Sweet Creek

by Lee Lynch

  The night the woman approached her, she’d been as totally wired as her electric fiddle. Sweat rolled into her ears, along her rib cage, and made her quick fingers slick. Then her solo had ended. The cowboys and their women at the Stompin’ Inn yelled for more, but she’d already given them more, so she’d faded back to her seat while the boys took over with harmonica, banjo, and guitar.

  She hadn’t known how easy she’d had it when she’d played pop tunes for gamblers. The locals only gambled for fun. They were too alive to sit around, and many could be found at The Stompin’ Inn roadhouse on a Saturday night, always asking for more. The dancing started up again, and Jeep joined the boys in “I’m A Man of Constant Sorrow.”

  Bluegrass music zapped everything out of her. It was a heart thing. She’d drag around the gift shop the next morning like she had a hangover, finally holing up in the back office to work on the books. She wasn’t sorry. It had been a matter of piling this Saturday night gig with a mostly country-western band on top of full-time work at the hotel, or leaving Reno, leaving Sarah, leaving everything she knew to find another way to do music.

  At about 10:45 the bartender yelled for Jeep. That had been the deal; the band would try her out as their replacement fiddler while the regular guy was in the pokey for his umpteenth DUI, but, because the owner was also their banjo player, he wanted her to double as bartender between sets so he could rest.

  “What can I get you?” Jeep yelled to a customer even before she was behind the bar.

  She threw herself into a whirlwind beer-drawing, drink-mixing dance. It was weird; that night, for some reason, every time she set a drink on the bar her eyes met those of a woman with blonde-streaked dark hair. She’d noticed the woman watching her while she was playing. Each time it happened, she felt that visual touch like a vibration low in her belly. She thought the orders would never stop. Finally, the first surge of drinkers was settled and the woman was there, giving Jeep a smile and a knowing look. She was saying something. Jeep strained to catch the woman’s soft words.

  “They should pay you enough for your incredible music so you don’t have to work the bar too.”

  In this rowdy crowd of het men and women she sounded like a spring day out in the desert when the cactus plants got all dressed up in flowers. Or like night, by the lake, kissing.

  “You’re into old-time music?” was all Jeep could think to say.

  The woman smiled. She didn’t leave a tip.

  The next Saturday night she was there again, though the place was so crowded it took a while to spot her. Jeep introduced herself as she handed the woman a bottle of Calistoga water over the bar.

  “Lara,” answered the woman, extending a hand to be shaken.

  She was thin in the graceful way of dancers, but too tall to be a show girl. Was she part of this mining and ranching crowd? She’d admired the backcountry kids in high school. A lot of them had the Basque blood of the early settlers and looked like some kind of classy imports, dark, strong-featured rebel types.

  Jeep rolled a Calistoga bottle of her own on the back of her neck to cool down and played the next set half-watching Lara, who wore a red Western shirt. The black yoke emphasized her breasts, the pearl buttons shone under the house lights. She was alone, resting against the jukebox, long hair spilling past her shoulders, a small pair of wire-rimmed glasses hanging from her mouth by the stem. Jeep found her eyes frozen to the woman. Was Lara beautiful? Sexy? Better than Sarah? Temptation? Her true soul mate?

  Jeep felt so inexperienced—she’d only been with Sarah and Mindy. And she felt completely dweebed out in her fiddling suit—black jeans, robin’s egg blue Western shirt buttoned to the neck, and a black sheep’s head slide on a white bolo tie—the band was called The Black Sheep Boys. When they’d given her the tie they told her she’d have to settle for being one of the boys because they weren’t changing the band’s name.

  After the next set she worked even faster to get everyone served. The owner of the inn, who was also the banjo player, flicked a white bar towel at her and told her, with a look at Lara and a wink, to vamoose.

  Lara was at the far end of the bar. She’d speared the lime wedge Jeep had given her with a toothpick and was sucking on the pulp of the lime. Jeep was thinking this whole scene was like some corny Bogart flick. Lara turned with a beckoning move of her chin. Jeep followed her outside.

  They leaned against the fence at the back of the parking lot, each with two fingers hooked in chain links, smiling small smiles at each other. Cigarette smoke drifted over from the smokers on the porch.

  “Lara,” said Jeep. “For the song?”

  Lara nodded. “My mother still thinks Dr. Zhivago is the greatest movie ever made.”

  You sure are something out of a movie, she almost said, but swallowed her words before she embarrassed herself. She looked away. Men dressed like cowboys laughed and smoked in groups along the front of the club’s Western facade.

  “I should be inside.”

  “Inside?” Lara picked up Jeep’s free hand. “Fiddler’s fingers.”

  “Inside with the band,” she stuttered, knowing full well what Lara was saying, or not saying, and that the band wouldn’t be on again for nearly half an hour.

  “I came to hear you play.”

  She rumbled through her mind, searching for something cool to say. “Gracias. Do you play?”

  Lara let her smile linger long enough for Jeep to understand the double entendre she’d made, then answered, “I’m a court reporter.”

  “Like for the newspaper?”

  “No,” Lara said with a gentle laugh. “Like for the court. I’m a glorified typist.”

  “Cool.”

  “I do it freelance. Can’t stand nine to five work.”

  “That’s deadly.”

  “The gift shop isn’t you.” Lara smiled at her surprise. “It took me a while to remember where I’d seen you before. I worked in the casino kitchen when things were slow last year.”

  “Cooking?”

  “You could say that.”

  Why was it that everything she said came out sounding like a come-on? “Working the shop bought violin strings,” Jeep explained.

  “And flowers for your girlfriend?”

  “Sarah’s allergic to—” She wanted to take it back. She wanted to run to Sarah. She wanted to go play her violin. She turned to fade into the sunset, but Lara’s hand, strong, trapped her wrist, both yielding and anchoring.

  “My girlfriend goes ballistic over flowers. I’ll bring her some tonight,” Lara said.

  What was going on? Maybe Lara just wanted to be friends? The thought brought immediate relief and then vast disappointment. “She doesn’t like this music?”

  “Yes, but she gives me my freedom.”

  “Sarah’s an architect, but she works at the hotel too, in HR. Days.” Oh god, she’d done it again. She sounded like she was announcing that she was available.

  “Uh-huh.”

  This time Lara walked away, but her hand stayed gently around Jeep’s wrist and pulled her along. She knew she could break away and end the temptation. She knew she’d never be able to blame anyone but herself.

  Lara led her to the other side of a VW Vanagon which looked like it had seen a lot of road, to the privacy between it and the wooden fence around the dumpster. Jeep put the side of her forefinger to Lara’s warm, smooth cheek. Lara smelled like fresh-baked bread—did she still cook? She heard her own shallow breathing. Lara slowly turned her head until her lips touched Jeep’s finger. Jeep’s eyes wouldn’t stay open. She drew a long breath through pouted lips and, feeling troubled and dizzy all at once, watching Lara’s eyes, kissed this stranger who was no stranger. She hadn’t anticipated that Lara’s thin lips could be so symphonic.

  “You’ll think I’m a groupie,” Lara said.

  “You’ll think I’m sex-starved.”

  “Are you?”

  “From the minute I saw you.”

  They climbed into the back of the
van. It was neat, clean, surprisingly warm for this late hour. Most of it was taken up by a foam pad covered with a slightly scratchy blanket in a Navajo pattern. There were closed purple curtains on the windows. They undressed, half-bending under the low roof. Sensing that Lara had done this before only made her more excited.

  The cool palm of Lara’s hand admired Jeep’s angular hip. She shuddered at Lara’s touch, and each touch was more disastrous to what she’d thought was her marriage than the last.

  Lara’s hair was an inverted bowl of yellow over dark brown. Jeep was fascinated by this new body, so hyper-sensitive to the least touch compared to—no, she couldn’t think about Sarah now.

  It wasn’t long before she plunged her fingers inside wet Lara.

  “Fiddler fingers,” Lara told her. “Long as a comet’s tail. Oh. And that hot.”

  Jeep floated in Lara’s space, floated into Lara, sucked up by feelings that felt like meltdown. “Can I survive away from you after this? You’re kind of like a space suit, oxygen and all. I wish I could wear you.”

  Lara kept bucking against her fingers, faster and faster, slamming the heel of Jeep’s hand against herself, her demanding hips riding high, her vulva gasping. Jeep was light-headed with lust, and her fingers threatened to slip out. She lowered her mouth to the damp pubic curls, ignoring everything she’d learned about safe sex. One thrust of her tongue and this goddess was pounding the broad-striped bedspread as if they were inside a house on a solid foundation.

  “Sweet fingers,” Lara said, taking them into her mouth. “I can’t wait to do that to you.”

  Jeep kissed her, pressed closer. It wouldn’t take much.

  Lara laughed. “But not tonight. I need to go.”

  “What? Now? Why?”

  “When can you get away? I’d like to hang out with you some more.”

  “I’ll tell Sarah we’re having a rehearsal.” Of course she’d lie.

  “Saturday morning? Eight? Up the Truckee? There’s a gravel road past the cell phone billboard. A red sign says No Dumping.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Her memories of Mindy and the river were enough to make her accept without hesitation. “I’ll find it.” She took one more rebel kiss. She asked, “Are you?”

  “Am I what?” The smile was permanent in Lara’s eyes, a self-mocking, worldly-wise, playful, drawing-in amused look that didn’t stop. What Jeep wouldn’t do to have been-everywhere eyes like that. She was forever being taken for a teenaged boy, with her open face and her flattop.

  “A groupie.”

  “I’ve never done this before except with Karen.”

  “Karen?”

  “My Sarah. Later, Fiddler.”

  Jeep was ultra-aware of the seam of her jeans as she walked back through the sting of cigarette smoke and reeking alcohol, through the straight couples dancing to a slow jukebox song. She felt like a walking, talking don’t-ask-don’t-tell poster child.

  “Lara,” that most romantic song. Lara, who wasn’t about romance at all, only sex, but had turned Jeep’s life into a lesbian Harlequin novel.

  When the group started to play the next set Jeep saw that Sarah was there, waving from a table. Her bow crash-landed on the wrong string. After the break she signaled that she needed to use the restroom, where she roughly washed her hands and lips. She looked in the mirror and found that Lara stood behind her. They were alone. Lara slid her hand to Jeep’s breast, and in the mirror they both watched her index finger circle the nipple.

  “Sarah’s here,” croaked Jeep.

  Lara whispered, “Sweet dreams,” and was gone.

  “Wassup?” Jeep asked when she reached Sarah’s table. She loosened her bow for the night. “You’re usually asleep by now.”

  “I wanted to hear you.”

  Jeep fidgeted. “It was great to see you out here.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been feeling far away lately. I thought maybe I wasn’t showing enough interest in your music. You practically started a fire burning up those strings just now.”

  “I know you like it better when I play Lalo or Resphigi.”

  “No, Jeep. I enjoy listening to whatever.”

  She spotted Lara leaving, wanted to go after her. “No!” she cried. “I mean you don’t have to like it because—”

  “What’s wrong, Jeep? You’re so jumpy. Should I go?”

  “No!” she cried again. “Everything’s cool. Everything. I mean, the band’s been so hot, it’s hard to come down afterwards. I usually don’t see you till I get home.”

  “I understand. Do you want to take a walk?”

  If she saw Lara out there, in the night, wrapped in the darkness instead of her arms—“No!”

  “Okay. Chill out, Jeep, okay? I brought something to show you. I finished it tonight.” It was a Polaroid, the model of their dream house assembled on their kitchen table.

  Jeep stared at it. She stopped herself from bouncing the bow on her thigh.

  “This isn’t a good time, Jeep, is it? You’re preoccupied.”

  “Yes! It’s perfect! The time, not the house. I mean, the house too.” The owner plinked a few high notes on his banjo and she checked the bar. Mobbed. “I’ve got to get to work,” she explained with relief. “Are you going to stay?” She knew Sarah saw right through her, saw her hoping she wouldn’t stay.

  Sarah shook her head. “I’ll see you after work tomorrow.”

  Her voice sounded so sad that Jeep thought she could reproduce it on her strings.

  “Pick it up, Jeep,” the bartender told her, holding out a rubber basin.

  Gradually, as she collected empty glasses, she was taken over by a fantasy of Lara, out at the lake, leaning against her pickup smoking, then inside the van, naked and waiting. In the few moments they’d talked Lara had said she was taking classes at the college, art classes. Lara and Karen were going to have rug rats. None of her plans had included Jeep. Yet how could Jeep resist when her life was like a river, quick with snow melt, herself the roof torn from a submerged dream house and hurtling downstream.

  “You take it, Jeep,” the owner had said, giving her the reins, handing her the towel when she’d finished dunking glasses. She’d poured and served, poured and served that night, and felt as intoxicated as the barroom crowd was with alcohol.

  “Cat to Jeep. Cat to Jeep. Are you still with me, Jeep?” Cat was saying, a hand on her arm.

  Jeep snapped back to the present fast. “The band! Who would take care of Luke with us at rehearsals, performances?” she asked.

  “We’ll appoint aunts and uncles. And grandparents. You get two of each and so do I. They’ll love spending time with a kid who goes home after a few hours.”

  “Chick and Donny,” Jeep said. “Chick’ll want to undo what M.C. did to Luke and teach him spirituality. Donny’ll want to break him in on fishing poles and building. We could have holidays together. Do you think Luke would start talking?”

  “With his tendency to autism? Dunno. He’d have you, amigo. The one who unlocked his closet.”

  “And helped to get his folks busted.”

  “Kids shouldn’t have closets.”

  “At least he doesn’t take after M.C. Maybe, like, the stork brought Luke, dropped him off, and the M.C. crowd took him in? That might explain why they left him behind.” She faced Cat and gave the skateboard wheel a fast spin. “Did you ever think about how there could be no other word on the planet for stork except ‘stork’? It’s like Chinese. It’s a picture of the bird. You hear it and you see a stork. Unless you’re Chinese or maybe Russian. Maybe they think the same thing about their word for stork. Do you really want housemates? Me and Luke?”

  Cat looked at her with a smile. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re nuts? Well, you are and yes, I really do.”

  “Me, with a son. I don’t much like males, Cat. I wouldn’t be doing Luke any favors.”

  “You sure like this boy.”

  “That round beaming face. I never knew a kid like him.” Her spirits lifted. She grinned.r />
  “His smile’s like yours, Jeep. B-i-g.”

  “We have to get him out of that care center. It could set him back—” Jeep laughed at herself. “Further than even I could.”

  “I’ll talk to Joan. She’ll know how.”

  “Joan?”

  “Sheriff Sweet.”

  “You’re in with her?”

  “You could say that,” Cat answered with her mocking grin as she smoothly pulled herself up by the stair rail. George was instantly awake. That’s when Jeep realized why she’d been thinking of Lara. Cat moved like her. Cat had her seductive silence, her economy with words. Was this going to be erotic torture, living with Cat, or an ending of some kind, a way she could learn to like a woman without jumping her bones?

  Was the sheriff Cat’s closet lover? That would explain a whole bunch of things. “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to get real familiar with Sheriff Sweet?”

  “First we have to move you in here.”

  “Can I borrow your car? It’ll only take one trip to empty the trailer.”

  “I guess you decided?”

  “Shee-it!” she said. Then, thinking she’d have to quit cursing around Luke, she clapped a hand briefly over her mouth. “I did?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Casting

  “This is trey cinema vérité,” Katie said. “Why is it so dark in here? And so hot? R? Abeo?”

  The two remained silent. A single candle on the floor cast their great shadows to the batiked sheet on the wall behind them.

  Kate had been over at Hector and Clara’s all day, following them around on their acreage while Hector mended the fence that kept his sheep in and Clara tended to the beloved peacocks and peahens which she raised to sell, but so reluctantly she had a yard full of them. Het the Whites might be, but they had a warm, clean old wood house, established routines, and a sometimes rancorous, always lively interaction, like something she might want for herself some day. She smiled into the darkness. Poor adorable Jeep had admitted to wanting to be married to her, but Jeep was far too agreeable to be happy with a woman as scrappy as Katie knew herself to be. Part of her thrived on conflict, enjoyed confrontation, was always ready to fight the good fight.