Sacred Ground

by Barbara Wood

She raised the weapon higher. “I said, is this yours?”

  “You’d walk around with your cameras and notepads, wearing short shorts to show off your long legs to the horny Indian boys while you clung defensively to your pasty, geeky anthro boyfriends in their fake bush jackets and backpacks. You thought we all had the hots for you, didn’t you? When all we were really doing was laughing at you as you earned semester credits writing down the stories we told you because you didn’t know we made them up since we sure as hell weren’t going to give away our real, sacred stories.”

  When Erica opened her mouth to respond, he stepped closer, menacingly. “We heard you’re gonna run DNA tests on the skeleton. But you’ve got a surprise coming. You’re not going to be scraping any cells off my ancestor and putting them under a microscope. We don’t need no laboratories to tell us who our elders were.”

  He took another step closer, and when Erica glanced back toward the camp through the trees, he laughed, and said, “Ain’t it awful how there’s never a cavalry around when you need one?” Except he pronounced it “calvary.”

  Then they heard footsteps crunching over twigs, and a newcomer emerged into the circle of campfire light. Jared, carrying his nightly gym bag. “Charlie, what the hell are you doing here?”

  The giant’s eyes went flat and mean. “The name’s Coyote, man.”

  “You don’t belong here. You’re trespassing.”

  “It’s a free country. Indian country. From sea to shining sea.”

  When Jared gave Erica a questioning look, she handed him the tomahawk. “This was in my tent.”

  “Any of you recognize this?” The men ignored him and resumed playing darts. Jared hefted the tomahawk in the air, leaned back, and flung the ax with such ferocity that when it hit the bull’s-eye it split the dart-board in two. He turned on Coyote. “Breaking and entering is a felony. Just remember that.”

  “White man’s laws, not ours.” Coyote jabbed the air with a thick finger. “You Anglos have done your best to deny us California Indians our land and our identity. The treaties of the 1850s were never ratified by the Senate so we weren’t allowed to keep our territories. California Indians have been systematically undercounted by the Bureau of Indian Affairs so we have the smallest per capita funding rate of all BIA areas. Shit, man, half our tribes don’t even have federal recognition so we don’t get the money, like other Indians do. California Indians are suffering economic and federal aid losses because of our historical dispossession of land, which is the worst in the nation. So go screw yourself with your felony.”

  Jared grabbed the big man by his shirt, and said in a low voice, “Whatever it is you’re up to, I suggest you pack up and leave right now.”

  Coyote pulled back, smoothing his shirt. “You just remember this, man. We ain’t gonna take this lying down anymore. We’re getting organized, we’re mobilizing. You think we’re just a bunch of dumb Indians but you’ve got a big surprise coming. You let those people come and pray here,” he flung a massive arm toward the security fence on the other side of Emerald Hills Drive, where a group of New Agers were holding hands and chanting a mantra. “This offends us, those Christians with their fake new religion, coming to our place of worship and pretending to be pious. How would you like it if we put on our feathers and our beads and performed a rain dance in the middle of St. Peter’s Cathedral? Times are changing, man. We’ve got lawsuits against publishing companies that print dictionaries with the word ‘squaw’ in them. This word is insulting to our women. We’re making botanists change the names of plants you Anglos call squaw-weed and squaw-bush. We’re telling zoologists to come up with another name for squaw-fish. We’re even going to do away with the word Indian, because we don’t come from India, man. And we aren’t Native Americans, we are the First Americans. So you keep your eyes open, Mr. White Lawyer, and witness the power of the sons of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse.”

  Jared took Erica by the elbow and walked her quickly away. “We’re going to have to watch our backs,” he said quietly. “Coyote isn’t here for social reasons, he’s here to agitate. While our guys are generally apolitical and nonmilitant, interested only in earning a paycheck, Coyote can be very persuasive. He’s a core member of the Red Panthers.”

  Erica felt a jolt at Jared’s unexpected touch on her bare skin. In that instant she no longer cared about Coyote and the tomahawk, the Indians or even the cave. Jared was here, touching her, and the impact of Ginny Dimarco’s story came rushing back. “The Red Panthers?” she heard herself say. She wanted to ask about the Channel Islands. Had he found what he was looking for there?

  “They’re a radical offshoot of the American Indian Movement, and ever since Alcatraz and Wounded Knee they’ve been looking for a new place to showcase their grievances. They have their eye on our cave.”

  The pressure in her chest increased. “Who is that Coyote person?”

  “His real name’s Charlie Braddock. Tried to affiliate with every tribe you can name, from the Suquamish in Washington to the Seminoles in Florida. None of them would take him because he couldn’t prove blood. So he decided to affiliate with a nonfederally recognized tribe because then he wouldn’t have to prove ancestry.”

  “You mean he isn’t really Native American?”

  “If Charlie has Indian blood, he got it from the Red Cross. Before he joined the Indian movement he tried a stint as a mercenary in Africa, and before that he was an ambulance driver until he got arrested for impersonating a doctor. All that talk about living on the reservation is fabricated. Charlie was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley, went to an all-white high school. And that jacket he’s wearing— he never served in Vietnam. When the draft was called, Charlie quietly slipped across the border into Canada and waited it out. Luckily for him his number never came up. But don’t underestimate him. He’s dangerous, to both whites and to the Indians.”

  When they entered the lights of the camp, Jared switched his gym bag to his other hand and suddenly grimaced, clutching his side.

  Erica looked at him in alarm. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay.” But he didn’t look well. He was pale, Erica saw now, and perspiring despite the chill night air. “It’s okay, really. Just an injury. A stupid injury.”

  “What happened?”

  He attempted a smile. “I zigged when I should have zagged.”

  “Shall I go find the nurse?”

  He shook his head. “I just need a drink. It’s been a long day.” His eyes roamed over her hair, which was still pinned up with rhinestone clips, and then explored her bare shoulders. “Nice dress,” he said.

  Her lungs contracted. “I just came back from the Dimarcos’ party.”

  He remained standing there, in the middle of the oak trees and tents, with people passing by, as if he and Erica were alone at the top of the world with no one to think about but themselves. “It’s still a nice dress,” he said quietly.

  Her heart skipped a beat. He went crazy after his wife died.

  “That was a brave thing you did just now, standing up to Charlie and his crew like that.”

  “I’ve learned to deal with his type.” “There is nothing more powerful than direct eye contact. Always remember that, Erica. When confronted by a bully, stare her down. If confronted by a group, single one out and stare her down. She will back away and the others will follow. And when you are in the courtroom, meet the judge’s eyes. Do not look anywhere else. Do not look at your lawyer or the bailiff or the court reporter. You will be amazed how much strength there is in your eyes.”

  The voice from the past had referred to bullies as females because the bullies Erica had had to face were tough girls in Juvenile Hall who pulled her hair and called her “poor Valley trash.”

  “I’ll alert security to keep an eye on Coyote, and your tent,” Jared said. “Come and have a drink with me and tell me what I missed at the party.”

  * * *

  Erica had been inside Jared’s RV only once, at the start o
f the project. She remembered the “living room” section behind the driver and passenger seats consisting of a leather sofa and two leather club chairs with a TV/VCR nestled between. There had been an impressive “business center” consisting of fax and phones and computer, stacks of legal papers, correspondence, law books, and beyond that, the kitchenette, impressively furnished with a refrigerator, dishwasher, stove and oven, microwave and a state-of-the-art cappuccino machine. Through the bedroom door, Erica recalled, she had seen a king-size bed.

  But as she now followed Jared inside and he turned on the lights, she saw that a startling change had taken place.

  The office desk had been replaced by a drafting board. Sketches of houses and offices buildings were tacked up on the bulletin board, covering up legal memos and press releases on the Emerald Hills Project. Where she remembered boxes of pens and a stack of legal pads was now a supply of drafting tools and pencils. Most astonishing of all: the small dinette table, designed to fold up and out of the way when not in use, now supported a scale model of a fabulous contemporary-style house, complete with landscaping and swimming pool. “Are you designing this for someone?” Erica asked in amazement.

  “It’s just a hobby,” he said, but there was pride in his voice and he was clearly pleased by her reaction. Jared had devoted many late-night hours to the careful design and meticulous construction of the cardboard-and-balsa-wood model— down to the tiny brass knobs on all the doors.

  There was furniture inside, Erica saw, and tiny people. “Who are they?” she asked.

  “The people? They’re just there for scale.”

  She thought a moment, her eyes roaming the spacious little rooms, constructing the lives that were being lived in them. “They’re the Arbogasts,” she said. “Sophie and Herman Arbogast, and their kids Billy and Muffin. Sophie doesn’t work but fills her time as a volunteer at St. John’s Hospital and as a docent leading groups through the Getty Museum.” Erica peered down into cutaway upstairs rooms, where stairways led to nowhere. “Herman is a cardiac surgeon going through a midlife crisis. He is considering starting a love affair with his office nurse. He thinks Sophie doesn’t know, but she does, and she hopes he has the affair because she’s been having one for the past year with Herman’s partner.” She bent low to peek into the spacious kitchen and adjoining family room. “Billy is excited because he’s about to graduate from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts, and Muffin’s walking on air because her pimples have finally cleared up and she thinks a certain boy in her history class likes her.” Erica straightened and looked at Jared. “It’s a beautiful home.”

  When she saw how he stared at her, she blushed, and said, “It’s a nasty habit I have, making up stories.”

  He smiled and shook his head. Then he slid open the partition and disappeared into the bedroom.

  Erica looked around at the curious metamorphosis that seemed to be taking place in Jared’s private world, law books giving way to drafting pencils, legal briefs to blueprints. It was as if the architect were taking over the lawyer, reclaiming his former life. As if something within Jared were trying to get out, trying to give itself shape and meaning.

  He emerged from the bedroom, hand pressed to his side, and went into the bathroom, where he gingerly pulled off his shirt to inspect his ribs. Erica saw his reflection in the mirror: a nasty bruise was already forming.

  “Is that where you got injured,” she said, “at your tomahawk-throwing class?”

  He stuck his head through the doorway. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That is where you go every night, to take tomahawk-throwing lessons?”

  He gave her a puzzled look. Then he laughed, wincing. “Fencing.” He came out carrying a first-aid kit.

  “Fencing! Picket? Post and rail? Wrought iron?”

  “Foils, epées, swords,” he said, sweeping his arm in a swashbuckling gesture that made him flinch with pain. “I wasn’t concentrating and my very worthy opponent got me.”

  Erica suddenly pictured him in the en garde stance, declaring, “For France and the Queen!” and then dodging and feinting, light and swift on his feet, rapier slicing the air with a singing sound, cries of “Touché!” A nobleman’s sport. A deadly sport.

  As he retrieved an Ace bandage from the kit and removed the plastic wrap and metal clips, Erica became acutely aware of the small space within Jared’s RV, that they were just a few feet away from each other, both half-dressed— or half-naked as an optimist might say, Erica thought giddily— he shirtless, she in the barely there cocktail dress. When he tried to wrap the bandage around his chest, with no success as it was awkward and he kept dropping it, Erica stepped up, and said, “Let me help.”

  She anchored one end of the bandage on his sternum and had him hold it while she unwound the bandage around his rib cage. He tried not to grimace, but she could tell he was in pain.

  As she unrolled the Ace bandage, bringing it across his chest, then reaching around to pull it snugly across his back, she noticed that he smelled faintly of Irish Spring and that the ends of his black hair were still curly from shower steam. But his skin was warm and dry, and beneath, hard muscles quivered. Every night without fail, Jared Black engaged in a vigorous, physically demanding sport. Why? For physical fitness? Or were there deeper reasons that compelled him to take up swords against other men?

  When he suddenly gasped, Erica stopped, and said, “Sorry. Do you think it’s broken?”

  “No. It’s not really as bad as it looks. It only hurts when my heart beats.” She resumed wrapping. He asked, “Where did you learn such a light touch?”

  “From handling brittle objects.”

  Their eyes met. “I’m not brittle.”

  She didn’t believe that. There was something inside Jared that was very breakable because he worked so hard to protect it. She wanted to know, but you just can’t say to someone, “I hear you went crazy one day.” So instead she said, “We missed you at the party.”

  “I’d rather have a root canal.”

  “But I thought you would like the Dimarcos. They do a lot for Native causes.”

  “They’re pseudointellectual liberals who pump investment money into movies like Dances With Wolves but wouldn’t dream of having a Native American at their dinner table. Were there any Indians at the party?”

  “There was one, I believe, a chief from one of the Coachella Valley tribes.”

  “And I’ll bet you he wore an Armani suit and arrived in a Porsche. Those casino chiefs are rich. Very little of the gambling profits trickle down to the people on the reservation. Did Ginny give you her no-soap-on-the-reservation speech? It’s her favorite ladies’ luncheon shocker, guaranteed to open checkbooks. The poor Indians, no soap on the reservations.”

  Erica brought the bandage snugly across his chest, then carried it around back, reaching for it with her other hand so that she briefly encircled him in her arms. Their faces were, for an instant, close together. “I didn’t hear that one but Ginny did offer a theory about the grunion being the reason why the Spanish found California such an easy conquest.”

  She continued unrolling the bandage, around and front, arms encircling but not touching. Jared said quietly, “I like your hair that way. Wait, you have an escapee.” He reached up and lifted the errant curl from her neck, tucking it back up into the rhinestone clip.

  Erica wanted suddenly to collapse against him, lay her head on his shoulder, hold on to him, give up her struggle and be weak with him. But she kept at her labor until finally she came to the end of the wrapping, and as she fixed the clips into place, Jared, staring at her, murmured, ” ‘For the love of God, Montressor.’ “

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your eyes are the color of amontillado sherry.” He smiled. “And now your cheeks are the color of Washington apples.”

  “I hate it when I blush. I envy women who can coolly conceal their reactions.” She stepped back. “You’re done. In the future I would advise you not to play with knives.”

&
nbsp; “Swords.”

  “Whatever.” She hid her smile.

  “I don’t like women who can coolly conceal their reactions. Blushing becomes you. Like that dress.”

  Her cheeks grew hotter. His eyes met hers for one heartbeat, then he turned away to tear the string off a dry-cleaner’s box and retrieve a clean shirt, ironed and folded in a plastic bag. “Do you prefer wine or scotch?”

  Erica hesitated for only a split second. “Wine. White, if you have it.”

  She watched him put the shirt on— it looked silk and tailored and expensive— and appreciated how the fabric fit snugly across his broad back. He did all the buttons except the top one, leaving his collar open, then he tucked the shirt into his pants.

  As he poured drinks, they suddenly heard a soft, whispering sound. The tink-tink of raindrops hitting the roof of the RV. They both looked up, as if the ceiling were transparent and they could see the unexpected rain clouds in the night sky. The intimacy within the small space intensified. Erica cleared her throat. “Do we really have something to fear from the Red Panthers?”

  “They think I should have shut down your operation weeks ago.” He held out her drink to her. “Did you know that there are now nine tribes claiming possession of the cave?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know anybody wanted it!”

  “There are eighty California tribes currently fighting for recognition by the federal government. The problem is in proving a legitimate historical bloodline. A local tribe that can claim connection to the cave and therefore to the skeleton has a stronger case for getting on the federal Indian tribe register, and therefore qualifying for funds.” He dropped ice into his scotch. “Unfortunately, the rest of the tribes don’t want new tribes to be recognized because then there would be fewer federal dollars to go around. Which puts you and me in the middle of a very nasty battle.”

  They tasted their drinks in silence.

  “So why fencing?”

  He leaned against the kitchen counter. Neither seemed to want to sit down. “It’s for anger management. It’s an outlet. If I didn’t cross swords with someone, I might do something I would regret.”