Steal the North: A Novel (17 page)

“Jeez, Emmy. You just came from church.” She rarely uses the F word.

“Mom said people were like that here. I didn’t believe her.”

“Not everyone is.” Why am I defending white people? I don’t want Emmy to hate it here. I want her to stay for the whole summer. I want her to stay for good. She and I could go to the high school here together, to Moses Lake High School, home of the Chiefs, rather than the Omak Pioneers. She could live with her aunt and uncle, and I could live with Teresa. As if her mom, the professor, would let her. Or Emmy would even want to. I can’t think of the alternative.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she says. “You definitely don’t have to come with me next Sunday.”

She wants to go to church again? I was hoping it was a one-shot thing. A whim. I hope she doesn’t ask me about the sermon. I paid no attention. Mostly during the sermon, I tried to look comfortable in another boy’s pants and I stared at Emmy’s legs, which are a bit skinny, and I thought about the way she came strutting out Friday in that outfit and heels, wherever the hell she got them, and how my friends had better not ever bring it up and how I’m going to punch Benji right in the fucking mouth when he does, and he will.

We get to the pizza joint before her aunt and uncle and grab a table. She’s all smiles and tells me she’s never eaten at a restaurant with a boy before.

“Poor Emmy. So sheltered.”

“Butt face.” She looks around at the NASCAR decorations on the walls, the checkered pit flags and posters of race cars. “Mom hates places like this.”

“Places like what?”

“Homey places. Small town. She likes artisan pizza.”

“Art pizza?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Van Gogh Veggie, Meaty Monet, Pepperoni Picasso.”

“Now who’s being the smart-ass? I bet you can’t name three more.”

“Dali Delight, Garlic Chicken Gauguin, and, this week’s special, Combo Kahlo—she was half Mexican, half Jewish.”

Never heard of those three. “Little Miss Art School.”

“That reminds me. I made you something.”

“Another bird?”

“Close your eyes.” When I open them, she’s scattered a bunch of 3-D paper frogs on the table in front of me. Some are as small as quarters. No shit. And all are made from different patterned paper. “They jump,” she says, and shows me how.

“Damn, you need to get out more,” I tease. She already told me she learned to do origami in after-school programs. Probably while the other kids played together.

“I know.” She starts to put the paper frogs away in her purse. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. “I’ve been told that before.” By whom, I wonder, that dickwad in California? “You’d laugh if you saw my bedroom in Sac. I have chains of paper animals.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Her aunt and uncle are walking in the door. “I wouldn’t. And I want those back after we eat.”

Emmy’s uncle wants her to pick which type of extralarge pizza to order. She refuses. She’s embarrassed to be the one who decides. I suggest Hawaiian to get things moving. Her aunt notices this as a kindness and smiles at me. Up close, Beth doesn’t look right. She looks ill. Has Emmy noticed? She’s too pale, even for a white lady. For a few minutes the aunt talks to Emmy about the church service we just attended, but not loudly like most Christians would in restaurants. No wonder Emmy paid close attention. She must’ve known her aunt would ask. Emmy says the sermon was on the difference between grace and mercy. She said mercy was God not giving us what we deserve and grace was God giving us what we don’t deserve. Say what?

“I was sort of confused,” Emmy confesses.

“
I’m
confused,” Matt says, loosening his tie. “So, Reuben, you play basketball at Omak High?”

“Football actually.”

We talk sports, local divisions, and the chances of the Seahawks making it into the playoffs. Then we talk about fishing, which gets his blood pumping, I can tell, and mine. He asks about tribal fishing with dip nets, and even gill nets, without the usual white angler mock or extremely biased environmentalism. The nets used by commercial fishermen are a necessary evil, anglers claim, and dams are important for irrigation and vital for the economy of the Pacific Northwest, but then they claim Indian nets are a hazard to fish populations and should be outlawed. After we’re almost done eating our pizza, Matt asks if I’m considering college.

“WSU,” I say. “If I can get in.”

Emmy chokes on her bite. “That’s my dad’s school.”

I didn’t even know she had a dad.
Neither of us has a pappy
. I mean, obviously, I knew there was a man at conception. But she’s never said a word to me about him. Her aunt and uncle look just as surprised as I do at the casual mention of her dad. Nobody says anything.

Emmy looks nervous but determined. “Mom said he went there.” She takes a drink. “But Mom told me a lot of lies. Did he go there, Uncle Matt?”

“Sure, honey,” Matt says. “I believe he got his degree in ag science.”

Beth takes Emmy’s hand across the table. “If he had known you, he would’ve loved you,” she says.

“He knew Mom and didn’t love her.”

“He loved her,” Beth says. “But not enough.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Real love involves risks or loss. Look at how God gave up his only son.”

“Mom wasn’t good enough for him.”

“Maybe she was
too
good.”

The two of them. I didn’t know Emmy had become so close to her aunt.

“Whatever,” Emmy says. “Mom didn’t need him. She did fine without him. Screw him.”

I’m surprised she said that in front of her aunt. I hope Beth doesn’t correct her.

“Kate has done a great job with you. I am so proud of her.” Emmy is taking a deep breath so she won’t cry. “Do you miss your mom?”

“No.” She gets control. “I mean, a little.” She looks at me, then Matt, then back at her aunt. “But I like it here better.” She looks at me. “
Way
better.”

She has us all three a bit teary eyed. But I think the “way better” part worries her aunt, who catches my eye briefly.

Matt changes the subject again and gets us laughing. It’s time to go. I want Emmy to drive back with me. But when we stand up, she goes to her aunt. They hug.

“You kids, take a drive or something,” Matt says, shaking my hand in the parking lot. “We’ll see you after a while.”

“You could’ve ridden with her,” I say to Emmy after we get into my truck. “You really love her, don’t you?”

“Does it seem strange to love someone so quickly?”

“No, Emmy.” No way, Emmy. I start my truck. Does she love me? She told me her mom warned her not to say it to a guy first, but that’s not necessarily a confession of love, and she was high. I drive through town, past irrigation supply yards, the bowling alley, the Salvation Army, the feed store, taverns, churches, a tackle shop, fast food.

“Aunt Beth doesn’t really know me, though,” Emmy says. “She thinks I’m pure.”

“You are.”

“I wish I was.” She sighs. “For her, and for the baby, and maybe even for God. If he exists.” I feel her eyes on me. “Do you think he exists?”

Does she mean just the Christian God? Shit. Or all higher powers? “I’m no atheist.”

“I’d planned to become a Christian today at church.” She laughs. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“No.”

“I don’t mean it’s crazy to be a Christian.” She pauses. “But maybe it’s more innate—not really a choice. Like being left-handed or even gay. What do you think, Reuben?”

“I couldn’t say.” I keep my eyes on the road.

“But—” She’s struggling. “Aren’t notions of purity in all faiths? In yours?”

I’m a sweat lodge junkie, as was my dad. She’s obviously confused. Why else would she have dressed up like a Baptist and then like a hooker in the same day, same hour. Who wouldn’t be confused, I guess, in her position? I can’t give her spiritual answers, but I can give her some space. “Listen, Emmy. We don’t have to touch.” I hate the sound of that, as if it were a dirty thing.

“Can I still hold your hand?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

When she takes my hand, there’s a tiny paper frog in hers. I put it on the dashboard, and she names it Darwin.

We go a week this way, barely touching. We don’t kiss or even hug. We hold hands or she leans her head on my shoulder. That’s it. On the Fourth of July, she goes fishing with her aunt and uncle in the morning, but in the evening they let me take her to the lake to watch the city fireworks. Even then we don’t kiss. She keeps squeezing my hand as we sit close together on a blanket. She’s hot and rolls up her shorts. Her bare thighs and her painted toenails drive me nuts. Not to mention the way she relishes the Rainier cherries I brought her and even feeds me a few. We study together for our SATs, now that she’s persuaded me to retake them in the fall. She has flash cards, for Christ sake, and Christ, she’s really smart. Probably the most academically smart person I’ve ever known. I’d like to see her bra again—the whole thing, like before, not just peeks when we play doctor with the kids. She paints with my nieces and nephews, colors, and does origami. It’s Japanese, I learn, and way complex. She praises everything they do but dislikes her own stuff. Grace hesitates to share her native crafts, beads, and feathers with Emmy, but Emmy doesn’t get offended. I do. Also, when Emmy braids Audrey’s hair like a white girl’s, Grace tries to undo it after Emmy leaves, which makes Audrey cry. Emmy helps me make Hamburger Helper, claiming she’s never had it but digs it. She likes the smoked salmon some Klickitat dude who fishes way down by The Dalles—and who
isn’t
Grace’s dad—leaves on the porch for Teresa. She tries to like the venison her aunt makes but cares only for the summer sausage and pepper sticks. Health care workers on the rez push native kids to eat deer and elk burgers rather than fast-food burgers, gas station nachos, and casino burritos. Emmy does a tarot card reading on my nieces and nephews from a deck called
Healing with the Fairies
. Grace and Audrey are equally ecstatic. Emmy attempts to do a reading on me, but I can’t stop grinning about getting advice from the fairy kingdom. Plus she smells so damn sweet. She switches to a deck called
Zen
. I’m advised that unless I drop my personality, I won’t be able to find my individuality.

“Indians don’t believe in individuality,” I say with true Hollywood-style Indian stoicism. “Only tribal personality.” She quickly apologizes. “I’m joking. Relax.”

We take Grace and Kevin to the park to shoot hoops. Grace is good, really good actually, great ball control, but Emmy in her
BERKELEY
T-shirt sucks. She decides just to watch and to cheer the loudest for Grace. Emmy and I take drives almost daily, short ones because she feels guilty—about what?—and I’m running out of gas money. We drive past endless potato fields. The plants are flowering, and she likes the purple and yellow flowers: same colors, ironically, as the camas my people used to dig here. We drive along canals and spillways until finally I can’t stand it any longer and drive her to the Columbia by Vantage and Wanapum. There’s no real shore for us to stand on, thanks to the fucking dams that have widened and deepened the river, making it less accessible. It leaves her speechless nonetheless. The wind this near the river whips her hair. She lets me take her into my arms to block some of the force. When I warn her to watch out for rattlers in the sage, she cuddles closer. On the drive home, I tell her the story of how Rattlesnake killed Salmon, who used to live in the cliffs, because he envied Salmon’s beautiful wife. She was made a slave. When Salmon was brought back to life by Mouse, he slew Rattlesnake and freed his wife. He then took his wife to a new home under the great falls where they’d both be safe from the Land People.

I go to church with Emmy the next Sunday. On Tuesday, when her aunt leaves to clean the church, Emmy comes over to watch TV with me and the kids. I expect her to sit next to me on the couch, but not too close, and to take my hand. Instead she sits on my lap. She doesn’t straddle me. She sits on my lap as a kid might, sidesaddle. She leans her head on my chest and drapes one arm around my neck. Something is wrong. She seems languid: her mood and her body. She’s usually a bit tense. The letting go is incredibly sexy. We watch TV, or I do, with the kids, though fuck if I know which program:
Barney
?
Murder, She Wrote
?
Can You Believe This Price
on HSN? Emmy begins kissing my neck, so softly at first that I’m not sure. Then I’m absolutely certain. “I can’t be good,” she whispers in my ear. I don’t even respond. I hate that Christian bullshit. She sleeps or I think she does because she feels so slack. I could sit here all day this way. “Touch me,” she whispers next. I am touching her. I have an arm around her waist and a hand rubbing her bare knee. “Touch me, Reuben.” I tell her I am. “In places you haven’t before. I can’t stop thinking about you touching me.”

“Outside, kids.” I gently push Emmy off me to get the kids out the door. “Don’t argue. Two bucks each, and five for you, Grace.” Then I’m broke. “Give me an hour. Drink from the hose. You won’t die. Two bucks each on candy at the store in one hour.”

I return to Emmy, stretched on the couch. I don’t even know where to begin. With a kiss, always, and then another. I’m on top of her, she’s on top of me. I can’t get enough of her mouth on mine, her breath, her smell, her taste. “Emmy.” I reach up her shirt and unhook her bra. Her back arches and I slide my hand lower to her ass. Finally I touch her between her legs. I’ve touched other girls there before, but never one that I love. The intensity is not comparable to anything. When her body trembles, so does my being. “Emmy.” She touches me too, but even it’s not the same. We don’t have sex. We don’t need to, yet. I want to tell her I love her. But I don’t want her to think it’s just because she’s let me touch her in places I haven’t before. In places I could spend the rest of my life trying to get back to.

Her aunt is taking her on the first of three short trips. They’re leaving on Monday for a few days. “Beth’s so excited,” Emmy tells me. Her aunt and uncle are gone, and it’s just us. We sit on the garden bench for old times’ sake. She’s even wearing her floppy hat. She says her aunt never goes on trips, but she’s been feeling so well since the healing and has all this energy. “We’ve been studying the map with Uncle Matt. My eyes keep going up north to your reservation.”