Crazy Horse's Girlfriend (9781940430447) (2 page)

“Margaritte! Cut it out! That's why I was coming around,” Jake said, picking me up and cradling me into his side.

“I'm fine,” I said. “And I'm just going to get blood all over your new fringe jacket.”

“Fuck my jacket,” Jake said. “It's just a jacket. God Margaritte, sometimes you could just let someone do something for you.”

He walked me into the hospital, the wide glass doors opening and shutting like magic, and sat me down on one of the funky ass chairs with geometric designs they had in the waiting room. I looked down at the bandages and pulled up a corner of long, dark hair. It had even gotten into my
hair
. I was beginning to feel sleepy and the white walls and neon lights were pulsing all around me.

“Jake,” I said, watching him at the receptionist's desk, “the blood got in my hair.” He didn't turn around and the lights and walls became one and I fell forward. I slept.

I woke up to a needle in my arm, my body in a hospital bed.

“Jake,” I croaked.

“I'm here.”

I felt like vomiting. “I'm definitely never getting stabbed again,” I whispered. I opened my eyes. My clothes were folded neatly in the corner on a chair. Jake was sitting in another chair, his long, lanky body far too large for it. He was looking at me, his large slanted black eyes full of pain.

“Stop looking so worried. I'll be fine.” I shifted around so that I could sit up.

“I called your mom,” he said. “There was a lot of yelling.”

“That's her favorite,” I said.

A hand appeared at the edge of the pink curtain that surrounded the bed and pulled it open, revealing a nurse in light blue scrubs. She smiled.

“Hi, I'm Karen.”

“Hi Karen.”

She came over to me, lifted my gown and looked at the bandages. “You're going to need stitches.”

“That's OK. I was hoping for a tougher look.” Jake laughed and Karen furrowed her brow.

“Well, the doctor's going to be here in a bit and he's going to give you those stitches. I don't think you'll need too many. I took a peek while you were out and though the wound bled a lot, it's not too bad. And we were able to stop the bleeding.”

“OK,” I said.

Karen took my blood pressure, wrote in her chart, looked at me. “What I'd like to know is how you got that wound. Because to me, it looks like something a knife might do.”

I looked over at Jake. Then Karen looked over at Jake. “Do you mind if your boyfriend leaves for a few minutes?”

“He's not my—sure,” I said, and Jake got up and walked out.

“Are you and your boyfriend having problems? Maybe he has trouble with his temper,” Karen said, sitting down on the chair that Jake had just left. She looked at me softly, sympathetically, her round, white face like a kewpie doll's.

I laughed. “Jake's my cousin. And he doesn't own a knife.”

“The thing is,” and she looked down at the chart in her lap, “Margaret—”

“Margaritte,” I said.

“Margaritta,” she continued, “when a minor comes in with something that's clearly a stab wound, we have to call the cops.”

“Oh, shit,” I said, sitting up and wincing, “no, really, it's not what you think… he's not my, and he didn't… oh, shit… ” I said, putting my head in my hands. I wished for a cigarette, badly. “You don't understand. First of all, why would he bring me in if he did it?”

Karen sighed. “Please lie back, Margaritta.” She gently pushed me back onto the bed. “Sometimes we do things we don't mean to do and we feel badly about them. And of course I understand why you'd want to protect your boyfriend. Really, I do. But you have to realize that he's only going to hurt you again.”

I laughed and looked at the needle in my arm.

“Jake, who is my cousin, is the only person in my life who doesn't hurt me.”

Karen shook her head. “I can understand why you'd feel that way. I'm sure it really feels that way, but I really think you should think about you.”

“Really?”

I closed my eyes. I wished to God that Jake and I were somewhere else, anywhere else. Maybe up on Mt. Evans, after a long ride on Jake's motorcycle, sitting around the lake and drinking beer. I opened my eyes and Karen was looking at me with her wide, sweet green eyes.

“Karen, if you have to call the cops, I understand. We'll answer their questions. But this has nothing, well, not nothing, but really nothing to do with Jake. He would never hurt me. Some meth-head did this. Some skinny, cracked out white fuck who just didn't like the looks of me. Jake is the one who drove me here from Idaho Springs, who has always protected me. Who has never laid a hand on me. That's my dad's job.”

She looked confused again, but then nodded. I had no idea what she believed, but I was sure as shit that she'd already called the cops, and maybe even social services. I couldn't wait till I was eighteen. Jake and me were gonna leave this place with all the money that we were saving up and never, ever look back.

I could hear my mom yelling at Jake outside and I closed my eyes again. “Mom,” I said, opening them, “come in here.” More yelling.

“Mom!” I yelled and it made my side hurt.

Mom came stomping in through the doorway. “I can't believe you two! I could kill you! Where were you? I know you're dealing, Margaritte, I know it! Don't you know Jake's parents are ready to kick him out?” She yelled, walking over. As soon as she got to the side of the bed she looked down at me and started crying. She never cried. It was Dad who did all the crying. I squirmed in my hospital gown.

“I'm sorry, Mom. It wasn't Jake's fault.”

She was silent for a bit, and then pulled her short, dark hands through her tightly curled hair. She had it permed every few months. She closed her eyes, the lines around them crinkling like brown foil. Then she opened them and turned to the nurse.

“I'm her mother,” she said. Karen nodded and stood up.

“Please, take this seat,” Karen said and Mom sat down.

“How is she?” Mom asked.

“I'm right here, you could ask—”

“Quiet!”

I was quiet.

I could see Jake peeking in around the doorframe. He looked like he'd been spanked, like a little boy. It was actually kind of funny, considering how big he was. He loved my mom and hated it when she was mad at him.

“Can I come in?” he asked timidly.

“I guess,” Mom said.

“Mom, can you at least explain to Karen here that Jake is not my boyfriend?”

Mom looked over at Karen. “This is my sister's boy.”

Karen looked confused. I rolled my eyes.

“They're going to have to answer some questions for the police,” Karen said. “Because your daughter has a stab wound. And when a minor comes in with something like that, the police are called.”

“Well, my nephew gets into a lot of trouble, but he wouldn't stab my daughter. He loves her, even if they are both screwing up their lives together.”

“I see,” Karen said. “Well, I'm going to go. I told Margaret here that she's going to need stitches. The doctor should be in soon to do that. And when you've talked to the police, you can go. But in the meantime, come with me so you can fill out some forms.”

Mom looked at the both of us before she left the room. “I'm so angry at you two. And I've called your mother,” she said, looking at Jake, “and she is not pleased.”

Jake nodded.

We were all silent for a while. Jake leaned against the wall, his head down. Mom walked over to me and ran her hand over my head. I looked up at her. She saw the part of my hair that had matted together with dried blood. She sighed, walked over to the sink, pulled towels out of dispenser, pumped some soap onto the towel and then began cleaning the blood out of my hair. She started crying again. I looked over at Jake, and he was watching us, his full purple lips trembling.

The doctor came in about an hour later. He smiled sadly, asked me questions, told me it wouldn't hurt that much. He sewed into my skin with his delicate freckled hands, reminding me of the time my auntie, Jake's mom, had taught me to peyote stitch beads, before his family had become born again. He used a topical anesthetic. It hurt about as much as the tattoo I'd gotten of a thunderbird on my hip when I was thirteen. Less.

The doctor left. The cops came. They asked questions, nodded, filled out a report, their guns so silver, the walkie talkies attached to their navy uniforms squawking occasionally. They told us that social services would not be called, but since Jake had a record, this was not good. They handed me their cards, said I could call them anytime.

“I'll drive her home,” Jake said.

“Fine,” Mom said. “But this is not over. And be careful.”

“I will,” he said. She was sitting on the chair, Jake still against the wall. He had gone to get a pop, had asked my mother if she'd wanted one and she'd nodded that she did. The empty Pepsi cans were sitting by the chairs. The doctor came and signed my paperwork. Jake and Mom left, I got dressed. On my way out, I dropped the cans and the cards into the trash.

In the car I asked Jake if he was going to go home.

“I don't think I should,” he said. “They already want to kick me out.”

“What are you gonna do? I'd say stay at my place, but I can guarantee Dad's beyond drunk by now, and you know how he feels about you.” I looked down at the sweatshirt in my lap. It was one of my favorites and I figured I could try bleaching it, even though it would make the unicorns fade. The tank, who cares. It was from the boys' section at Walmart. I had a million of them.

“I'll just stay with Will.”

“Oh God. Well, OK. But don't wake the baby.”

“I won't. I called him while I was getting pops for everyone.”

Will was a crazy fucker. And totally ridiculous. Pretty though. Long brown fingers and hair like wild horses. Always talking about how different he was from other Indians. He was from the Ogallala rez and living with a cousin of his, Megan, in an apartment complex at the edge of town. He was about to get into some serious shit with her though, on account of the fact the he hardly ever paid the rent, or any of the bills for that matter. I'd met Will one day when I was working at the Sugar Plum. He came in for some coffee and asked me what tribe I was and we got to talking.

We drove the rest of the way quiet. I took the Christian metal out of the deck and replaced it with “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” I thought about my dad. I wondered just how drunk he'd be. I hoped he'd be asleep. Mom hated leaving the twins with him.

Jake parked my car in the drive and got out.

“Call Will's if you're in any trouble,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. I nodded. Dad hated Jake because he'd defend me and Mom when Dad got mean. Jake got on his bike and it roared to life, and I watched him thunder off into the dark. I walked to the door of our small, shitty white house and stopped. I could hear Mom and Dad arguing inside. I hung my head, ran my hand through my hair. I opened the door.

“Jake's going to get her killed, Christine!”

I closed the door, put my bag down and thought about the fact that my tank was covered in blood.

“Is that you Margaritte?”

“Yeah.”

“You come here right now!”

It was midnight. The twins were crying.

Mom was standing in the corner of the living room, glaring at Dad, a glass of scotch in Dad's hand, the bottle nearly empty on the old, wooden end stand next to the couch, the amber glow of it reflecting in the light. It was almost beautiful. He turned to me, his blue eyes red and bloodshot. “What have you done?” he asked, his head wavering slightly. He was sitting on the couch and the light from the TV lit up half of his face as he turned to look up at me. He stumbled over and I flinched.

“I will kill you if I find out that you're dealing drugs, Margaritte. Do you understand me?”

I glanced back at him, and then away. There was no right answer. I said nothing. His hand swung back, hit my face.

“Doug!” Mom said, rushing over to us. She pulled his large, white arm back. He threw her off. “You do not hit her!”

He turned to her with tears in his eyes. “She needs to learn! Your way, Christine, is to let her do anything. Anything! How could you let this happen?”

“Me? What about you? All you do is drink. Why do you think she does it?”

Dad blinked rapidly. “It's not the same,” he said, sitting down on the couch and refilling his glass. “This could land her in jail. Or it could kill her. And you need to do something.” He ran his hand through his thinning brown hair.

Mom sighed, a long, winding sigh that felt like a blow. “I don't know what to do.” Mom turned to me. “You have to stop Margaritte. I can't imagine why you do this.”