’s easier than meeting her eyes. “I was born on the rez. My grandmother taught me our ways, and when I was little, I soaked it up. But as I got older, and I saw that there was a big world out there that didn’t live like we did, I got curious. When I got to be a teenager, I was antsy; rebellious. My father was long gone, but I’m not making excuses. My uncles tried to step in, but I was a handful. I thought I was missing life and couldn’t wait to get away from home.”

  “I get that.” Her voice is full of soft edges and understanding.

  But she hasn’t heard it all yet. “I learned roping from my uncle when I was little. I spent most of my time with a rope in my hand, until I got good at it. I was on the rodeo team in high school and got better. I researched, and the summer after I graduated, I hit the road, entering every event I could get to. Even eating only one meal a day, I ran out of money fast. I did odd jobs around the rodeo, helping with stock, cleaning stalls, stuff like that. My grandmother sent me what money she could.” Shame burns, and I have to stop a moment, to catch my breath.

  “I was lonely, and alone. The cowboys steered clear of me. I was Native, different, and they all knew each other. But I hung around the fringes anyway. They seemed comfortable in their own skins, with each other, and this world. They were what I wanted to be.”

  “You were a teenager. That’s what teenagers do.”

  I look her straight in the eyes for the first time. “Did you?”

  She shrugs and looks away. “It’s pretty well established that I’m not normal.”

  Lightning cracks the sky, followed close by a loud boom of thunder that rolls in my chest. “Then I started winning, and things started to change. The guys accepted me into their fold; I guess through proximity and success, I proved I was one of them. At least, I went on the whole summer that way, thinking I’d found friends, somewhere I fit. The State Finals Rodeo was in Albuquerque, and I somehow scraped together enough money for the entrance fees. This was my chance.

  “My family came, to surprise me. I looked up in the stands, saw them, and froze. My mom, my grandmother, my uncles and cousins, fifteen in all. I was…”

  “Proud?”

  “Ashamed.” I shake my head. “They would be a reminder to my new friends that I was different. I didn’t want them to see; to know I had a family on the rez.”

  She winces. “Ouch.”

  “God, I was a fool. But it gets worse. I was nervous, roping. I missed a calf, then two. All the time, in my head, I’m blaming my family. If they weren’t there, I could focus. I could win. After my events, I walked to the pen behind the chutes where the cowboys were packing up their gear. My family caught up with me. My uncle tried to put his arm around my shoulders and I shrugged him off, mumbled something, and walked away. My young cousin…he has mental disabilities. I always played with him back home, and I knew that I was his hero. He ran after me, yelling, ‘Fishing Eagle, it’s me! Hey, Fishing Eagle! Father, doesn’t he hear me?’” My voice cracks, and I have to stop.

  Nevada reaches over and takes my hand, a silent offer of support that I realize I’ve longed for. I don’t know that she understands all I want; but that she’d reach out from her own pain to try to help me through mine makes my want burrow deep and put down roots. But I can’t think about that now. Not when she’s looking up at me, waiting for me to finish.

  “I thought about turning around, but it was too late. My pride wouldn’t let me go back. I gritted my teeth, put my head down, and kept walking. The guys acted like they didn’t notice. Acted like I wasn’t there. I was mortified, disappointed, and pissed: at my family, the cowboys, the world. But mostly at myself. What kind of person does something like that to the people who love them? I gathered my things, cramming them into my bags, hardly looking. I just wanted away. Away from the rodeo, people, myself.

  “There were whispers, then a guy I never liked said, loud enough for me to hear, ‘Did you see that retarded Indian kid? What’s with that?’

  “I lost it. I tackled him and took all my emotion out on his face. By the time they pulled me off, he was unconscious.” I sit up straight, take a deep breath. “They took him to the hospital, me to jail. I don’t know why my family would bother after how I treated them, but they got the tribal council involved, and I was given a choice: enlist in the Army, or face charges.

  “I took the Army.”

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  “You were a dumb kid.”

  “Nope. I was eighteen. The Army considered me an adult.”

  “Yeah, but still. Your brain isn’t fully cooked at that age. Your family forgave you.”

  “I know my mother and grandmother did.”

  “What about the others? Surely—”

  “I haven’t really spoken to them.”

  She leans away. “What?”

  “When I got out of the Army, I bought this land, and my grandmother moved here with me. The first time I set foot on the rez was her funeral.”

  “But your uncles? Your cousins?”

  I shake my head and climb to my feet. “You ready to go?”

  She scrambles u
pright. “Wait, you—”

  “I’ve had about all the ‘sharing’ I can handle for one day. Okay?”

  She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods.

  I turn away from the soft caring in her eyes—the first softness she’s shown me—wishing I deserved it.

  * * *

  Nevada

  We’re soaked to the skin, and rain drums the roof of the truck on the way back. I’m glad that Joseph felt safe sharing his story with me. I hurt for him. I wish I could somehow make it better, but I know now isn’t the time. You can only push on a bruise so long without doing more damage.

  God, I’m an idiot. I mean, he’d find out soon enough about prison, and I didn’t tell him about what happened in Houston, but still, it’s dangerous. For me, but for him, too. When I wonder why I can’t keep my mouth shut around him, my brain feeds me the answer: because I care what he thinks of me.

  His scent is stronger, thanks to rain and cooling sweat trapped in the cab of the truck, reminding me of the day I saw him naked. Rain is beaded on his strong, dark arms, and drips from his shiny hair.

  I force my gaze out the window. It’s one thing to hold my caring about him as a tender little secret close inside. It’s another to wish it to be true. It’s a wonderful feeling, but this…thing unchecked can tear me up inside when I have to leave.

  We’re almost home when he says, “Why don’t you come to my house at, say, five? I have a surprise for you.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  He just lifts a brow.

  When we get back, I feed and pet the sheep, grab a shower. There’s still an hour before I need to go to the hogan, so I sit and finish Scout’s story. I’ve never been real big on reading for fun, but this story sure was good. I wonder what I’d need to do to get a library card. Better not. I might not be here long enough to finish, and taking a book with me when I leave would be stealing. Besides, I travel light. I’ll leave the book, and my soft secrets, here when I go.

  I make sure it’s exactly five o’clock when I knock on his door. I have no idea what this is about, but after today, I trust him.

  He opens the door with flour-dusted hands, a towel over his shoulder, and a warm smile. “Come in.”