Native Affairs (30 page)

“Well, Ms. Hancock, that is about to change.” They arrived at the luncheonette and he put his arm above her head to push the door open for them.

The room was filled with locals, who turned and stared at them blankly. Everyone was dressed casually and a haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, which was heavily permeated with the yeasty smell of beer. Dead silence prevailed as they became the focus of all eyes. Marisa felt as if she were wearing a bridal gown at a funeral.

“So, I guess everybody knows we’re here,” Jack said in a low tone in Marisa’s ear.
 

“That’s my guess, too.”

A waitress approached, removing a pencil from behind her ear and examining them with interest. “Y’all comin’ from a party?” she asked.
 

“You might say that,” Jack replied.
 

“Dint they feed you theyah?”
 

“Not much.”

“Then ya come to the raght place. Fallah me.” They trailed in her wake to a back table which looked out over the water. A dilapidated dock sported a raft of fishing poles propped in place and a much abused rubber dinghy bobbing at anchor.

“Wonderful ambience,” Jack said to Marisa.
 

“Whut’s thayat?” the waitress inquired.
 

“Good food here,” Jack said.
 

“Ya got that raght,” she said. “Somethin’ ta drink?”

“Iced tea,” Marisa replied.

“Make that two,” Jack said.

“Gotcha,” the waitress said and ambled away.

“Menus?” Jack called after her.
 

“On the board,” she sang and jerked her thumb in the direction of a chalkboard to their left.

“The caviar starting to look a little better?” Jack said to Marisa, grinning.

“What’s a ‘toad in the hole’?” Marisa asked, craning her neck to read.

“God knows. What’s ‘redeye gravy’? I’m afraid to ask.”

“I like your idea. Let’s get hamburgers. Everybody knows what a hamburger is.”
 

“I wouldn’t count on it.”
 

The waitress returned with their tea.
 

“Well?” she said, her hands on her hips, surveying Jack with undisguised lust.

“Two burgers please, rare for me and...” he looked at Marisa.
 

“Medium well,” Marisa said.
 

“Pickle?” the waitress said.
 

“I beg your pardon?”
 

“Ya’ll want a pickle with thayat?”
 

“No, thank you,” Marisa said.
 

“Slaw relish?” the waitress said.
 

“No.”

“Grits?” she went on, shifting her feet.
 

Marisa looked at Jack, who was trying hard not to laugh.

“Chips?” the waitress said. “No estra chahge.”
 

“Just the burgers,” Jack said in a strangled voice.

“Gotcha.” She drifted off, humming.
 

Jack collapsed in soundless laughter.
 

“Is this what the tourist guides mean by ‘local color’?” Marisa asked, giggling.
 

“I think this is it. Should we go?”

“Let’s stick it out,” Marisa said. “If I walk out of two places in one night it will make me think I’m difficult to please.”

“We could always go back to the hotel if you want.”

“Oh, no,” Marisa said, looking past him.

“What?”

“She sings, too.”

Jack followed the direction of Marisa’s gaze. Their waitress was ascending a small platform at the front of the room with a guitar around her neck.

“I hope she put our order in first,” Jack said.

The waitress launched into a rendition of “The Midnight Special” that was evidently a favorite with the audience. She was actually quite a good singer, and when the food came it was even better. The waitress’ set was followed by a three-piece band playing ballads.

“Do you want to dance?” Jack said.

Marisa abandoned her half eaten hamburger and joined him on the dance floor. When she stepped into his arms it felt as if she were coming home. He smelled of soap and starch and salt water from his dip. As the music went on they drew closer and moved less, until they were almost standing still in a fixed embrace.

They listened to “Unchained Melody” and “Mona Lisa” and “Moon River,” Marisa’s head resting on Jack’s shoulder, before the waitress marched up to them and tapped Jack imperiously.

“Will y’all be wantin’ anythin’ else?” she said.

“No, thank you,” Jack said, as Marisa stood silently within the circle of his arms.

The waitress ripped a sheet off her pink check pad and handed it to him, then stalked away.

“Was that a hint, do you think?” Jack asked Marisa, grinning down at her.

“I think she wants us to pay up and leave,” Marisa said.

He glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“They must be closing.”

The band launched into “Good Night Ladies.”

“That’s definitely a hint,” Jack said dryly.

Jack paid the check and they wandered out into the crystalline, chilly air.

“What a glorious night,” Marisa said.

“Are you cold?” Jack asked.

“A little.”

“Want my jacket?”

Marisa hesitated.

“Grits? Slaw relish? Chips?” he said.

“I’ll take the jacket,” Marisa answered, shaking her head at his nonsense.

He slipped it around her shoulders and she snuggled into its silk lined warmth. Jack pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned the top button of his collar.

“Look at those stars,” he said, as they walked down the deserted street back to the dock.

“I’ve never seen so many.”
 

“At home, when you camp out on the prairie, you see more stars than you ever could in the city because there’s no competition from artificial light. It makes me wonder what my ancestors saw when they roamed the plains before...”

“We came and ruined everything?” Marisa suggested.

He picked up a stone and tossed it away aimlessly. “I don’t blame you for it personally.”
 

“You shouldn’t. My relatives always lived in Maine.”

“Then they were killing off the Penobscots instead of the Blackfeet. Only the location changes.”

“Does that bitterness keep you going?” Marisa asked softly, studying his grim expression.

“If I don’t let it show too often.” He shrugged. “Nobody likes a whiner.”
 

“Justifiable anger is not whining.”
 

“Yeah, but anger has to be controlled to be productive,” he said. “Sometimes the control slips.”
 

“I don’t blame you.”

“I blame myself.” He stopped when they reached the dock and gazed out across the water. “I don’t want to be a cliché. You know, wild Indian. It’s what they expect, and I won’t be what they expect.”

“Traveling all the time, no fixed home, moving from case to case and cause to cause. It must make for a hard life,” Marisa said.

“‘We cannot expect to be translated from despotism to liberty in a feather bed,’” he said, quoting.
 

“Thomas Jefferson,” Marisa said.
 

He looked at her sharply. “Yes.”

“My idol,” Marisa said. “I was devastated in junior high when I found out he kept slaves.”

“He was a Southern planter in the late eighteenth century,” Jack said cynically. “Who did you think was doing all the work while Thomas wrote those fine letters you were reading?”
 

“I guess I was naive.”
 

He snorted.

“You were just quoting him,” Marisa pointed out defensively, folding her arms.

“There were flaws in his lifestyle, common to all those of his class and culture. I can still appreciate the brilliance of his mind.”

“The control you just mentioned before, will it slip if you lose this case?”

He turned and looked at her, his face set. “We won’t lose,” he said flatly.

Marisa felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. “Let’s not talk about it,” she said quietly. “I promised myself that we wouldn’t talk about the case tonight.”

“Good idea.” He jumped down into the boat and readied it for the trip, then held up his hand to her. She stepped onto the runner and when she paused he bent and slipped his arm under her knees.

“Hold on,” he said, as he lifted her into the well. In a second she was deposited on the seat and he was moving toward the wheel. She pulled his jacket closer around her as he undid the lines, and then they were moving swiftly through the water.

Jack’s mood seemed to have changed, perhaps because reality had intruded with their discussion of the case. He concentrated on piloting the boat and they were back at the marina too soon.

“Are you just going to leave it there?” Marisa asked, looking back over her shoulder as they walked away from the boat.

“That’s where it belongs. It’s the regular slip where my friend keeps it,” he said.

“Who’s your friend?”

“The husband of the redhead you saw with me in the hotel dining room,” he replied.

“She was a decoy, wasn’t she?”

“Decoy?”

“You were trying to make me think she was your date.”

“Did it work?”
 

“No.”

He burst out laughing. “Liar.”
 

“Well, maybe it worked a little,” she admitted, and he put his arm around her shoulders, hugging her.

The traffic in the area of the hotel had died down considerably because of the late hour. They walked through the deserted lobby and took the elevator up to Marisa’s floor alone. Their feet made no noise on the plush carpet as they walked to her room.

“I had a lovely time,” Marisa said, giving him her hand as he turned to face her.
 

“If a bit unusual?” he said.
 

“That’s part of what made it lovely.”
 

He took her hand and placed her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to leave you here,” he said.
 

Marisa said nothing. At that moment she would have gone anywhere with him.

“When you come out in the morning you should find an arrow by your door,” he said, smiling slightly.
 

“What?”

“Old Blackfoot custom,” he replied. “When a brave picked out a special maiden, he would leave an arrow with his identifying feathers by her hogan as a proposal. When she found it, if she then ignored it, his proposal was considered rejected. But if she took it back to him they got married.”
 

“I wouldn’t reject you,” Marisa said softly.
 

“I don’t suppose I can come in,” he said.
 

“You know what would happen.”
 

“I want it to happen.”

“Jack...”

“I know, I promised to behave. Can I see you tomorrow?”
 

“I have to work tomorrow.”
 

“Court’s not in session.”

“I have to prepare, Jack. That’s why I’m here. A court case is ninety percent preparation, and it’s my responsibility to make sure I’m ready.”
 

“Let Tracy take over.”
 

“I can’t.”

“All right, all right. Tomorrow night, then.”
 

“Where do you want to go?” she asked.
 

“Anywhere.”

“What do you want to do?”
 

“Anything.”

She sagged against the door, defeated. “Okay. I’ve been wanting to see that gallery that shows Seminole art...”

“Good, we’ll go there. What time can I call for you?”
 

“Seven.”
 

“Fine.”

“Jack, let’s not drag this out. You’d better go.”
 

“Am I permitted to kiss you good night?”

 
She was reaching up for him as his lips met hers. He tried to kiss her lightly, but it was no good; they were both too hungry. In just seconds Marisa was backed against the wall and he was pressing into her, his body hard and urgent as she clung to him.

Then he stepped back abruptly. “I can’t do this,” he said. “I’m too old to make love in hallways. Either let me come in or send me away.”
 

“Jack...”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Good night.” He turned and almost ran off down the corridor, as if afraid that he would turn back to her.