by Lia Conklin
The smell of pancakes or maybe her grumbling stomach awoke her the next morning. She suddenly felt excited to start the day. A day that began with the scent of pancakes was a day filled with possibilities.
She heard them in the kitchen and saw Donovan’s elbow through the doorway, obviously flipping pancakes on the stove. She stole to the bathroom and sponged herself down as well as she could before sliding back into the same clothes she had worn for the past two days. Looking a bit wrinkly and disheveled, she excused herself from the mirror and headed for the pancakes.
They were heaped on a plate in the middle of the table, their steam still rising when she entered the kitchen. Donovan almost flipped a pancake on the floor when he saw her but caught it with his left hand as it glanced off the stove.
“Good morning, Amelia,” Uncle Martin said. “You look much better today. I believe you slept well.”
“Yes, sir,” Amelia replied. “I’m feeling very well. Thank you for helping me so much yesterday. Whatever it was that you did, it has made all the difference.”
“I believe my nephew helped you somewhat as well,” he said, “His medicine-man training must be paying off.”
Amelia turned red but managed to sputter, “Oh…oh yes. He’s been very kind.”
From behind his uncle, Donovan shrugged his shoulders and shook his head smiling. It was hard to know for sure how much this wise man knew, but they both assumed just about everything.
Throughout the course of the meal, Donovan took it upon himself to be as attentive to Amelia’s needs as a manservant. She laughed as he poured maple syrup on her pancakes.
“Could you cut them for me too?” she requested smiling.
She had seen dark skin blush before. Nothing obvious, just a heightened color along the check ridge. She saw it now in his skin as he sat down across from her. She loved that she could make him blush.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
“She already answered that, son. Try something more original,” Uncle Martin offered.
“Okay, then,” Donovan said quickly recovering from his second blush. “Was the bed soft enough for you?”
“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Uncle Martin laughed.
“Not quite,” Amelia played along. “After several hours of tossing and turning, I discovered a pea under the mattress. But after that, it was quite comfortable, thank you.”
“Looks like our little princess fits right in with our lot!” Uncle Martin proclaimed.
When Amelia looked across at Donovan, he looked proud. He caught her eye and smiled. She felt a tingling sensation begin in her groin and travel up to her throat. She looked down at her pancakes.
Suddenly there was a knock, and Paul’s voice called through the door.
“Martin? It’s Paul White Clay.”
“Come on in, young man. We’re in the kitchen,” Uncle Martin shouted.
Amelia looked over at Donovan and found him already looking at her. Was that jealousy in his eyes? Her own showed the guilt she felt, not having clarified her relationship with Paul to Donovan. Or to Paul.
Paul stepped into the kitchen, teeth gleaming as usual. Amelia’s guilt washed away as she remembered how genuinely she liked him and valued his friendship.
“Looks like my timing is perfect!” Paul exclaimed.
“Sit yourself down, my son. There’s plenty for us all,” Uncle Martin assured him.
“Hey, Donovan,” Paul said, moving towards him with an extended hand. “What’s up with you, man? You’re looking good in your boxers and undershirt this fine morning!” he kidded.
“Yeah, well I’ve got a young lady here to impress,” Donovan grinned back, as he clasped his hand and completed a brotherly three-part handshake. Amelia was proud to realize that the sequence of five she had learned must have been reserved for Paul’s inner circle of friends.
“Thought I’d come by and eat some pancakes before heading over to the Spur to put in my time,” Paul said, loading a few on the plate Donovan slid over to him. “And as an added bonus, check on this lovely lady to see how she’s doing. You look better, Amelia,” he said grinning over at her.
“Feeling much better, thanks. It’s this Indian hospitality,” she replied smiling, unintentionally glancing at Donovan. Paul appeared not to notice, though Donovan blushed for the third time, but she wasn’t counting.
“When are you heading back to the ranch?” Paul asked her.
Amelia laughed. How quickly her life had changed. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was supposed to be anywhere but here.
“I forgot about that!” she exclaimed. “I suppose I should have been back yesterday!”
“Looks like that fall did a little more damage than we thought,” Paul said, addressing Martin and Donovan with a shake of his head.
“Either that, Doc White Clay, or it was the aftermath of our Indian hospitality,” Uncle Martin suggested.
“I guess a little of both,” Amelia confirmed laughing. “I better make a quick phone call. Don’t let on that I’m feeling better. I’d like to stay one more day, if that’s okay with you.”
She had looked over at Uncle Martin for his permission but was answered by a chorus of “Yes!” in three-part harmony.
She laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.” She got up from the table and took the phone Donovan handed her.
She got her additional day off from a very concerned Pamela and made a commitment to see Paul after he got off of work in the evening. After waving to Paul as he walked away down the street, Amelia looked up at Donovan,
“Do you need to be somewhere today?” she asked.
Taking advantage of the fact that Uncle Martin was still in the kitchen, Donovan gathered her to him whispering, “Yes. With you.” Her body ached for him.
“Let’s help Uncle Martin in the kitchen and then send him on an errand for milk or something,” Donovan suggested. Amelia laughed but secretly wished Uncle Martin could be so easily tricked.
Chapter 30
Uncle Martin didn’t go out for milk, so Amelia and Donovan headed towards the powwow grounds. There was no more music, but the powwow didn’t officially end until that evening. They walked through the booths, and Donovan proved very knowledgeable in Indian arts and crafts.
“Maybe I will have a booth next year,” he said, “but I’m not sure my art would go over very well here. It’s a bit untraditional.”
“What kind of art do you do?” Amelia asked, surprised to learn he was an artist.
“Mostly painting and pottery,” he said, “though I’ve been working more with metal lately. Pretty untraditional for a native artist. But it seems to fit what I want to say.”
“What you want to say? What’s that?” Amelia probed.
“There’s just some things you can’t say with words, or at least I can’t, anyway,” he said pausing and looking into the distance. “I guess I’m trying to show the coarseness of life, the complications. You know, the crossing of cultures, classes, generations. And the contradictions too, like strength and fear, hope and despair. You know, pretty much what you get from reality TV.”
Amelia laughed at this, in spite of the fact she had little firsthand knowledge of reality TV.
“Really though, I think we all struggle with these things, and I think art helps me work through them. Does that make sense?” he implored, finally looking into her eyes.
“Yeah,” she answered. “It does.”
He took her hand, and they walked thoughtfully to the bleachers of the Dance Arbor.
“Do you make a living at it?” Amelia asked as they settled themselves on the aluminum that had begun to absorb the heat of the day.
“No,” he laughed. “Hardly. I work at a casino. Decent money, nothing too difficult. I deal some cards and watch poor bastards lose their shirts. Sometimes I’m happy about it—if their shirts are too white, their checkered shorts pressed too neatly. Other times I feel sick to my stomach as they beg a cigarette off the guy next to
them. All in all, in spite of the downside of gambling, it’s done incredible good for our reservation.”
“I didn’t know there was a casino here,” Amelia remarked.
“Well, there is one just down the road, but that’s not where I work. I work up near Kalispell on the Blackfoot reservation. That’s where I really live, with my mother’s tribe. I’m just here for the summer to promote some native arts organization I’m a part of. I’m trying to get a chapter started here and give some folks a chance to promote themselves as artists.”
“You’re not Crow?”
“Half. My father was Crow. He was an artist too. He met my mother in Helena at an art festival. They lived here for a time, despite the scorn of the Crow tribe. You see, the Crow and the Blackfoot are traditional enemies, and even today intermarriage is frowned upon. Things didn’t work out for them, so later my mother took me with her back to the Blackfoot reservation. My father died a few years later. They couldn’t tell if his liver gave out or if he froze to death. Either way, they found him in a snowbank between the bar and home.”
“I’m sorry,” Amelia consoled, aware of the inadequacy of such a response.
“Don’t be. I never really knew him that well, and anyway, my mother still has a collapsed nose to show for that relationship. I’ve always considered Uncle Martin to be my father anyway. It’s easier to do that when your real one is gone.”
“So, you’re a Blackfoot Crow,” Amelia mused.
“Yeah,” he laughed, “they used to call me that in the old days. It hurt at first but really became a badge of honor later.”
“Kind of like Puta Gringa, I suppose.” Amelia laughed.
“Puta what?”
“Never mind. It’s a long story, but I’m sure I’ll share it with you one day!”
They spent the next couple hours sitting on the bleachers and then walking around with little awareness of anything or anyone but themselves. They bought lunch at a stand—Indian tacos—which made Amelia smile at how things always came full circle, a thousand miles away and Honduras was still as present as ever.
Now that Donovan knew the most tragic moment of Amelia’s life, she gradually filled him in on what came before and after.
“Say something in Spanish,” he insisted.
“Aunque te acabo de conocer, te amo como si fueramos amantes de otra vida.”
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Even though I just met you, it’s like we’ve known each other from another life,” she replied, careful to leave out the translation of te amo, I love you, and amantes, lovers.
“My mother taught me a little Blackfoot, but I hardly remember any now. Languages are just as fascinating as art. I guess they’re all translations of the same thing: the human experience.” He grinned. “Deep…right?” he chided himself. “But you know, I do think art gives us the freedom to express things we can’t in language. We say we don’t have the words sometimes, but I think it’s more like the words have been taken from us. We just don’t get to talk about certain things. Art gives us a way around that.”
“Like a code,” Amelia suggested.
“Yeah. Like a code,” he nodded. “And what about you?” he asked, gently sweeping away a lock of her hair that had fallen across her face. “What are you interested in?”
“Music,” she replied. “I play guitar and sing, but I’m self-taught and probably not too refined.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” he said taking her face in his hands and kissing her brusquely on the lips. “The more I learn about you the more I am amazed that we stumbled across each other…or rather that you fell into my arms and later stumbled into me!”
“You just had to remind me, didn’t you,” Amelia moaned. “Will I ever live that down?”
“Never.” He replied matter-of-factly. “Seriously though,” he said looking at her directly with a slight frown. “I have always believed in all that Indian ‘hocus pocus.’ I’ve seen strange things…amazing things have happened in my Uncle’s hands. But it never really happened to me. I’ve always been an observer. Until now. But somehow, I’m still caught in that observer role. I see myself from above, looking down at myself talking to you, touching you… Amongst other things,” he waggled his eyebrows. “But really, it’s weird, like a disassociation. I don’t quite understand…” then catching himself, “and I really don’t understand why I’m even talking about it!”
“A disassociation, huh? Maybe it’s a flight response. I scare you so much that flight response meets out of body experience,” she laughed. “Seriously though, it sounds like you’re trying to rationalize something that doesn’t work that way. I mean, does anyone ever really understand this?” she said gesturing between them. “I think this is one of those times we make a choice to let go and go with the flow.”
“Listen to you teaching me how to be an Indian!” he laughed shaking his head. “Whoever heard of an Indian pitting rationality against authentic experience? A sign of the times, I guess.” He continued shaking his head, and Amelia could tell it troubled him to have internalized so much of Western culture.
“How about we make a pact?” she suggested.
“Oh no!” Donovan retorted. “No more pacts with the white man!”
“First of all,” Amelia interrupted, “this is a pact not a treaty. And second, I’m a woman not a man. Women are more trustworthy, of course. Things would have been a lot different in history if women had been in charge. Anyway, I say we not second-guess our connection anymore and enjoy it fully for the rest of this day. What d’ya say?”
He answered her with a bear hug that brought her off her feet. As he lowered her, his lips brushed a path from her chin to the top of her head.
“Let’s go see if Uncle went to get some milk,” he said.
Chapter 31
Uncle Martin was gone. They were excited to know that later there’d be milk to drink. In the meantime, they discovered that the previous night’s passion had not been a fluke. The warm-up, though unnecessary, was every bit as new and intoxicating to Amelia as their first time, maybe even more so now that she knew what awaited her at the end. When they could not put off their gratification any longer, Donovan reached for his discarded jeans and pulled something out of his pocket.
“Pick a color,” he said, displaying a row of colored condoms. Amelia had been pretty sure gum was just an excuse for going into the convenience store.
“Red,” she answered, “Cherry Jell-O has always been my favorite.”
An hour later as they still lay naked next to each other, lapping up each other’s attention, unwilling to let even a cotton sheet come between them, Paul’s voice called from the door.
“Shit!” whispered Amelia roughly, “I forgot all about him!”
“Well, I should hope so,” Donovan said, grinning through the jealousy Amelia was sure she caught in his eyes. “I’ll be right out, Paul,” Donovan yelled towards the door.
“Come with us,” Amelia begged, as she quickly jumped out of bed to put on her now sordid clothes.
“Never one for a threesome,” he replied. “At least one where I’m not in the minority.”
The pillow she threw at him hit him square in the face. He toppled her to the bed as she was trying to hook her bra. She fell giggling beneath him.
“Let’s pretend we’re not here,” she pleaded.
“Too late. Remember I already told him I was on my way out.”
“Well, then you better get off me, you oaf, and get some clothes on.”
Donovan sighed, taking care to slide his skin across her body as much as he could as he reluctantly removed himself.
Moments later he was opening the bedroom door.
“I’ll distract him, and then you can come in from the bathroom or something, if you’d rather not have him know.”
Amelia was grateful for his understanding. She’d explain to him later how she needed to tell Paul in a more graceful way.
“That would be great,�
� she agreed.
Minutes later she was greeting Paul in the kitchen, from his easy show of teeth apparently oblivious to the situation.
“What’s the plan, Stan?” Paul asked her still leaning against the table.
She matched his lean with her own against the doorway.
“Don’t know, Flo,” she countered.
“How about some burgers and some pool at the casino?”
“Sounds great.”
“What about you, Donovan. Up for some pool?” Paul offered.
“I’ll pass this time, man. This young lady distracted me from some things I should have done today. You guys have fun. Maybe I’ll catch up with you all later.”
“We’ll be there awhile,” Paul responded. “You know us!”
As Paul and Amelia headed out the door, Donovan called after them, “Hey, Paul. Tell Darian I’m expecting to see some of that artwork he promised me tomorrow. He’s also got a grant proposal he’s supposed to show me.”
“Tell him yourself when you see him later, man. Darian don’t listen to me!”
Amelia waved back at Donovan, hoping he caught every nuance of her wave and smile. She already missed him as she turned away to follow Paul down the street.
Chapter 32
Over greasy burgers and onion rings, Amelia was drawn up once again in Paul’s fraternity. Nearly all the gang was there, two of them with their girlfriends. Amelia seemed to meet hostility from one of them, but the other, Laura, was every bit as warm and gregarious as the fraternity itself.
“I saw you fall at the powwow,” Laura said, lightly fingering the bandage on Amelia’s temple. “How are you feeling?”
“Really great, actually. The doctor gave me enough painkillers for a week, but I only used them two days. I think Donovan’s uncle worked some magic on me because I haven’t had a headache since.”
“Donovan’s uncle?” the other young lady piped in. “You mean Martin Real Bird. We call him Martin Real Bird around here, not Donovan’s uncle. Donovan’s not even from around here, really.”
