I don’t know why I stopped that late spring night. Since then, I’ve sometimes wished that I had accelerated a bit, like several others did. Maybe there’s something about having been given your life back by someone else that makes it a debt you have to re-pay. I don’t know. Late at night, I think about these things. Grandmother says it’s a teaching on my earth journey. One I could’ve done without, in my opinion.
It was the edge of dark and a light mist had started the hour before. It hadn’t rained for a while, so the roads were slick as slug slime. The accident occurred where Route 405 North splits. Two lanes go toward Monroe/Woodinville and two lanes go toward Seattle. A horrible screech shattered the night. Metal slammed into metal. Metal ground against immovable concrete barriers. I hit the brakes while I did a quick rearview mirror check to assure myself that I wasn’t about to become part of this deadly marriage of vehicles.
A nanosecond convinced me I was safe. I whipped my truck up tight against the barrier and slammed it into park. Brakes screamed. Horns blared. Headlights dodged across lanes in a macabre dance of near-death. I raced back the way I’d come.
Black, oily smoke roiled from under the semi. The growing stench of rubber and grease choked me. The semi-truck’s front end had torn through the back end of the passenger van. As I reached the crumpled mass, flames woofed out of under the twisted metal.
The semi-truck’s driver fell out of his cab then staggered to his feet. I grabbed his arm and shoved him toward my truck. With him stumbling out of danger, I yanked on the driver’s door of the van. Locked! The driver slumped over the wheel.
Adrenaline lent speed to my feet as I ran back to my truck and snagged a tire iron. Flames swayed like demon snakes above the van’s rear by the time I hammered a hole big enough to shove my hand through the jagged glass. Black smoke billowed in a column that backlit the flames. Air burning my throat, I wrestled the door open. A quick scan of what I could see of the van’s back end convinced me that the driver was the sole occupant. I pressed and pulled but the seatbelt had jammed. Cursing, I flicked open my pocket knife and hacked at the touch fiber. At last, it popped apart.
Grams tells me I’m built like a warrior. That’s a nice way of saying I have broad shoulders, heavy bones and, instead of curves, I have muscles. When I yanked this guy from under the steering wheel, he nearly took me to the ground. He topped out above my five-foot-eight by several inches and outweighed my hundred-fifty pounds by at least another forty. Desperation lent me strength. I wrapped my arms around his upper body and dragged as fast as I could stumble backwards.
I’d always thought it was Hollywood hype on the movies when folks threw themselves on top of other folks to protect them from explosions. Maybe it’s instinct. Flying glass and small shards of metal shredded the back of my heavy leather jacket. Finally, I stood up. The wail of sirens tore the drizzling curtain of rain.
After giving my statement to the police, I wiped my face on a towel from the toolbox in back and cautiously pulled away from the nightmare. When my hands stopped shaking, I phoned Grandmother. “Hey, Grams, I’m gonna be late for dinner. Tell you why when I get there.”
A couple of weeks later, I crossed the sidewalk in front of my apartment building and confronted the man I’d saved. He stood up from the apartment building’s doorstep.
People who know me don’t put me and roses in the same thought. I eyed the bouquet of reds ones in his hands like they were a bunch of snakes.
“I’m Reverend John Russell. I wanted to personally thank you for your bravery, Sister. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Involuntarily, I backed up a step. The last time anyone had put ‘Sister’ and ‘Lord’ in the same sentence I’d lost my home and my mother. Over the years, though, Grams worked hard to teach me to hold my temper and my tongue. I swallowed the flash of anger before I spoke. “Your thanks is acknowledged.”
“I brought these for you.” He stretched his hand with the roses towards me.
I pulled back and reined in the impulse to snap at this white man. “I’m an Indian. I find beauty in the flowers Creator put here in my land. I don’t have any use for dead, imported, hothouse plants.”
“Oh.” He shuffled his feet. The hand with the flowers wilted down to his side. “I came to invite you to All Souls Gather this Sunday. It’s my church. My sermon will be about bravery and what God tells us about it in the Bible.”
“No…” I hurriedly tacked on, “Thank you.”
“My congregation would welcome you. We’re an open door church; a place for people of all races to gather together to worship Him.”
I lifted my eyes from the floor and locked onto his. They were the deep blue of the sky after a cleansing rain. Eye contact is something I mostly avoided, much to my white mother’s dismay. I could still hear her scolding, “Look up here. I wanna to see your eyes when you’re talkin’ to me! You gotta look people in the eyes or they gonna think you lyin’ to them. You not lyin’ to me, are you?”
Grams explained it to me. Living close together in villages and longhouses, our people didn’t use their eyes to invade another’s privacy. Maybe it’s a trait handed on genetically, or maybe it’s one of the things Dad taught me before he split when I was five. “No. Thanks for coming, but I have things to do. Have a good day.” I started to close the door.
His foot shot out, blocking it. “Please. You saved my life. Let me say thank you with more than just words. Let me take you to dinner, anywhere you say; anytime you say?”
I glared at him. My mouth opened to put a bit of fire to his tail, but Grams voice filled my head. ‘The giving of a gift heals the giver as well as the one who receives it. Do not deny that healing to those who need it.’
Slowly, I let the door swing back open. “Okay. Charlie’s in Ballard. This Friday. I’ll meet you there at six.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ll meet you there, Reverend Russell.”
His smile could’ve been used for a tooth paste commercial. “Okay. Friday at six. And please, call me Jack.”
****
People tell me I’d make a wonderful counselor because I listen. Grandmother says it comes from being part of a people who carry their culture through the oral tradition. Maybe it comes from growing up as an outsider.
At any rate, Jack’s deep musical voice and strong laugh overcame my normal suspicious nature. His humor reminded me of our medicine man, Peacefinder. A gentle, quiet humor that brought chuckles and smiles and, occasionally, a belly laugh.
After dinner we strolled along the docks. Pride shone in Jack’s sky-blue eyes as he spoke of how his congregation welcomed those different from themselves. A small voice in the back of my mind whispered, “What would you think if you knew who I really am?” With a shake of my head, I dislodged my urge to rattle his cage.
Grams often reminded me that ‘warriors choose their fights. They don’t waste energy on hopeless causes and needless battles.’ One night encounters definitely fell into the ‘needless battles’ category. Duty done, relief filled me when we said good-night and got into our own vehicles. He’d been interesting to listen to; yet, somehow Jack made my soul weary from all of the words I would never speak to one such as him.
Two days after our dinner, Jack phoned. I’d done what was required of me, so I let the call go to voice mail. Surely that would discourage his attempts to interact with me. The next day, he phoned three times; each one going to voice mail. The day after that, calls from Jack jammed my voice mail box. Each call sounded more like a thwarted lover than someone I barely knew. Instead of letting my anger respond, I persisted in holding my silence. Grams said that among our people silence was the strongest sign of disapproval of another person’s actions or words.
I’m one of those weird caught-between-worlds people. Dad was a half-breed. I’m a quarter. My heart is Indian, but my outsides look as white as my next door neighbor’s. I’ve never fit into the white world, but the reservation doesn’t want me either. My white mother disowned me. Dad died of exposure, drunk in December, down on First Avenue a long time ago. Consequently, my family consists of Grams and her nephew Peacefinder- -our medicine man. As for friends, I have only two. Grams says I’m wealthy, for a person with one friend is rich.
The second week after dinner with Jack—or ADJ as I called it– as I crossed the sidewalk outside of my apartment building I spotted Jack seated on the top step. Sighing, I stopped one step below where he sat. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you understand that I haven’t called you because I don’t want to be part of your life?”
With a sickly smile, he stood up and held the bag up. “I brought Thai food. I know you work all day, so I thought it’d be nice to have a hot meal you don’t have to prepare.”
I huffed in exasperation, but before I could speak, he hurried on.
“Look, I’m really sorry if it felt like I was being pushy. I…I just want to get to know you better, Jess. What’s wrong with that?”
“Spending time together, getting to know another person, that’s called a relationship, Jack. I’m not interested in a relationship with you.”
“I…I’m not talking about a…a relationship, Jess. Just maybe getting to know you; maybe getting to be friends.”
A frown twisted my brows as I stared at him. “A friendship is one of the most valuable of all relationships. I think you need to go home.” I turned and rushed through the lobby. At the top of the first flight of stairs, I glanced down. Jack stood just inside the door of the lobby, staring up at me. I spun and hurried up the next three flights of stairs to my apartment. All night I kept expecting him to pound on my door. When I slept, I was chased by a white man waving a Bible at me. I ran and ran, but couldn’t lose him.
Two evenings later, Jack sat in front of my apartment door when I returned home from work. How he figured out my apartment is beyond me. No roster downstairs featured my name. Hands propped on my hips, I confronted him. “What are you doing here?”
He shoved up the wall until he towered over me. Eyes red-rimmed, he said, “I had to see you, Jess. God brought you into my life for a reason.”
“You need to move away from my door.”
Before I realized what he had in mind, he lunged toward me. Big hands tightly grasped my shoulders as his lips crashed against mine. He swung me around, pressing me hard against the hallway wall. Hands planted against his chest, I shoved. He barely moved. His tongue roughly shoving against my tightly closed mouth. I jerked my knee up.
His hands abruptly released me as he staggered back. Bent over, hands clutching himself, he stared up at me with a hurt look. “Why…?”
“Don’t ever lay your hands on me again; and, don’t ever come around me. Do you understand?” I didn’t wait for his acknowledgement before I slipped into my apartment and slammed the door.
When I got home the next evening, I found a love letter shoved under my door. It rambled on about how ‘God had called me to his side in his moment of deepest need.’ Apparently, Grams advice about silence had to be modified for stubborn white men. I mailed the shredded letter back to Jack.
The teddy bear arrived next. I guess, Jack figured I couldn’t tear up a two-foot tall, stuffed animal with a red velvet heart. The black felt letters across the heart said, “I Miss U”. The green dumpster against the building wall on the far side of the alley made a great target. I scored a basket with a flying bear.
The third week ADJ, Jack began guarding my front door. After creeping up my fire escape three nights in a row, I climbed through the window, stormed to the door and swung it open. “Come on in, Jack.” Without waiting to see what he did, I stomped into the kitchen and slammed on a pot of coffee.
As he stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, he said, “How’d you get up here?”
“There are ways. Have a seat.” Neither of us spoke again until I poured two cups of coffee and took the chair across the table from him.
“I care about you, Jessica.” Jack declared after the first sip of coffee. “Unless there’s someone else… Is there someone else?”
“No, there isn’t anyone else.” I stirred my coffee, though I drank it black. “You need to let go of this…whatever it is.” I waved a hand between him and me. “I am not who or what you think I am. You need to be thankful for your life and go live it. Just leave me alone, Jack.”
Jack leaned as far forward as the table edge allowed. His big-knuckled hands wrapped around the sturdy ceramic cup. “You say you aren’t who I believe you are. I don’t need you to tell me who you are, Jess. God has already told me. But, let’s say I really don’t know who you are; that I’m wrong. Tell me, Jess, who you are so I can let go.”
Rage flared across my vision, turning it red. I wanted to snap out, hurt this clueless white man as I had once been hurt. “You really want to know who I am? Where I’ve been; what I’ve done?”
Hope danced across his face as he leaned back in his chair. “Yes. I do. I will never believe that you aren’t meant for me; that God has not ordained our relationship unless you convince me that I am wrong.”
In a low sharp voice, I began, “After Dad left, Mom got religion. She dragged me to church twice on Sunday and again every Wednesday for Bible study and every Friday for church socials. The kids in Sunday school laughed and whispered that I was a ‘dirty injun’ and my dad was a ‘stinkin’ drunk injun’.” The hard knot that Grams and Peacefinder had untied from around my guts began tightening its noose again. I drew a deep breath, and told myself that I recited history; nothing more than part of our people’s history. A teaching for the future.
I stopped fighting the ghosts of past pain and let the story carry me back. Back to where the maple struggled to pry apart the littered concrete sidewalk; back to where scabs of greasy exhaust painted the warped wood siding of the house we rented a sick grey. Back to where cardboard stood guard against the cold that seeped through the cracked glass window of my bedroom.
When I spoke again, it was as if I spoke of someone else. “By the time I turned fifteen some of the kids had a new name for me–queer. By then, I’d become a loner, so I didn’t care what they said. Maybe I was naive. Maybe I was like so many kids that age–I couldn’t believe anything really bad would ever happen to me.”
My body sat in my canary yellow kitchen, while my spirit hovered above that shadowed alley and my voice reported the outrage. Hopelessness filled the young girl’s eyes as the three boys held her down. Sharp gravel cut into her thin shoulders. “I couldn’t tell my mother. Not until a month later when I realized I was pregnant. She slapped me. Called me a slut.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Your mother was wrong….” Jack rose partway to his feet.
I held up my hand and cut off his flow of words; waved him back to his seat. “Mom said I must’ve ‘asked for it’ and then she hauled me off to see Reverend Michael J. Richter. He drew an analogy between my standoffishness and the fruit of the forbidden tree. Said I’d seduced those boys by my actions as surely as Eve had seduced Adam by hers.”
I took a long drink of my cool coffee. Ran a hand over my face. “I stood up. In a low voice more terrible than shouting, I told them I couldn’t have asked for it; I didn’t like boys. I was queer.” With my consciousness in the past, I failed to notice Jack’s reaction.
“Mom’s face turned white then red. Her lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless slash. Richter’s face was every bit as red as Mom’s. The first words out of his mouth were ‘God can turn you from your sick perversions.’ I told him I didn’t want to be straight.
“Mom strode over and slapped my face so hard my ears rang. She said, ‘You’re disgusting. You’re no daughter of mine.’ Those were her exact words.” Finally, I turned my eyes back to the present. The color had drained from Jack’s face.
Watching his eyes now, I continued, “That evening when I tried to get in the house, I found the doors bolted. I could hear Mom moving around inside but she never answered, even when I yelled myself hoarse. Two days later I caught her gone long enough to bust a downstairs window. I took the money from her dresser; took some clothes, a sleeping bag, and some food. I never looked back.
“I lied about my age and no one at the Martha Hallinger Clinic pressed me for proof. The abortion wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. Maybe I had a really understanding doctor and nurse.
“Almost a year later, I woke up half drunk from a two-day alcohol and crack run and found Grams—my dad’s mom–stirring a pan of scrambled eggs over my campfire. After she introduced herself, she didn’t say another word until we’d eaten. She told me to pack up while she cleaned up and put out the fire.” I shook my head, smiled at the images that played across my mind. “Grams was seventy back then. A little bit of an Indian woman high steppin’ it along that dirt path up the hill next to the freeway where I’d been camped.
“Sure that she’d hate me when she found out I was queer, I wanted to get it over with right off. Once we topped the hill, I blurted it out. My grandmother’s wrinkled brown hand cupped my chin as she forced me to look up at her. ‘Granddaughter, two-spirit people have always been a part of Creation. They, and you, are blessed with special gifts for the world.’” I blinked when the sound of Jack’s chair scraped against the linoleum.
Eyes blazing, he stared down at me. “You’re telling me that you are a homosexual?”
I stood up to face him. “Yes. Now do you understand?”
Denial ran across his face as one hand reached toward me. “God can help you. What you proclaim yourself to be, it’s wrong. It’s a sin against the Almighty God. Look…”
He leaned toward me, as if closer proximity would get his message across. “It isn’t your fault. Raised without a father; the way those boys treated you, it is no wonder that this sickness has come upon you. The Bible tells us that love can conquer all adversity. I love you, Jessica. Let me help you heal.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I was born this way. My Creator sees nothing wrong with me.”
He stretched his hands toward me. “I told you that God brought you into my life for a reason. You saved my mortal life, Jess; now, please, let me help save your immortal soul.”
I set my coffee cup on the table and shoved a wayward strand of long dark hair behind one ear. “Reverend, you can’t change me. I don’t want your god. I have my own. I don’t want your way of life. I have my own.” Pity lay heavy on my heart. “I have wounds, but being a lesbian isn’t one of them. I’d like you to leave. Don’t write, don’t phone, and don’t come back.”
I didn’t expect to see Jack after that night. I should have known better. Grams told me that important events always occur in fours.
The night Jack returned weeks later eerily echoed the night I’d pulled him from the fiery wreck. Rain drizzled from a black sky. When I answered the knock on my door, I barely recognized the gaunt man before me. His hair, usually combed, stuck up in several directions. A straggly beard clung to his pasty skin. His eyes had sunk in dark hollows. “Jessica, I have come to let you know that I understand who you are.”
Instinctively, I grasped the door ready to close it. The muscles in my back tightened. My stomach knotted like it did the day those boys attacked me. Still, I stood mesmerized by this shadow of a man I had known. In spite of his ravaged body, his voice held me spellbound.
“I was wrong. God had called me home that fateful night. Satan sent you to pull me from that fiery wreck, so you could steal my eternal soul.”
Suddenly, the weariness left his voice. It rang out in the narrow hallway as if he preached from a great cathedral’s pulpit. “You cannot hold me here any longer! You are Jezebel of whom the Bible speaks.” One thin finger pointed, trembling, at me, “You were sent to twist man’s heart to do Satan’s bidding. I will not allow it! In God’s Book of Life I am dead! I will join my God! You cannot stop me!”
It happened so quickly, I was frozen in place. The report of the gun echoed in my dreams for months. The bright red of Jack’s blood flowed before my eyes at the oddest times. It happened once when I was driving on Interstate 5. I had to pull over until the red haze cleared from my vision. That’s when Grams took me to Peacefinder.
When it came right down to it, our people came through for me. Several of them I didn’t even know stayed for the entire week of healing that I required. Even so, there are still nights when I awaken with the thunder of a gunshot echoing in my mind. Sweaty, heart racing, always I jerk awake, forever reaching….reaching out…never able to stop that which could not be stopped.