This is not a good idea, he thought as he piloted the Cadillac off Highway 90 and past the last real town not on the rez. He looked over to Anna, curled up in the passenger seat of her car—hers, not theirs—although she let him drive it. Her brown eyes were wide with a child-like excitement.
This is not a good idea.
“I’ve always wanted to see where you grew up, Jonathan.” Her words came out in that languid fashion that he thought was the most cultured way of talking that existed. He’d tried so hard to copy her southwestern accent, to erase the clipped vowels that marked him as an outsider. But he hadn’t been able to do it. He still sounded like an Indian. “To think....” her words trailed off as her eyes got all shiny, “...I’ll finally get to meet your family. They must be so proud of you.”
This is not a good idea. He swallowed and tried to work his practiced smile. “Yeah. Proud.” Proud that he hadn’t been home to see any of them in six years. Proud that he’d only called on Albert’s birthday, and even then, he’d kept it short. Proud that he’d tried not to be one of them, one of those Indians. “Very proud.”
He couldn’t even convince himself. This is a disaster in the making.
As he hit the first of many gravel roads, he snuck another look at his wife, the love of his life. She loved him. She told him so every morning when she left to work at the gallery and every night when she slipped between the sheets and he slipped between her legs. She was beautiful, delicate and refined. And she adored him. They were very happy together.
It wasn’t too late. He could turn the car around and take her to a hotel and have one more night when she thought he was the most perfect man who ever existed.
But he knew that was delaying the inevitable. And the inevitable was her meeting his family. To see where he grew up. To find out what he’d been before he left South Dakota.
This is not a good idea.
“I can’t wait to meet your brother,” she gushed, brushing the short hair out of his eyes for him. “I promised Cynthia I’d bring her back a picture. She’s got such a crush on you, you know.”
He knew. Anna was never shy about letting him—anyone—know that other women wanted what she had. Especially her older sister, Cynthia. Clearly, Anna was already planning the next wedding. “Jesse and I don’t look that much alike.” Shit. His accent was already getting harder to understand. Must be something in the air.
“Come on,” she scoffed, digging around in her purse. “You’re a Native American, he’s a Native American. I brought a picture of Cynthia, just in case.” And she thrust the snapshot of his sister-in-law in a bikini before his eyes.
You all look alike to me. That’s what she really meant, like using the P.C. Native American somehow balanced out the subconscious racism. They were all alike.
This was the worst idea he’d ever had. But he had to go home. He couldn’t breathe anymore in New Mexico, couldn’t think, couldn’t even create anymore. He had to come home. He just had to.
And Anna had insisted that she come with him.
She kept chatting about anything and everything—how excited she was to meet the rest of his family, how beautiful the sky was here, how tired she was of sitting in this car after three days on the road. But by the time they passed a small cluster of government-provided trailers, the Quik-E Mart with two drunks trying to brawl in the parking lot and the clinic where Albert had gotten a job to help cover the college bills, her silence was louder than the wheels crushing dirt.
This is about to get ugly.
They turned down the last road. Albert’s house—which was being generous—stood at the end, looking like it was being propped up by toothpicks. “You grew up...here?” She sort of squeaked out the last word, like he’d taken a pair of needle-nosed pliers and made straight for her fingernails.
He cringed. The end. The thought popped unbidden into his head. The end. “Yes.” He made damn sure he pronounced it right too.
He wanted to reassure her that this wasn’t who he really was. He wasn’t the kind of person who lived here, who even knew people who lived here. But that wasn’t the truth. And he couldn’t bear to live another lie.
Oscar was outside, standing in front of a barrel and feeding in trash. And for every piece he fed to the fire, he took a swig out of a bottle in a paper bag. When the Cadillac came to a halt, Oscar shook his head, like he couldn’t believe his eyes. The front door banged open, and Albert came out, his arms full of old paper. He didn’t have on a shirt, and his pants were held up with a length of twine.