Whitehorse (34 page)

Leah slowly blinked and shook her head. "What are you saying? That's impossible. I never—"

"He called here one day last week to speak to you. You were out at the barn or something. We talked."

"You told him?" Her voice quivered.

"Nope." She licked her fingers and replaced the lid on the tub. "Your mother told him. Seems they kept in touch right up until she died." Shamika returned the ice cream to the freezer, picked up a bowl and extended it to Leah. "He knew everything, Leah. About your marriage, the birth of your son, your divorce. He also understands your fear."

"He never said…"

"He wanted you to tell him."

Her hands shook as she took the bowl and moved to Val's room, pausing at the door to watch Johnny sit in the rocking chair next to the window, her son in his lap. Val's face beamed with pleasure, and it occurred to Leah in that instant that the precious child whose face was rosy with excitement probably could not remember the last time a man had held him.

Johnny looked up. Whatever intensity had hardened his eyes earlier was gone, replaced with a twinkling mischievousness that made him appear childlike himself. "Look who's here, Val. Mom. Wearing pajamas with horses on them. She's brought me some ice cream."

Val's smile widened and he rolled his head to look up at Johnny. "Val's ice cream," he said.

Frowning, Johnny shook his head. "No. My ice cream, pal. Cookies and Cream happens to be my favorite."

"Val's ice cream, pal." Val laughed as Johnny gave him an exasperated expression. "Val share?"

"I'm not sure we'll have anything to share if your mom doesn't stop standing there staring at us."

Johnny and Val looked at her expectantly, and Leah moved into the room that seemed in that moment to be surreal—the dim light playing on the posters of Rudolph Valentino on the wall, the goats curled up and comfortable on the end of Val's bed, Johnny Whitehorse and her son wrapped up together in her grandmother's old chair before an open window where night wind billowed
Sesame Street
curtains.

Handing over the bowl, her gaze locked on Johnny's, Leah gave him a trembling smile. "I think I'm going to cry."

"Don't cry," he replied softly. "Just get yourself a bowl of ice cream and join us."

"Coming right up," Shamika said from the door. She entered the room with two bowls and handed one to Leah. "As for me, I'm off to bed. Keep the party noise down and remember that Val has school tomorrow and Leah starts her new job."

Leah sat on the bed, rested the bowl on her lap, and watched Johnny spoon ice cream into her grinning son's mouth; then
he
took a bite, making Val's smile grow even broader. Emotion swelled in her chest. It buzzed in her head and burned like nettles behind her eyes. At last, the two people she loved most in the world were together in one room, some palpable connection vibrating the air between them so strongly it turned the space around them a soft glowing white.

Ice cream finished, Johnny set the bowl aside and left the chair, easily handling Val's weight as he carried the boy to the bed and tucked him under the covers, poked a Big Bird doll in beside him and kissed him on the cheek.

"Johnny stay?" Val asked, the hope in his voice undeniable.

"No."

"Johnny come back, see Val?"

"Yes."

"When."

"Soon."

"When."

"Tomorrow."

Val grinned. "Not soon enough."

Johnny laughed and tousled Val's brown hair. "You sound like your mother. I'll call you."

"Promise."

"I promise, Val. Now go to sleep. You have school tomorrow."

Still smiling, Val closed his eyes, pretending sleep, but peering at Johnny and Leah as Johnny turned away from the bed and took the bowl from Leah's hand, directing her toward the bedroom door and out into the hall.

"He's fibbing, you know. He isn't asleep." Leah said.

"I know."

He escorted her to her own bedroom, over to her bed.

"Does this mean I'm about to get lucky?" she asked, dropping down onto the edge of the mattress as Johnny pulled a chair over in front of her and sat down. The ice cream had mostly melted. He stirred it around until the chocolate chunks began to dissolve into rivulets of rich brown streaks, then he raised a spoonful of it to her mouth. "Eat," he ordered her. "And while you do I'm going to say something.

"I like your son. He looks like you. I'm sorry about his situation, but it doesn't mean I think less of either of you, or pity you, or am turned off by the idea of having a relationship with you—either of you. We're all handicapped in a way. I'm an Indian. I know what prejudice and ostracism is. I know what it feels like to not fit in. You, on the other hand, are handicapped by your fear of rejection because of Val's problems. Did you honestly think I could love you less because of Val?"

"What's a woman supposed to think when even Val's own father couldn't cope—"

"The man's an immature ass, and if you're judging all men beside him then you do us one hell of an injustice—especially me, considering our past together. Richard Starr should be castrated, or at the least given a good punch in the nose. When is the last time he saw Val?"

"Two-and-a-half years ago."

"Does he send you child support?"

"No."

"Want me to find him and break his legs?" He grinned.

"I don't think so." She grinned back.

Johnny put the bowl aside and took Leah's face between his hands. "I wish he were mine," he told her softly, and lightly kissed her mouth, making her quiver with feelings that scattered through her like dandelion fluff in a wind: weightless, spiraling, dancing to all corners of the universe.

Then he pulled away, left the chair and moved toward the door. "Will you stay?" she called out a little desperately.

"I can't, Leah. I have something to do."

Leah followed him to the front door, moving onto the porch as he jumped off the steps and headed for his truck. "What could be so important this late at night?"

"I have to see Dolores's family. They're holding her burial ceremony tonight."

"Can I come?" she asked, stopping him in his tracks. Obscured by the dark, Johnny looked around.

"You would do that?"

"I can be ready in five minutes."

"Yes, then." His voice sounded weary but relieved. "I'd like that, Leah."

A bonfire roared on the front lawn of Dolores's mother's four-room frame house. A scattering of relatives sat cross-legged around the fire, faces somber as they spoke together softly. Dolores's mother, Bernice, sat alone by a pile of Dolores's neatly folded clothes, which would be burned soon after Dolores was buried. At her back was her daughter's open coffin—a simple pine box, not the expensive mahogany casket lined with pale blue silk that Johnny had purchased—containing Dolores's body now completely wrapped in bright blankets.

Upon leaving the truck, Johnny removed his suit coat and tossed it into the backseat. He loosened his tie, flipped open the top button of his black shirt, and rolled the sleeves up his forearms. He glanced at Leah, where she stood in the dark. "You can stay in the truck if you want," he told her.

"I'm here for support, remember?" She tried to smile. "The Rock of Gibraltar can hardly do its job if it's cowering in the background, can it?"

"This could get ugly. The family never approved of me much, especially after I moved off the reservation. They saw me as a bad example and believed I influenced Dolores to turn her back on her people and pursue life in the white man's world."

"Then maybe you shouldn't."

"I have a responsibility." Johnny moved toward the light. Leah fell in beside him.

Silence fell over the group as Johnny moved into the firelight. Leah dropped back as he approached Bernice Rainwater, his head slightly bowed, his eyes averted. Bernice stood.

Stopping before her, his eyes still not meeting hers, he spoke softly in Apache. "I've come here to offer you my condolences. My sorrow is deep for the loss of your daughter. I cared for her very much."

Bernice drew back her hand, then slapped his cheek hard enough to rock him back. Then she slapped the other, and spat on his chest. "You have murdered my girl,
Whitehorse
, and brought the ruin of this family. How am I to live now that she is gone and can no longer give me money?"

"I'm obligated to provide for you," he replied in a sharp tone, his eyes still not meeting hers. Bernice was an elder, after all, and to look at her directly, considering he was involved in Dolores's death, would have been a greater insult than slapping her.

"This family deserves more from Johnny than money," came an angry voice. Johnny looked around as Billy Rainwater, Dolores's brother, stepped between Johnny and Bernice. The younger man had painted his face for war, and he held a knife in each hand. "I demand retribution," Billy slurred through his teeth, his breath smelling heavily of whiskey. "As Dolores's brother it's my right to fight you."

"I won't fight you, Billy. The old laws no longer apply—"

"Then you're no Apache." He kicked dirt over Johnny's shoes and sneered. "But you've not been Apache in a very long time."

"Your interest in your sister comes too late for me to take you seriously," Johnny replied. "As does your apparent grief. I find it ironic that you and your mother wouldn't see her or speak to her for the last several years because you didn't approve of her lifestyle, yet you happily took her money when she offered it."

"It was the least she could do for breaking my mother's heart."

"Would you have her remain here and languish in this poverty?"

"She was an Apache."

"Apache was something to be proud of, once, when this land was ours and our homes were wherever our hearts led us—when we were warriors to be respected and feared. Do you take pride in this?" He pointed to the line of shabby, cookie-cutter houses built fifty years ago, with yards cluttered with rusting automobiles that lay shadowed in the dark like the bones of long-dead buffalo.

"You drink yourself to oblivion every night and are too damned hung over in the morning to work. Dolores gave you money to go to college, and what did you do with it? Spent it on whores and Chivas. You could have gone to medical school like you once wanted, but you allowed the old ones to convince you to stay for the sake of keeping the tradition and culture alive. How can you keep a culture alive when it's squirming in malaise and Jack Daniel's? For that matter, who the hell wants to keep such a culture alive? Where is the pride and dignity in dying before you're forty of cirrhosis of the liver—or suicide? Do you really think the world out there is going to listen to an uneducated drunk when he stands up to decry this reservation's situation? They won't respect you, Billy. They'll pity you. Since when did the Apache crave the pity instead of the respect of a white man?"

Billy swung at Johnny; Johnny jumped back as the knife blade sliced within inches of his face.

"Stop this!" A tall, slim-hipped woman in faded jeans and a plaid cowboy shirt tied at her midriff planted her hands against Billy's chest and shoved him back. He tripped and fell, sprawling heavily into the dirt at his mother's feet.

"Idiot," she hissed, and kicked his leg. "What do you think you're doing? You shame me for your stupidity, not to mention your drunkenness. If you truly cared about showing respect for our sister, you would have laid off the Jack Daniel's tonight."