John Smith
It was ten minutes to midnight, two days after a package bomb had left him homeless. His blown-out apartment entryway gaped open, part of the living room and kitchen destroyed with the doorway completely obliterated. Police tape blocked the doorway.
John's possessions were in storage. Neighbors had been curious, frightened. Mostly keeping to themselves, some declaring that this was the last straw; they were moving. John couldn't really blame them: exploding front doors were not usually part of apartment living.
Two days later. Ten minutes to midnight. John Smith sat huddled with other law enforcement officials at the mahogany table in the mayor's office. The governor of Illinois had sent representatives from his own office.
The table was full of law enforcement officials: FBI; ACT, SWAT, State Patrol, some of John's old colleagues from the Chicago Police Department. John had two of his former Police Department colleagues to his right; Max Machetti, the commander of the A.C.T. task force that John currently liaised with, sat on his right.
"I'm beginning to see the point behind the bomb," John had told Max, "it was to keep me off the street and trapped at my desk filling out reports for the next ten years."
John hadn't slept at all, having no place to go but his car. Every agent in that room was a mess. It looked as though few had slept well, judging by the yawns and the back-cracking and the heads slumped in hands.
"I really think you should just consider it," one of John's old police department colleagues was murmuring to Max Machetti, "the police department really needs your expert opinion." As he spoke, Brad Stevens tried to hide his exhaustion in front of the A.C.T. commander, "Please, man. We're sleeping in empty holding cells because we're afraid to go home."
John chimed in with a tired grin: "Is it your back you care about, Brad, or is it the fact that you want my help so Chicago PD doesn't get slapped with more police brutality accusations?" John said dryly, "what's the matter, you scared of them?"
"I'm not scared of the damned Reds," Brad insisted, "I'm scared of police powers being stripped because of the latest violence, of more visible and powerful protests. State governments are all talking about how to best address this enemy. Here in Chicago we have a huge urbanized Native population. I don't know how we're going to handle this. John, we could really use you."
John looked at his commander. "What do you say, Max? Should I go back to PD for a while?"
"I am not loaning out my Army Counter Terrorists liaison officer back to his old police squad. And I've already offered my opinion. There is no need for me to go on television and restate that," Max Machetti said firmly. "It will stoke fear and anger."
"Actually, Brad's idea's not too bad. The FBI needs to work more closely with the Chicago Police Department right now, anyway. Sure, EarthOutfitters is FBI jurisdiction, but maybe we need to work more closely on the street level. Working together, law enforcement could diffuse tension with the Natives, maybe. It might open room for dialogue," John said calmly.
It was like Brad, his old partner and now a Sergeant, had been reading his mind and picking up on his private thoughts. John was then aware that everyone around that table was suddenly laser-focused on him. Everyone, including Anderson, who had checked out early from the hospital and looked like the walking dead. "Whoa, partner," Anderson said, "Dialogue? With the Reds?"
"Aren't you all exhausted?" John pleaded, "Aren't you tired of the fighting and the bloodshed?"
The room erupted: shouts, pointed fingers, whistling to try and bring it all down again, and finally murmuring. And dirty looks at John Smith.
"We just had dozens of federal agents across the country injured, killed, or unaccounted for," the Mayor said as he rose from his chair, "and I know we are all tired," with a glare at John, "but the City of Chicago will utilize its lawmakers, politicians, police, and law enforcement to the fullest extent and extreme in order to keep its citizens safe."
A pin could drop in the room and be heard. The only thing on John's mind was Jeanie Leclair. She had been in his waking, in his attempted sleeping, in his nightmares. Oh, God. If only he could get her out of his mind. He should have let things alone with her.
He should have let things alone. Because the room had collapsed into uproar. The country itself seemed to be collapsing. infusions of money and manpower, and a lot of talking heads and rhetoric. Feds had discretionary use in this "war against the thieving, deceitful, ungrateful, greedy, warlike race of savages." State and local governments were looking to the Feds for guidance and crafting individualized rules. In Chicago this meant that any Native caught without papers would be subject to immediate detention; expulsions from public universities would continue; there was a midnight curfew for all urban Natives; there would come more stringent weapons laws, to be sure; and protesters would be met with lethal force. Illinois had no Indian reservations within its borders, but the state got plenty of trouble from Indians menacing the borders between Wisconsin, Michigan, Indiana, and Iowa.
The news played on a small black-and-white TV in the room; the sound was on mute, but they'd all heard it all before: the propagandizing rhetoric that pitted one group against the other, that played to emotions and basic fears, that demonized projected boogeymen.
The Mayor of Chicago called the meeting to order.
McKenna sounded exhausted on speaker phone, on painkillers for that broken leg. She couldn't recall anything, no, she was saying: nothing unusual. She had opened the door to get the paper. If she hadn't run to stop her energetic toddler from opening the cat flap, he would have probably been killed along with Gruffles, the family cat; McKenna's husband had scraped together enough pieces of Gruffles for them to have a funeral for the cat in the backyard.
Anderson looked like hell. He'd opened his door and had enough sense of self preservation to put his arms up to shield his face as the glass inset had shattered. Slumped in a chair and sluggish on pain pills, Anderson made not one single off-color remark about the dead cat.
McKenna's memory was fuzzy, but she hadn't seen anyone dropping off a package or anything. Whoever put the explosive maybe had done it before morning. She'd seen Gruffles go through the cat door, hurried to stop her toddler from following.
No one talked about Robinson. His injuries were the gravest. It appeared he might not make it although Max was saying he would, and with a nice pension. Robbie had stepped straight down on the blasting cap and instantly lost a leg.
The Mayor cleared his throat and nervously tapped a pen against the table. "Dozens of federal agency injuries and fatalities across the nation from this coordinated attack," he said grimly, "five here in Chicago, fifteen across the eastern seaboard, handfuls in small towns in Oklahoma and the Northwest, others unreported. Big targets in the Northeast and the Midwest where the mineral rights are deep and profitable and the Indians controlling them are unified, strong, and pissed off."
The attacks on federal agents had gone as deep and wide as the country spanned, and had even sparked massive momentum in Canada. Some of it was retaliation by the Natives for firebombed churches, schools, property, and homes.
Not all of this could possibly be about mineral rights, lumber, or water. John didn't believe that for a second and he was sure others shared his opinion. Rage? Bloodlust? Evil? He wasn't religious.
There was a silence until the Mayor spoke. "The governor and I need to know what all state and federal agencies are going to do about it. In Chicago here, we have the Indian Center on Ainslie Road: we need to look into it further. We have a large population of urbanized Indians. My life and the lives of our state representatives could be in danger." The Mayor sat back, tired. "One of your senators has something to say," he finished wearily.
Senator Dashiell Gilliam glared at John, who didn't flinch. "My young daughter was caught up in this tragedy two days ago," Senator Gilliam said, still staring at John and then slowly dragging his gaze across those assembled. "We live in the same apartment building as John Smith. My daughter likes his dog, and I said something to upset her that morning. She went to play with the dog."
There was a pause.
"We were fine. The door was blown off and the damage was actually pretty extensive. But we were okay. The dog, too." John let out a breath, exhausted.
"We have to say what this really is: I think this is a declared war now. Alliance Warriors Society isn't holding back," Anderson said.
"We don't know that Alliance Warriors Society did this," John Smith put in hurriedly. "We need to keep level heads." It was his thoughts about Jeanie that were turning him into this talk-first-shoot-later kind of person. She was bewitching him, needling at the growing sense of disillusionment he'd been harboring.
John was bone-weary and exhausted, throat scratchy and dry.
Commander Max Machetti spoke up. "Captain Smith is right. No law enforcement agency has figured out who is behind any of this." He gave the captain a small smile. The commander was never shy to bring up John's rank in the task force, although John was easily embarrassed and preferred telling people to call him Agent.
"This is the calm before the storm, folks. We don't know what the future holds. We don't know how anyone will react. There's talk about some kind of vigil or something at the EarthOutfitters storefront. Let's monitor it."
There was some mumbling and whispering, general grumbling. Someone tapped John's shoulder. It was an old friend, William Davis. He was head of the Illinois State Patrol now. The two of them had once been rookies on Chicago PD together. "It's a mess on State Patrol. I know you hate this." William whispered, "the bloodshed. The mess. You thought about joining state patrol once. Did you ever think anything like this could happen?"
"Yeah, my option was State Patrol in rural Vermont, Will," John murmured, using his friend's nickname, "and it looked boring as shit."
Will sighed. "State patrols nationwide are having a lot of trouble up on Res lands. Over the border in Wisconsin two of our patrolmen were killed when things with bad with a confidential informant; maybe we missed an ambush or something."
John tried to hide his utter exhaustion and knew he was failing. "Does State Patrol think those deaths are retaliation for the explosion at the reservation's lumber yard? Are they sure it was murder?"
"They were decapitated, signs of torture: hell yes, it was murder."
John winced. "Christ."
"This whole thing is out of control," the other man said, knowing that John didn't even need to reply: the two friends knew they each felt the same way about it. "There was also those two boys, who tried to rob some Native men as they were leaving a bar. They were beaten so badly they'll probably be vegetables."
John watched William Davis huff a sigh and smooth absently at his tie. Will was too much of a public relations man to ever carry an assault rifle into a bombed out store. State patrol was fine for him: directing the governor's protection detail, coordinating state troopers for tasks both mundane and dangerous across the state at any given moment.
John looked down at his hands. Fair-skinned, roughened hands accustomed to sifting through carnage, to tackling suspects. He remembered Jeanie Leclair and then wondered how he could ever touch her.
John tried to recall their first meeting: how it had been, not how he wished it had been. Maddie had remarked that Jeanie was like a daughter to her and Jeb, implying that she was innocent of the world, of the evils of war. Perhaps also of carnality. John felt confusion and shame for thinking of her that way, at a time like this, in a setting like this. But their encounter kept searing his mind, teasing him with possibilities.
Someone else broke John's reverie. It was Senator Gilliam. "I just want to thank you, son, for being so quick on your feet. You no doubt saved my daughter. And you came out without a scratch. Well done." The senator was not one for expressiveness.
"Of course, senator." John said with a nod of acknowledgment. "But I think I mostly owe my dog my gratitude," John said, managing a chuckle. God, he was so tired. "Got no place to live now, but ..." John shrugged with an easy casualness he didn't truly feel. "I'll figure it out."
Senator Gilliam had a faraway look in his eye. "Ginger. ... She ran off that morning because she was upset."
"Yeah, something about you telling her men like me were dangerous. That she couldn't come over to play with the dog anymore." John didn't bother keeping anger out of his voice.
"I just meant ..." The senator looked years older then, tired and weak. His expression was helpless. "I just meant that your work, liaising between the FBI and the Army Counter-Terrorists, is too intense. I'm not sure I want my daughter around someone who coordinates with SWAT teams and runs raids."
"You would be no happier if I resigned and went to work for Chicago PD or the State Patrol. What you're saying without saying, Senator, is that anyone who engages the enemy is your enemy in some way. That they'll harm the world you've built for yourself."
"Look around, senator," another FBI agent said, "I hate to break it to you, but the entire Bureau is designed to take out threats. If you're trying to protect your daughter from reality I'm afraid its late. This war between Natives and Whites is long past time to be declared. If we intern all the Natives on reservations and don't let 'em off, maybe the war will end."
John cut in angrily. "So, Agent Reed, you're saying we make this a war of attrition? Starve them to death and hope they surrender?"
"That's Supervisory Special Agent Reed to you, Captain Smith," Martin Reed said with shortness in his tone. "And yes. Relative peace followed the crushed resistance at Wounded Knee in 1890."
John shifted uncomfortably. "It's 1994. Internment was outlawed after the Second World War."
"I don't see why this is so hard for you, Captain Smith. It's an easy solution and one we can implement with both urban and reservation populations. They already carry extra cards. Easy."
More arguments broke out. The meeting dragged on. John began to tune it out, aching for sleep in a soft, warm bed. The wooden chair pressed uncomfortably. An old scar felt hot and itchy and he shifted in the chair like a child, miserable. He must have fallen asleep because he was being shaken awake. Bleary, John struggled from the chair.
Senator Gilliam was offering to put him up in the Talbott, a luxury hotel. It was a thank-you for saving his daughter. John looked at the time: well on 2 a.m. He allowed himself a quiet moment of despair: he was so tired that he felt like he might break into a thousand pieces.
A few weeks later...
John stood at the diner counter, chatting with Maddie. 11 p.m., an hour before closing. He ought to go home, he thought, but that was in flux. Using his enforced vacation time, he had spent time looking for a house. The next time anyone tried to take him out, he'd be alone; he refused to put neighbors in an apartment in danger again.
He'd found the perfect place: the old cabin just over an hour out from the city, in the Black Lake development. He had bought that cabin, on Black Lake, with his ex-girlfriend. But he'd paid using his money, and the title had always been his. His ex-girlfriend had never really been interested in retaining it, even after they'd broken up and he'd offered, from a place of wounded ego, to let her have the cabin. She'd laughed in his face then, said she'd never wanted that cobwebby old hunter's lodging, and picked up her packed bags and left. He'd rented the cabin to hunters and vacationers in all the years since the breakup of that relationship. He was relieved, now, that the cabin just felt empty: he'd been afraid it would contain his ex-girlfriend's ghost, some imprint of her.
But it just felt empty and commercial, like a vacation home. It was solid, comforting. His friendly, energetic Golden Retriever had a yard now and so had finally stopped escaping.
John had spent days dealing with the cabin, arranging for cleaning, and driving his things out of Chicago to Black Lake. The cabin sat waiting to be lived in again. He welcomed the change, because he was more than ready to leave the luxurious Talbott Hotel.
Yes, he needed to get away from this hotel. He needed to get out of Chicago. And, he was bored. A man not used to enforced leisure. It annoyed the hell out of him that A.C.T. had leaned on the Bureau to force him into a three-week vacation based solely on the fact he'd saved some lives. "Good thing you called in and let us know what was going on," Max had told him, "Don't distract me boy. I'm trying to thank you. You saved quite a few of our boys with your warning."
John would rather be at work. Or so he thought. And he would rather be anywhere but here. Or so he thought. One more night in my room at the Talbott, he told himself, and I'll be gone by dawn. So why did he find himself here again, at the diner? He'd avoided coming to Diner 96 for weeks but finally couldn't stand the suspense and needed to breathe away from the Talbott Hotel's luxurious comfort. Jeb Bridger was probably happy with the fact he'd not come in for so long, John thought, remembering the man's scowl.
Maddie seemed to have other ideas, though. And tonight, she put her plotting into action.
"How's our favorite federal agent tonight?" Maddie asked. "Are you hungry? It's a little late for dinner but we could scare up something. By the way, you look like hell."
"I'm not hungry, thanks. And, please don't ask," John said with a wry smile. "I've moved up to the old cabin on Black Lake. Busy with that. Saw some friends in the city tonight and, I dunno, decided to go for a walk later, found myself here."
Maddie's eyes went wide. "That old hunting cabin your ex-girlfriend never liked? I remember Linda hated that place." She chuckled, "Didn't Linda used to say it was haunted?"
"Oh, bull," John drawled, "Linda never did like much of anything I'd do for her. It's just as well we broke up and I have the cabin to myself now. I won't be renting it out anymore."
"But why not stay in the city? Isn't that move a little extreme?"
"Maddie, I'll not have anyone in danger ever again if ..."
"I know," the Native woman put in quickly and soothingly, "I know. ... By the way, Jeanie's here, if you're too shy to ask me, ya know."
John raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" A small storm of feelings was brewing deep within. Feelings he was trying so hard to fight. "Maybe don't let her know I'm here," he said carefully, "she didn't exactly take meeting me well at all." He tamped down the emotional and mental anguish. He remembered Martin Reed calling for a war of attrition on these people. Forget it. Forget him. Forget her, his mind whispered.
"Oh, I won't say a word," Maddie promised, "but I will get you a beer. You look a little pale."
He next glanced up to see Jeanie with the beer and a cold glass. She looked unslept, and all the kohl eyeliner in the world couldn't hide that fact. Her expression was conflicted. She poured the beer slowly, avoiding his gaze for the most part but accidentally meeting it, cheeks reddening then. She looked cold in her gray waitress dress. Chicago weather was capricious and tonight, though it was early May, the nights were frigid and there was even talk of snow soon.
Jeanie finally forced herself to make eye contact. "Here."
"Oh, Maddie is clever," John said, standing close to her left side, leaning in so she could hear, "doesn't want you being rude to me." Jeanie held his gaze with her own, anger flashing somewhere deep in her eyes. Anger, or ... desire? John tried to read the planes of her face.
"If I wanted to be rude, I would intentionally pour hot coffee on you next time you come in," she said calmly, but her voice was nearly a whisper.
"Oh, somehow I don't think you have the nerve," he mused.
"You don't know me," she murmured. She was so quiet, it was almost like dealing with the classroom's chronically shy child. Her voice sounded disused and hoarse.
"Then let me get to know you," he said.
Her eyes went wide and he held himself in check, cursing silently that he could have said something so harshly revealing of his mind.
Time seemed to stop as their fingers accidentally brushed. Her nails were short and practical, unpainted. John quickly gave her an appraising glance: beautiful hands; slender; dark hair, full lips. Jeanie's hair had become tousled during the long workday. The heavy eyeliner and mascara was a little grunge.
Jeanie Leclair wasn't his type. At all. And she was supposed to be his enemy in this war. And she was all wide-eyed innocence. She looked too pure, with something naive about the curve of her mouth. He imagined her closing those eyes as he kissed her ...His mind flashed back to some of those unwelcome dreams. No ... he wrenched himself back to the present.
Her expression, her silence, said everything. "Why should I trust you?" she finally said, so quietly he almost missed it.
She leaned on the counter, tired. John absently slid a fresh stick of mint gum toward her with one hand and reached for the cold beer; she still had her hand on the bottle. "I mean you no harm."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You don't need to lie to me," John said carefully.
Jeanie was impassive, unwrapping the stick of gum John had extended as a kind of peace offering. They stood there quietly, he sipped the beer and she broke off a piece of the gum and put it in her mouth.
Jeanie sighed, and chewed, and thought, into their silence. "Why should I trust you?"
"Maybe because I saved you from Army Counter Terrorists interrogation, for one." He kept his voice nearly as soft as hers, trying to keep their conversation hushed in this crowded diner. Her gaze followed his lips even though he made an effort to stand as close to her as possible without ...
...kiss her ... his mind screamed. But of course, he wouldn't. Not here, now ... not when she still seemed so wounded and afraid.
John was startled to see one of the girls Jeanie had been with the other day, he thought her name might be Mae. Mae was evidently working at the diner, too. She marched up to the two of them, fuming. "Hey, Fed," Mae said with contempt to John. "He's not bothering you, is he?" she asked her friend, with a warning tone.
"Mae ..." Jeanie sighed, "Really, I'm fine. Honest ..." but her friend cut into Jeanie's plea with a glare at both of them.
"You told me the other day that he pulled a gun." Silence, as Jeanie's remaining hearing caught up to it all.
"Oh, my God, Mae, that's not what I said! Ugh, God! "Maybe you're the deaf one. I said he had a gun but took it apart. To show me he ..." Realization and chagrin dawned on Jeanie's face just then. "He doesn't mean any harm. Please, just go." Jeanie's look was pleading. "I'm fine. Honest." Jeanie stepped between him and Mae.
Mae harrumphed and went on her way, and John knew she didn't trust him at all.
"I'm so sorry," Jeanie told him, putting her hands to her face for a moment, looking stunned. "Maybe I misheard her, maybe we misunderstood each other ... I swear, I told her that you had dismantled your pistol, just to show me ... that you weren't going to hurt me. I told her what you had told me, about ... about finding me ..."
"It's alright," John soothed. "Look, I actually told Maddie not to let you know I was here tonight. You didn't exactly take meeting me well. I'm sorry she thought she could pull one over on you. I don't really think it was right."
Jeanie couldn't meet his gaze with her own, then, and was transfixed by the Formica counter. And then she turned away, troubled, withdrawing into herself. Jeanie ignored Maddie, when the large, round Indian woman came to talk to them both.
John decided to wade into things. "Maddie's talking to you," he said, as he put his hands on Jeanie's shoulders. She startled badly and he kept his hands on her shoulders for a moment longer than necessary. "What?" she finally asked Maddie.
"I said I need you for front of house closing. I sent Mae to help with back of house."
"Yes, don't run off and get fired," John quipped dryly to Jeanie, and her mood changed. She'd been upset with Mae and Maddie, but now began to bristle into embarrassed anger.
"There's no need to be rude to me, sir," Jeanie said quietly.
"You did threaten to pour hot coffee on me next time you saw me."
"I merely stated what I might do, were I feeling threatened." Her melodious voice was still not much more than a whisper.
"Oh, I rather think you did threaten me, but you're all talk," he said, but he said it gently and with a smile.
A muscle twitched in her cheek and she fought not to glare at him. While he tried to keep his mind off wanting to kiss her. Her eyes were so dark and lovely. God, what he would give to kiss her right now! She had leaned ever closer, in order to hear him better over the din of noise around them.
Smirking, John leaned in and closed more distance between them. "You would never raise a hand to me," he mused. "You seem much too gentle, Miss Leclair. But by all means, do go ahead, ask me."
"Ask you what?"
"The question you're dying to ask." He smirked, all authority.
After a beat of silence Jeanie made a sharp sound of derision. "I'm not dying to ask you anything, sir." Her smooth, rich Indian Country intonation dipped low on vowels and was clipped on consonants, and it was having an effect on him.
"February twentieth." John threw the elephant in the room between them.
Jeanie snapped. "That's enough." Anger rose just a bit in her voice. To calm her, he stood up then and let his fingers graze the briefest of touches on her shoulder, briefer than the last touch. She drew back, furious. "Get away from me."
The heat of her anger surprised him. "I'm sorry-" he began.
But then Maddie intervened. "Oh, Jeanie, John Smith means no harm. Don't be so ... closed off." She squeezed Jeanie's shoulder reassuringly. "John," she said with a wink at him, "the Indian Center is organizing a stickball match between local law enforcement and the community next month. You should come. You'll be moved into your new place by then and you might enjoy it. You're very athletic," she said with a sly look at the both of them.
"I think it's perfect for the two of you to break the ice," Maddie said emphatically as if it was the only logical explanation in the world even though it was nonsense, "It will be a good time. This city needs to address goodwill between factions or we'll have more violence."
"I heard about the match. The Bureau has some public relations about it going around right now."
Maddie was pleased to hear this from him. She looked smug, like she'd created some brilliant matchmaking.
Maddie wasn't finished yet. "Oh, that's wonderful!" she gushed to him. "Jeanie, hon, don't look so stricken. You've played plenty of stickball in your life. I know the game won't solve hunger or violence, but it's a step in the right direction, love." Maddie patted the shoulder of the stunned young woman.
Jeanie just looked quiet and stunned. With another smirk, John leaned closer to her. "Sounds like a great time. What about you, Jean, are you ... very athletic?" It would be killing her to have him say he would be there. Why did he find the whole thing satisfying, terrifying, and nerve-wracking at the same time?
He felt a frisson of shudder from her and her breath catch, but then she recovered herself.
Maddie spoke again. "I think the cat has her tongue. Lacrosse and stickball used to be played before engaging in battle, or as an alternative to war. Losers of the match had to accept the already-agreed-upon terms." "Jeanie," she reassured the young woman, "John means no harm. He's a friend of mine and Jeb's."
"Oh, Jeanie told her friend, the one who works here, that I don't bite."
And then Maddie was gone. The two of them were alone again ... well, as alone as they could be in the small diner. Jeanie took two steps back from him, her eyes wide, trying to process what the hell had just happened.
"Hmm, stickball sounds exciting. Why don't you and I create some terms, then, Jeanie" he bantered, "seeing as we're on opposite sides."
Another beat of silence. Patience. When his words caught up with her remaining hearing they caused further upset.
"Never."
Infuriated by the building sexual tension and the mutual attraction and chemistry, livid at being put on the spot like that and enraged at how easily he devoured her heart, Jeanie told John to go to hell. Oh, indeed, she told him to go to hell. And he laughed, then. That was her opening salvo? She was so attracted to him that she would rather sabotage it than act on it.
"If this is how you two flirt, I can't imagine what it's like when you two actually fight. I don't get it, is the fear the turn-on for you, sweetheart? Explain it to me while you give me back the wallet you stole," a man drawled near them.
John could handle a drunken jackass tonight, but he wondered if Jeanie could.
Jeanie
Reservation teachers from over the state borders, here to spend their free time and money, acting high and mighty and feeling like the majority of civil law and order didn't apply to them because they felt superior to whites. Jeanie knew the type, all too well.
She and John were being heckled by four male reservation teachers and some of their white cronies. One of the white guys had made this pass at her. She knew the reservation teachers personally, and she loathed them as much as she did their white buddies. They were always scheming and up to no good, causing trouble in the community whenever they felt like it. instigating fights and petty feuds.
Jeanie was pretty sure, from the area's general gossip, that the white men went to secretive midnight meetings, disguised of course, and reported back to their Native goons, so that violent incidents could be blamed on the appropriate scapegoat at the right moment and the cycle would then feed itself endlessly. These men's shared hatred was peace and order. Illinois and its borders were in tatters, run roughshod with constant bloodshed. These people were so ignorant and small minded and petty that they needed violence in order to feel alive, in order to have sticking points and bleeding hearts for their causes. And it didn't matter to them who got hurt in the carrying out of it.
With their laughter and snickering and the way they leered at her, she knew it was about her even though she couldn't hear everything they were saying. She felt embarrassment as she processed it all: something about a stolen wallet, and an insinuation that she and John were a couple. But she felt words die, no witty comeback as any bravado withered.
She felt her stomach flip-flop uncomfortably. They were drunk. The drunks and the high-as-kites were the worst part of the late shift. Had that white man said something about a wallet? She glanced at John; he was sizing up the situation. All too soon, the man moved into Jeanie's personal space.
"Are you deaf?" the white man sneered in blatant mockery, "did you hear me? You shortchanged me and you must have stolen my wallet, too," he snapped. Her weakest point being used against her: how she hated surviving that attack.
Stop it, Jeanie, you'll work yourself up again ... she told herself. "Did you hear me?!" the man snapped, knowing she hadn't. He grabbing her wrist roughly. "I never got my change, and someone stole my wallet. Was it you?"
"I ... I didn't steal anything ..." Jeanie stammered, eyes wide. She'd seen the man in here before, countless times, and he'd always been a sleaze, he and his friends all were. He tightened his grip. Jeanie struggled but that made it worse. "Let go of me, you bastard."
"What's the matter, darlin'? the white man who had grabbed her said, "You a little far from home in the big city?" The man's free hand slid down her back, and up her dress.
John was by the two of them in an instant. "Let go."
"Your whore stole my wallet," the man slurred, not worried about the petty change issue at all anymore. He was a rough looking type in need of a shave and a wash and sobering up.
John quickly looked around. Mae was with customers at the back of the diner, not seeing this. Maddie was outside taking next day's produce delivery. Jeb was out. "Back off. And she's not mine. Let go of the young lady."
The man sneered. "I don't see a lady. I see a common, Native, whore." He still had a hand under her dress, on her butt. "If she doesn't belong to you, that means I can do anything I want with her." The man's oily smile widened.
"Touch her again and I'll break your arm. Let. Go."
Everything happened in just seconds but it felt eternal. Jeanie was just trying to breathe, in a rising panic. How had she let him sneak up on her like that? How had she misheard him so badly earlier when he was asking for change? He and his friends had been heckling passerby outside the diner, and they had still been swearing and yelling and laughing overly loud when they'd come in, more or less demanded beers and tossed cash and coins on the counter. As to the wallet ...
Jeanie was frozen in panic. Jeanie struggled to get free, was struggling to hear, everyone's words muffled like she was under water. The man's hand, oh, my God, Jeanie was recoiling inside. The creep's hand roamed, under her dress. Finally, she could move, could think: she spat her gum in the man's face. And John had laid hands on the man, and finally struck a blow at his side. Just seconds, long, agonizing seconds.
The aggressor angrily went at them both, and Jeanie barely avoided being slapped by him. He pushed her instead, and she collided with the sharp corner of something. But in the next few moments John gained the upper hand and the man was reduced to defeat. John let up and pushed him away. "Get out," he ordered, breathless.
The ringleader slammed the diner door behind him. The charms and bells jangled so violently, one of them fell to the floor.
The frigid April night had burst into the diner. The springtime chill soured the atmosphere further even as it caused more lightly dressed patrons to shiver. Silence had descended on the cheerful place. Jeanie had rushed to the service side entrance, fumbling the latches in blind panic. This place wasn't very large, and everyone had seen what'd happened. She wanted to die, to dry up into nothing.
A sob, a scream, rose in her throat and stayed there, unable to escape. The cold night air was bracing as she sank down on the side steps, letting the wind whip through the cotton uniform and further sting her bleeding knee. She dabbed at the blood with the hem of the dress.
She became aware of a sound; rasping and grating, heavy, struggling. It was her own breathing. She grasped around in her apron pocket for the inhaler. She was getting a terrible headache and her chest was getting so tight ... as she took a reassuring drag on it, her mind whirled: The store bombing. That time in the barn rafters in the dark. The priests droning on about sin and confession, about purity. The escalating violence that had book-ended her whole life.
Her chest tightened further. Her world was blood-soaked, she was alone, and she couldn't make any of it stop. Panicked, she tried to just breathe.
After a bit the light changed behind her as the door opened and a shadow crossed in front of her. She recoiled at first, breaking into tears when she saw who it was. He was only there to comfort her. She surrendered, closed her eyes and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Shh," he might have been saying. Whatever he was saying floated around her, muffled. Thin light flooded down from the bulb over the back steps.
"Hush, I won't hurt you." John Smith's words found her good left ear, eventually, over her own ragged breathing. She took another drag on the inhaler and then felt well enough to put it away. John's hands closed over hers, which clutched the little plastic thing. "It's alright," he soothed. "Asthma?"
Jeanie nodded, spent and unable to form words. She swallowed thickly. She spat phlegm on the ground, wiped her mouth. Dizziness was fading but she was starting to shiver. Jeanie was lost somewhere, not noticing at first the coat John draped over her shoulders. She leaned all of her slender weight against his; he felt solid and warm. She was so tired.
"He grabbed my ass," Jeanie said after a while, staring out into the night.
There was a long, long silence. Then she dared look at John Smith, really look at him. He looked exhausted, too. His brilliant green eyes were sad, the set of his mouth grim. 'She's not mine,' he'd said ...
And now, he sighed."Interesting, you telling me to go to hell and all. But it turns out you needed me." His hand brushed across her back, very briefly, as he stood to leave her alone on the back steps in the cold. "Goodnight, Miss."
