by Brian Hodge
"Hey, man, where you get that?"
Ned grinned and scratched his nose. "You know that place out on North Second, heh?"
"Yeah," said one of the Chicano men. Trini Pacheco, short and wide with a fringe beard, was dressed in all black so that he looked like an oil barrel. He ripped off the pull-tab on the Coors beer can and flipped the ring into the bushes. He swallowed the entire contents in one swig and Timmy watched, fascinated. Trini never came up for air. Man he wished he could do that. He'd tried once. He'd almost choked, and the girl with him had laughed. So he'd never done it again. He guessed he just wasn't as macho as Trini.
Somewhere a girl squealed and Timmy looked around, saw the flash of tan buttocks on one of the blankets. He licked his lips and kept watching as the couple wrestled back and forth. Then her hips were moving fast. Still, he couldn't take his eyes away. His hand strayed to the zipper of his jeans, but at that moment he saw Ned looking at him. He stuck his fingers in his belt instead and concentrated on the car.
"I got a welded chain steering wheel," Timmy heard himself say.
"No shit? It must have cost the devil;" Benny Flores said. He grinned at Timmy. "Where'd you get the money, huh?"
"I got it." Timmy stared defensively at him. "I got it … from a job."
"Heh, you got it from your old woman—and I don't mean your girlfriend.”
"I didn't get it from my mother," Timmy yelled.
"Heh, heh," Ned said, stepping between the two young men. "Timmy, you know Benny's just teasin'." He fixed a black eye on Benny. "You—go get another beer."
"I'm gonna go off," Timmy muttered to no one in particular. He scratched his arm and shrugged easily away from Ned's grip.
Pot smoke always gave him a headache, and the picnic clearing was hazy with the stuff. He rubbed a hand across his nose and walked away from the other men. He could hear them whispering none too softly about him.
He shrugged. What did he care about them anyway, man? They were pendejos, all of 'em, every last member of the Low Riders Club of Albuquerque. Even the women. Even them. His upper lip curled as he thought of Jovita Roybal. He had tried to put the make on her and, man, she wouldn't have nothing to do with him. Like he was repulsive or had leprosy or somethin'. And, man, he wasn't. Not like Ernie Saavedra. He glanced at the couple who had been rolling around on the blanket, then at a man and woman who sat, their backs propped against the side of a red van, and passed a joint.
Ernie looked up at that moment and grinned. He knew what Timmy was thinking because he looked at Jovita, then slipped a spade-like hand into her blouse. He watched as Ernie tweaked the girl's nipple. Jovita squealed and slapped at Ernie's hand, but not very hard.
Timmy, aware of the growing tightness of his jeans, didn't look away. What did a girl like Jovita see in a guy like Ernie? His beard was long and pointed, his teeth big and white, and he himself was a big man, a giant among the other guys. In a few years Ernie would run to fat. Already was. Timmy tried to see signs of Ernie's disintegrating fitness, but couldn't.
Why'd they have to have the picnic today? He'd wanted it earlier in the month, but as usual he'd been outvoted. Why did he come to the meetings anyway, man? What did he get out of them? What?
He shrugged again and walked away from the clearing. He glanced up into the October sky. Blue, so blue it didn't look real, and not a single cloud anywhere. Earlier there'd been some thin dark clouds that had threatened rain. But they had gone away. He scuffed the spruce needles under his boot, clearing a patch of the hard earth. All around the leaves were beginning to turn color. Once he'd gone up to visit his cousins in Santa Fe, and they'd driven into the mountains and he'd seen the graceful aspens, with their triangular golden leaves that trembled and the beautiful white trunks. He had been impressed, but he'd joked and laughed and never let on how much he liked the sight. That wasn't macho, man.
Like up here. It was beautiful. But he'd rather be dead than say it. Something rustled in the green bushes beyond the clearing; he grinned.
Chipmunks. But you couldn't even feed the chipmunks no more, because they carried the plague. Jesus, what a place. It had to be the Anglos' fault. Man, the place wasn't half as bad until they got here.
He stretched, feeling his muscles tense, his bones crack, and he grinned. He wasn't feeling so bad now. Maybe it was because he'd gotten away from the smoke or something. Maybe he was just feeling real good. Maybe, after all, he was having a good time. The time of his life. He headed back to the others. There were still some unattached chicks. The day wasn't over yet.
"Chica, chica, chica!" The cry rolled through the forest, disturbing a handful of jays. They flapped out of the trees surrounding the clearing. A high-pitched giggle answered it.
"Eee, don' touch me, Ernie."
"Come back here, Jovita. I got something to show you. And then give you."
She squealed again and jumped up from the blanket. She hadn't bothered to put a bra on that morning, and now that she was running she was regretting it. But when they'd been on the blanket and Ernie had been feeling her, that'd been okay, man. He had said he liked her silver and red blouse and the black pants she'd worn. Just for him, man, just for him had she worn 'em. She didn't dress for herself, just for Ernie. He liked her to wear tight clothing, wear stuff that showed off what he called her cute little ass. Aware of his eyes on her at that moment, she twitched her bottom and was rewarded with a loud laugh.
They'd had too much to smoke, man. She was dizzy. She shouldn't have done it, but Ernie had wanted her to.
Whatever Ernie wanted … man, he got. He got her, didn't he? Fourteen-year-old Jovita giggled. And her a virgin up to the time she met Ernie. But he got it all. Got it all. She glanced back over her shoulder at the man. He was unbuckling his belt now. She giggled, tripped over a root curling up out of the ground and almost fell. But she recovered her balance and ran off. She began unbuttoning her blouse. She wanted to save time, man. Wanted to help Ernie.
She was running past the trees and the needles under her feet crackled. She didn't care much for the outdoors, but this place was okay. It wasn't too dark, wasn't too spooky. She'd heard lots of little noises while they'd been smoking, but she knew they were chipmunks and squirrels and birds and stuff like that. Harmless things. At least Ernie said they were.
A hand grabbed her from behind, clamping down hard on her shoulder, pinching her shoulder. She squealed and whirled around to face Ernie.
"Eee, you're hurting."
"Not as much as it's gonna," he said, grinning. His hands were shaking as he jerked her zipper open. "Get down, baby." Ernie pushed her back onto the ground.
"Not here, Ernie. It hurts." She wiggled, the pine needles stabbing through her clothes. Yet her arms went around his neck and she opened her mouth to him. He ran a wet tongue over her lips and she shivered. He had ripped her pants off and a breeze touched her bare skin. His jeans were down to his ankles now and he was trying to kick them off. She closed her eyes, sighing as his mouth and tongue caressed her throat, her breasts, her slightly rounded stomach.
"Eee," she breathed and opened her legs wide. His ring was cold against her skin. She stared at the heavy gold ring with the diamond in its center. He was so proud of the ring he'd gotten just yesterday—almost as proud of it as he was of her. She giggled again, and looked at the blue sky above, watched as crows circled overhead. Then her eyes shifted, closed, opened again as his hands kneaded her breasts. Something dark blurred past them; she glanced at it. "Eee."
"C'mon, Jovita," Ernie said from the junction of her thighs. "Don't tighten up so much."
"Ernie, Ernie." She clutched his shoulders and shook him.
He laughed, continued kissing her. She tried to move away from him, but he clamped his arms around her tighter. If she wanted to fight, he'd let the little bitch beat herself senseless.
She was screaming now. Was Jovita coming? That couldn't be. He'd hardly—
Something strong seized Ernie from behind and wrenched him
off her.
Goddamn it, it was that Al. He knew they'd get into it one of these days about the girl. Guess this was one of those days. He swung his head around, but it wasn't Al staring at him.
CHAPTER THREE
The old man stood by the side of the highway and waved his arms. Chato glanced in the rearview mirror, then wheeled the battered pickup over to the highway shoulder and leaned across the seat to open the door.
"Thanks man," said the hitchhiker as he climbed up into the truck's cab. He slammed the door and grinned at Chato. Most of the old man's teeth were gone and those left were ragged. His hair was greasy, his eyebrows a dirty grey. An unpleasant old codger, he thought. And a mixed-breed, as well.
He flicked the radio off. He didn't want to listen any longer. It was just the news, and just as depressing as ever. High inflation, fewer jobs, and some poor old priest found dead in the mountains.
"Sure."
He threw the truck into gear and eased it back onto the highway. He didn't know why he bothered looking left and right. As usual, there was very little traffic along the interstate. The closest vehicle was more than a mile distant, a huge eighteen-wheeler that shimmered in the heat.
"Where you headed, old man?"
"Albuquerque.
"So am I."
"I know," the old man whispered. Or had he? Maybe he was hearing things. After all, he'd been on the road since dawn and now it was well past noon. All that driving and he was tired, dead-tired.
"What's your name, boy?" The old man was fumbling in a shirt pocket for a cigarette pack. He fished a battered butt out and rolled it between his fingers.
He was amused. No one had called him a boy for more than ten years, not since he'd been in his early twenties.
"Del-Klinne. Chato Del-Klinne."
"Apache."
"Yeah." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "What about you?"
"Half Pueblo. Gotta light?"
He took a hand off the wheel and pointed to the dashboard lighter.
"Come up here for a job, eh."
"How do you know that?"
"Only reason a Chiricahua come up here." The old man was staring intently at him now, taking in the details of the strong dark face with high cheekbones, lustrous black eyes, lean frame, shoulder-blade-length black hair neatly gathered at the nape of his neck with a blue cloth, his wrinkled blue jeans tucked into tan Acme cowboy boots, and the blue Levi shirt. He'd gotten warm south of Socorro and had rolled his sleeves up above his forearms. He smiled, didn't say anything.
"Hey, boy."
"Yeah?"
"You work hard, eh?"
He glanced down at his hands, spare and capable and worn from work, not the hands of a man who'd been a professor, he thought wryly. "I have from time to time, old man.
"You want a job, eh?"
"No. But thanks."
The old man shook his head, puffed on the now dead cigarette butt as though it were still lit. "It might not work out, you know. What you come for."
Chato glanced sideways at his passenger. The man's beady eyes were fixed ahead, but he knew the old man was aware of his gaze.
"It might not. I'll just have to wait and see what happens."
"You got a strong back. Could always use one. You know."
Whatever he was talking about sounded illegal. He didn't mind that as much as he minded the man. There was something about his passenger that made him distinctly uneasy. He knew he should respect age, and this half-breed was certainly elderly, but he couldn't, not this time. All he wanted to do was dump the old man off on Central or wherever he wanted to go.
"Central," the old man said. "You can let me off there."
He started at the seeming reflection of his thoughts. "Sure thing."
They were driving past the exit to South Broadway now, and he spared a glance. Getting back into familiar territory, he thought with a slight pang. The fields and small stucco houses flashed by. Presbyterian Hospital loomed on the right. He flicked on the right hand-signal and pulled over into the far lane, oblivious to the honk of the horns behind him.
"Up by the University all right?"
"If that's where you're going."
He nodded, but didn't say a word. He took the next exit to Central Avenue, then began the few blocks drive, punctuated by stoplights, up to the University of New Mexico. When he was opposite the adobe-style two-story building housing the journalism department, he swung the truck to the curb.
"Is this okay?"
"Sure thing," the old man echoed. He opened the door and slowly got out. When he was on the sidewalk, he closed the door and bent down to look in at Chato.
"Good luck, boy. Remember me if it don't work out. I 'spect I'll see you around, boy."
"What's your name, old man?"
The half-breed grinned, showing his stubs. "Junior. Just Junior."
"Where can I find you?"
He waved a hand with unkempt nails. "Anywhere." He grinned again and waved toward Chato. He returned the gesture and drove off. His last view of Junior was the old man stooping to pick something off the pavement.
He looked across at Yale Park, just north of the journalism building; what the hell, he thought. It had been a couple of years since he'd last toured the University; it was time to go back. He entered through the main gate and headed toward Johnson Gym, then cut down Campus Boulevard, which ran past the park.
He passed Popejoy Hall, where the concerts were held, and stared at the park. They've cut more trees down, he thought, shaking his head sadly. He turned right at the old reservoir and headed toward the biology and geology buildings. He slowed the pickup as he came abreast of the geology building. He'd spent a lot of years there, first as a student, then as a graduate assistant and finally as a professor.
He braked the truck and stared at the stucco building. Northrup, named after an old-time professor. The memories still lingered. The labs off to one side, the office in the front, the lectures day after day, the test papers, the too infrequent field trips, the companionship of his colleagues in the department.
All that had changed two years before.
A dissatisfaction, almost a hunger, had been growing inside him for a long time. His schooling had been interrupted by two years in Vietnam, and since he'd come back to get his master's and go on, something hadn't been quite right. He'd graduated with a doctorate in physical geology and accepted a position at the University, but while he was in the first year of his teaching, he realized that what wasn't quite right was himself.
When he'd been an undergraduate, he'd looked to the future and had wanted to be nothing more than a geology professor. Even before that, though, he'd wanted to be a shaman of his people, and he had even studied with an old shaman. But … there had been problems, and he'd ended his training. Had turned his back on that part of his heritage—at least for a while, he kept telling himself—and had set his sights differently, had proved to everyone, most of all to those whites who had sneered and to his family who had quietly not believed, that he could do it. He made it with good grades, got a job; his future was assured. But he wasn't happy, not inside. Something still wasn't quite right.
And so the daydreaming had begun, and he'd remembered growing up in the southern part of the state, in Mescalero, remembered his days with his teacher, and wondered if he'd done the right thing.
He was in the white man's world now, accepted almost—as a white man. But he wasn't a white man. And he didn't believe, after all the years of thinking that he did, that he really wanted to live like one. He still had that background—the one he couldn't ignore no matter how hard he tried.
In the spring, after the session was out on his second year of teaching, he gave notice to the University administration. Horrified to think they might be losing him, they sent their best people to talk to him, to convince him to stay at UNM. After all, it looked very good with the federal government if they had an Indian Ph.D. instructor.
And a lot of time and money had been inve
sted in him. They had reminded him of this often, trying to play on his guilt. That tactic had proved unsuccessful; then his department chairman had argued with him and his fellow lecturers had shaken their heads and asked him why he would want to give up tenure, and he had tried to explain, haltingly, unable to find the proper words, tried to explain the hunger within him, but no one had understood. Maybe least of all himself.
His goals had changed; his life had changed. So he left. He put the small house he had purchased the summer before up on the market. In a section largely populated by University personnel and their families, it sold quickly. He pocketed the cash, sold off the personal belongings he didn't particularly want, and he left UNM and Albuquerque far behind.
He'd drifted up to Santa Fe, done a few odd jobs until the autumn, had traded in his car and bought an old truck.
Then he'd driven down to Las Cruces. There he hired on as a ranch hand at a large cattle ranch owned by a transplanted Texan. The remainder of the two years had been divided between the northern and southern part of the state as he went from job to job. He didn't make a lot of money, but he enjoyed himself. He liked getting out in the fresh air, the elements, out of the office and a suit day after day. Maybe he wouldn't do this for the rest of his life, but for now it was more than okay.
And he still wasn't a blanket Indian. He hadn't gone back to the reservation. Not like his family had expected.
His mother had cried when she found out that he quit his job at the University. His father hadn't said a word, but words hadn't been necessary to express his disapproval, and his younger brother had laughed and simply said he'd told him so.
