Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (5 page)

I shrug too quickly.

“You didn’t hear anything else, did you?”

I stand. “I feel better, thanks for the juice.”
And we both pretend like I drank some.

Normally, Lorna does nothing but complain about the
cops on the reservation. They’re just guys hired by our tribal council, men who
don’t know anything about us—Thom and me. So I’m surprised by the spread she’s
laid out on the table. We never eat like this. The glass dining room table and
mismatched chairs are transformed into a bistro. The table has plates, cups,
forks, knives and napkins already arranged. There are even spoons. What could
she possibly serve that we will need to use spoons?

Hayden compliments her into giggles and excuses.
My brother takes Hayden outside and they lean under the hood and talk truck. It
feels like Super Bowl Sunday.

Lorna doesn’t want help in the kitchen. I didn’t
even know she could cook. Normally everyone fends for themselves, every meal. I
hear the engine fire and watch Hayden and Thom leave. Hayden speeds; he shows
off in the way only a guy with a truck can.

I walk outside. Raenah sits on her porch, wrapped
in her blanket.

“Hey,” I call to her. “What’cha doing?”

“I guess I was hoping one of my kids would show up
for a visit.”

I almost say “have fun,” but I catch myself. In
nine years, I have never met her kids. I head over.

“Looks like a nice young man you have there.”

“He’s not ‘my young man.’” But he is golden.

“Oh, he just wanted to hang out with your family?”
A guffaw pops out of her when she suggests this.

“I guess.” I can’t help but smile.

“Darlin’, no one would spend time with Lorna
unless they thought you were worth it.”

Raenah keeps me sane.

She begins telling me a legend about how the
Washoe Valley was formed. She doesn’t mention the Great Spirit again. I rest in
the chair next to her and close my eyes.

At the sound of Hayden’s truck I realize I’ve been
sleeping. Raenah didn’t seem to notice. Thom is the one driving, and when
Hayden hops out he balances a pink cardboard box. Thom looks guilty. I yawn,
stretch and pat Raenah’s shoulder.

“Come back again soon.”

“I will, Raenah.”

Thom walks inside the trailer. Hayden waits for me
with a goofy grin.

“What’s in the box?” It looks like it came from a
bakery.

“It’s a surprise.”

We tease back and forth. Several times, he starts
to open it and makes a face. I try to catch him, but he is fast.

“Apparently, somebody has a birthday this week.”
He isn’t even winded.

“You bought me a cake?” My arms flop to my side.
I’m glad I’m not holding the box. It would be too heavy—the gift, too much.

“I like cake. I figured you could eat it twice in
one week so you could eat it with me.”

He assumes too much. I haven’t had cake on my
birthday since I was ten.

Hayden sticks out his elbow, and I slide my hand
into the crook of his arm. I wrap my fingers around the lump of his bicep. As
we walk to the trailer, Raenah nods and smiles at me. I can’t help but smile
back since his bicep fills my hand.

Lorna and Thom are arguing quietly when we enter.

“Time to eat.” Her voice is like a summer sunrise intruding
on a Saturday sleep-in. We find seats at the table, like a family.

Another thing I didn’t know was how good Lorna is
at directing conversation. She asks questions I would never think of. Hayden’s
Brazilian mother and American father were missionaries. He grew up in Madrid,
he’s fluent in Spanish. Lorna confirms this by conversing in Spanish, until I
start asking questions. He is the only one of four children who did not become
a missionary. He has no family in the States.

“So why did you pick Reno?” Lorna hates it here.

“A cop named Mel Chapmen.” Hayden smiles at me,
and I notice the scar over his lip again where the mustache doesn’t quite hide
it. “He came to Madrid on a short-term mission trip three summers in a row.”
Hayden refuses Lorna’s offer of more food. “He suggested I visit him. I ended
up staying.”

I’ve seen pictures of Spain, and I can’t imagine
anyone trading a place like that for Reno’s high desert. The only thing that
really survives here, without tending, is whatever sagebrush can grab hold of
rock as it blows along.

We cut cake, but thankfully they don’t sing.

“How old are you?” Hayden asks, with a dab of
frosting on his lip.

There’s a pause. Lorna scowls at Thom.

“She’ll be eighteen on Tuesday,” Thom answers.

“An adult.” An ‘adult,’ Lorna says, meaning:
you’re on your own now.

Hayden studies me. His previous smile has become a
rigid replica. He begins to alternate tapping his thumb and pinky against his
thigh. Lorna asks a question, but Hayden and I continue our stare-down. I’m
afraid if I look away, he’ll tell Thom about the Wild Lily.

“Why don’t you two kids take a walk?” Thom has
interrupted his wife. I’m sure he’ll suffer for that when we leave, but he has
a calm confidence about him. He stands and shakes Hayden’s hand.

Hayden follows me outside.

“What?” I turn and ask, as soon as we’re off the
porch.

“Nothing.” He takes my hand and we begin to walk.
After we pass Raenah’s, he adds, “You’re not eighteen yet.”

“You have a problem with that?”

He stops and looks at me, but doesn’t drop my
hand. “Yeah.” His brows are slightly lifted, as if surprised I would question.

I look at the trailer behind him. The yard has
little bits of torn dog toys covering it.

Hayden lets go of my hand and takes two or three
strides before I recover. I want to hold his hand again, but I don’t try.

“Is this just because of your religion?”

“What?”

“That’s why you’re mad—your church.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You’re under-age.”

“I’ll be eighteen in two days.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I need money. I have to move out as soon as
possible.” I sound like I’m whining when I mutter this. He starts walking back.

“The point is,” he speaks like English is my
second language. “The Wild Lily broke the law. They’ll break others. The laws
are there for a reason.”

I don’t want to admit this makes sense, because I’m
the one who lied about my age.

Back from our walk, we both stare at the trailer.
I don’t want to go inside; I want to continue walking with Hayden until I’m happy,
even if it takes days…or we cross states.

“I’m obligated to say something, to tell someone.”

“Am I going to jail?” I meant it as a joke, but it
comes out as a plea.

“As a police officer…I’m obligated…”

I hear movement at the door behind me. I grab
Hayden’s shirt with my hands and come to him to whisper.

“Please. I don’t work there anymore.” I didn’t
mean to lean so close. He must’ve leaned in toward me as well. My heart is beating
faster than his. I know because I press against his chest. We could kiss. But
I’m sure we won’t because he has left his arms at his sides—not moved to touch
me at all.

I step away. Hopefully, my face is not as red as
it feels. I lift the hair off my neck to share the weight of it with my hand
and cool wind chills my back. He watches me. I let go and fold my arms.

“Don’t…” I tighten my crossed arms. “Don’t let
your religion get in the way of this.”

He laughs, but then looks at something in the
distance. We say an awkward goodbye.

I watch him leave. I know behind me, Thom watches
too.

This isn’t real. I fold the check with shaking
hands.

Sunlight gleams from the Sir Car Wash sign on the
side of the building. Two weeks of bending and dipping pruned fingers into
lukewarm water in sixty to seventy degree weather. Two weeks of wet, dirty,
sore feet, ashtrays, rust, grime dripping. Two weeks of minimum wage.

The manager, Cal, stands there—waiting like he’s
the one who paid me.

“Thanks for handing this to me.” I wave the check,
sure that my sarcasm floats just above his oily comb-over.

The folded check fits in my back pocket; I hope it
doesn’t get wet. It’d be worth even less.

“Uniform switches to shorts next week. I can’t
wait.” Cal peruses the length of me for emphasis.

I stand and put my hand on my hip and shield the
sun from my eyes. This Lorna pose comes in handy.

Cal clears his throat. “Because it gets mighty hot
out here.”

Nice save on his part, really. If I hadn’t worked
at the Wild Lily, I might not be so adept at distinguishing his innuendos. I
feel sorry for the other eighteen-year-old girls, the unsuspecting ones who
attend churches like Hayden’s.

Hayden.

What did I think? I would get a job I could be
proud of? Go to church and become Hayden’s lover? I bend, wipe, reach and lean
for eight hours a day while the manager ogles me. And now, I have my reward: seven
dollars and twenty-five cents an hour. A week of taxed income amounting to less
than what I made in two nights at the Wild Lily.

Hayden, you didn’t even call.

“That would bring in more business.” Cal folds his
arms and focuses on a group of girls across the street. They dance around in T-shirts
and shorts, waving signs that advertise their cheer team fundraiser.

One particularly bubbly girl pulls off her T-shirt
and bobs up and down in a bikini top. She must move like that because she’s
freezing. Cal raises his eyebrows at me as though I might share his enthusiasm.
Another girl pulls off her top as well—they’re getting braver with the passing
cars’ honking encouragement.

They dance for free—well, maybe not free. They’ll
get new uniforms or something. Why is working at a place like the Wild Lily so
much worse? Getting paid makes me the smarter one. How many people prostitute
themselves like that for free?

“I can’t believe the grocery store let them use the
parking lot across from us. They probably don’t have permission. Shouldn’t you
complain that they’ll take our business?” I ask the back of Cal’s head, since
he still stares at the girls.

“You’re right, I should go over there.” He walks
away with all the determination of a kid near a free snow cone stand. I turn
back to my job.

Water drips down the cracked windshield of the
Land Cruiser in rivulets like dirty tears.

On my lunch break, I walk to the nearest casino
and cash my check, the best place for someone without a bank account. It’s in
the low seventies today. Maybe warm enough for my clothes to be dry when I go
home. Whoopee.

I step into the hazy, electric cacophony of lights
and sound. Several gray-haired men and women hunch over their cigarettes and
drop their legacies into a box of dreams, coin by coin. Nice way to spend an
afternoon, I can’t wait to grow up. A cocktail waitress wearing fishnets
delivers a drink with an umbrella. An old guy hands her a ten dollar bill.

“Something for you.” He has a gravely, smoker’s
voice.

This might be a good place to work. Good tips.

I look down at the neon squiggles in the carpet.
This is my aspiration? Three years from now I’ll be twenty-one and all my
dreams will come true: sunset colored drinks in a mini skirt?

I need better dreams than this.

The wrinkled-face lady behind the cage requests my
ID and thumbprint. I press it into the back of my check next to my signature. A
crisp hundred and several twenties—how will I fit this stack into my wallet?

Dames of Desire. Brody’s business card is an
ambulance chaser following the scene of my injured wallet. I shove the cash
next to it.

He asked me to come by and say hello.

I touch my cheek. All healed.

Brita.

Brody wanted me to let him know how I was doing. I
haven’t talked to Misti, Buzz or Cassie once since my last night at the Wild
Lily. What was I thinking? I could just pretend it never happened? I really should
check in.

After a twenty-minute walk, I turn the corner and
the sight of those golden arches arouses a beast in my stomach. The McDonald’s is
just around the corner from Brody’s bar, a good place to grab a bite. I’m on my
lunch break, after all.

The line is short, so it doesn’t take long to get French
fries from the dollar menu. It would be nice to not order from the dollar menu.
I chew my meal slowly.

I watch a man outside rub his saggy jaw as though
all he sees in the window is his reflection. He turns and shields his eyes with
a dirty, chapped hand. Stringy, shoulder-length hair flips lightly, dancing
above his OD green field jacket. He looks like a mangy alley cat, one who’d
rather steal than beg.

I get back in line.

When I hand the homeless guy a bag with a couple
dollar menu cheeseburgers, he doesn’t say anything. He just nods from where he
sits on a torn sleeping bag. At the rate I’m earning, that could be me soon.

Dames of Desire is a two-story building. All I can
read is the word “Desire” because the front is obscured by construction workers
on wooden platforms. They’re removing the letters and re-facing the building. A
very tall, thin man halts construction when I approach.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He tips his hard hat like a
cowboy. “Are ya going in?”

“Do you have the time?” I point to my wrist where
a watch would sit, if I had one.

“Two-oh-five.”

My lunch break ended five minutes ago. Looks like
I just quit Sir Car Wash.

The men watch me walk past. They almost have awe
in their faces, at least compared to my, um, ex-manager. I’d rather be thanked
when I’m looked at than to have the looks stolen. I’d rather be paid, than to
give them away like a cheerleader.

The inside has the same amount of hammering and
drilling noise, but it’s captured by the walls and therefore louder.

I no longer expect to see Cassie, Buzz and Misti. This
is not the Wild Lily. My worn sneakers look out of place on the rosy, stone
tiles. Off to the corner, men are still laying the tiles.

I look around for a safe place to stand.

“That’s fine ma’am. You’re okay there; just don’t
go past this rope.”

That’s the second time today I’ve been called
ma’am.

The high-arched ceilings wear fans shaped as
tropical leaves as well as chandeliers that dangle with soft, blush lights. The
walls are decorated with framed close-ups of stamens and pistils inside exotic
flowers. Bamboo screens shield private areas, tables or booths. Lush, tropical
plants are pushed to one side, but I can envision them spread throughout the
room. A large circular stage is the center of the room, where the ceiling rises
above it a good fifteen feet. There are rows of lights above. Some have
different colored lenses. Off to the left is a rounded stage, up against the
corner.

“What took you so long?” Brody walks up behind me.

“How did you know…”

“What are you going to do? Work for ten—twelve
bucks an hour?”

If only. He doesn’t meet my eyes; he simply stares
at the logo on my Sir Car Wash polo shirt. It’s hilarious to him, but
thankfully he doesn’t laugh. “I knew you’d be back.”

Brody cups a hand to my cheek and rubs where it
used to hurt. “You look good. How do you feel?”

“I’m all right.” I return his smile; I haven’t had
anyone to smile at in days.

“Come with me. Excuse the remodeling.”

I follow Brody on the right side of the main stage
and wait while he unlocks a door. We walk up a staircase and down another hall of
closed doors. At the end he uses his key again and I follow him into an office.
There’s an overstated, dark desk, expensive looking furniture and pictures of
the “Biggest-Little-City,” arch at night.

Just inside the door is a conspicuous red and blue
shrine with a picture of a young Brody kneeling next to a football. The focal
point is a shadow box with a UNR jersey and several newspaper clippings.

Monitors line a wall and Brody sits on a chaise
lounge underneath them. I look at the TV images of the stage, a dressing room
with several girls, restrooms and every corner of the bar.

“I’ve become a bit paranoid.” He rubs the brocade-burgundy
seat. “So with the remodel I decided to upgrade everything, starting with the
security system.”

“Did the Wild Lily have a security system?”

“Unfortunately, no. And it doesn’t matter anymore,
she’s completely gone.”

“Will you rebuild it?”

“So many questions. Would you like something to
drink?”

After a long walk and salty French fires? “Yes.”

Brody rises and goes to a carved cupboard. He
mixes liquid from a few bottles and adds a cherry, pouring a little juice in
with it. The cool sweetness soothes and quenches. I tasted Thom’s drink once; it
was nothing like this.

“Aren’t you going to have something?”

One side of Brody’s lip smiles a little higher
than the other. “I never drink.” He sits again, places his ankle on top of his
knee and leans back. I had forgotten how soft his eyes are.

“Then why do you have a bar in your office?”

“Clients.” He smiles and it’s like he is taking a
deep breath by looking at me. “Former employees and other esteemed guests.”

We chat about the weather. He tells a joke. I recline,
following Brody’s body language. He offers me another drink.

“No, thanks. I just came by to say hello. Since
the—”

“You aren’t coming back to work for me?”

“Brody.” I stand and return my glass to the bar.
“I’m not old enough.”

He shakes his head. “Cassie broke a lot of rules.
Drinking on the job is just one of the reasons I let her go.” Brody stands and
straightens his tie. “When will you be eighteen?”

“I’m eighteen.”

“You’re old enough to work here.”

I raise an eyebrow. He laughs at my face.

“Even minors can perform and entertain. Alcohol is
only served in the lounge. You’ll work on stage.” He walks to his desk and
pulls out a piece of paper. “We’re a gentlemen’s club. Mostly businessmen meet
here. We aren’t just a bar, we offer…more. Burlesque show, not just strippers.”

Brody hands me the paper. “Fill this out. We
require our exotic dancers to get a license. Do it at the sheriff’s station; it
costs about a hundred and fifty dollars.”

I can feel the weight of my car-wash-earned cash.
Good thing I have it.

Brody continues. “Takes several hours because they
do a background check. You’ll need a birth certificate. Here’s a packet with a referral
slip from TorchLight.”

“TorchLight?”

“Yeah, name change with the remodel. Here’s my new
card.” The shiny card is all black with a close up of a flower, like the
pictures in the main room. “Think you can get all of that done by tomorrow?”

I take the card and a manila envelope that has
“Dancer Packet” written in Sharpie. “You want me to start tomorrow?”

“No.” He squeezes my shoulder and kisses my check.
“I owe you a night on the town.”

“Sure, I guess.”

He leaves his office so I follow and wait while he
locks the door.

“I need a date for a benefit. Do you have a formal
dress?”

I look down. “Uh…”

“Never mind, let’s visit props and costumes.” He
walks a few steps down the hall and opens the last door before the stairwell. Within
is a jungle of color.

He takes me past a rack of costumes to an armoire.

“Here are the special dresses.”

He opens it, and inside hangs a dozen shiny
fabrics under dry-cleaning plastic. Brody slides several hangers across the
wardrobe bar. I saw an old movie once where a woman tried on several costumes
for a man. I hope he doesn’t ask me to do that.

Brody lifts a few and holds them up to me
alternately.

“No, too low-cut.” He holds up another. “Here’s
the one.”

I can see the midnight fabric shimmer under the
plastic bag. It’s so dark it looks black from one angle and navy from another.
I lift the plastic.

“Satin.” Brody is pleased with himself. I begin to
take it. “Naw, come back tomorrow.” He pulls the hanger back. “You can get
ready here. I’ll send a car for you.”

I’m actually relieved. No way I could’ve explained
away that gown.

“Where are we going?”

Brody looks at the dress and then me. “Yeah.” He languishes
over the word and bites his lower lip with perfect teeth. He has seen many
women topless, but he wants to see me in this dress. Me.

“It’s a fundraiser.”

“Oh?” What kind of a cause would motivate a
strip—burlesque club owner?

He closes the armoire and hangs the dress on the
front knob. “Bringing art or music to under-privileged kids. You know, the
standard boring crud.”

I don’t laugh with him.

“It’s a way to mingle with our clients.” He puts
his hand on my back and guides me out of the costume room. “Show off my new
bird.”

My breath halts, caged in my chest. I forgot that
he knows my real name from when he saw it in the hospital. Brody closes the
door and waits for me to lead the way down the stairs.

“Right there. Stop.”

At the bottom of the stairs I pause. He puts a
hand on the door handle and looks at me. “I want to introduce you to some of
the girls. They’re doing makeup.”

Brody reaches behind me and I feel the flat of his
hand under my hair, against my back. “I’m really looking forward to our evening
tomorrow.” He pulls me close and whispers near my ear. “I’ll send the car for
you at six.”