"The Gorge Road" Chapter 6

 

6. The Tribe

 

photo courtesy of travelportland.com

    Benji brought me out of my flashback with a predictably gauche comment.

“Yeah, Deon told me you got some part-time gig as an art tutor to a rich kid?”

Thanks a lot, Deon. So much for trying to separate my working life from my personal life. And no, it’s really a lot more than a “part-time gig.”

“Um, kind of,” I said. “It’s this really nice family; I met the husband and wife at the party last week. I think they must keep Denner & Birch on retainer, though I can’t imagine what for.”

“Yeah, the DiAnnons. I hadn’t heard of ‘em til Deon brought it up, so I tried to pull their file. No digital record of them. Which is weird, because Birch’s secretary normally has a giant stick in her ass about all that stuff being up-to-date.”

“There’s no client file on them at all?” I didn’t mean to pry into business that wasn’t mine, but this – on top of no one recognizing their name – was too coincidental.

“No, there’s a file. Turns out it’s a hard copy locked up in a safe in old man Denner’s office. They’ve obviously been with us a looong time,” he laughed. “Serious-ass money.”

“I wonder what else they invest in,” I mused. “They mentioned real estate and alternative fuels at the party, but I didn’t think to ask about anything else when I interviewed.”

“If they were some of Denner’s original clients, then maybe they got into weed distribution before it was legalized,” Benji replied. “But I would guess something harder.”

“Maybe that’s why their file is in the safe,” I agreed. “But old-money folk don’t exactly grow marijuana in their basements.”

I couldn’t reconcile the idea of Richard and Angela selling pot to college kids in my head; it just didn’t make sense. But I knew from the party that Benji could be easily persuaded to spill information on clients, especially after he’d been drinking.

 “How old is Mr. Denner?” I asked.

“Denner Senior? He’s damn near eighty. Old bastard just refuses to retire. Drives his son nuts.”

“I’ll bet. But that would mean Denner Senior has had his original clients for… forty or fifty years, at least. Was his defense specialty still DUIs and vice-related cases, even back then?”

“I mean, maybe that long. I dunno. A lot of rich businesspeople supplied each other with cocaine in the seventies and eighties. Who knows? And who cares, at this point?” Benji shrugged, and then took hold of my hand as a grin oozed across his lips. “We can do some sometime, if you like. I know a guy. You ever tried it?”

“Uh.. no. No, I’m good,” I mumbled, still distracted, and even more so by the grip of his sweaty palm.

“Okay,” he grinned. “You let me know if you change your mind. I bet you can party with the best of ‘em.”

We rounded the west corner of the casino, and the parking deck came into full view. I was about to fake a sneeze, so as to have an excuse to let go of Benji’s hand, when voices echoed out from between the garage and the main casino building.

“I don’t care how fast or how well you can deal—“

“Get off my ass! Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same!”

I took my hand out of Benji’s paw and used it to clutch my jacket closed defensively, as if that would somehow protect me from anything. I peered ahead into the shadow cast from the garage. Our path to the elevator was taking us in the direction of the commotion.

I recognized the two men who were standing just outside the parking deck, next to the elevator shaft. Hector was berating Lucas, the young dealer who’d dismissed me.

“The day I see you act like that toward a guest again is the day you lose your job! Are we clear?” Hector growled.

“It’s bullshit!” Lucas’s voice was hushed but furious. “It’s bad enough they come in here making our homeland into a damn tourist attraction, where we have to kiss their asses all day –“

“It is a tourist attraction. That’s exactly what it is. The original tribal lands are north of here --

“ – but then one of them comes in, and squeezes her entitled ass in at my table, just… reeking like the luqal silimx –”

“Oh for Chrissake. Get over yourself. Nobody smells that shit anymore. More than likely, no one ever did. It’s an ignorant superstition; a story to scare kids with.”

Benji paid no attention to the two men, or their conversation. He stepped ahead of me into the elevator vestibule, punched the button, and then pulled out his phone again.

“Gotta post that shot to IG before I forget,” he muttered.

I ignored him, listening as the terse discussion continued just around the corner from us.

“I definitely smelled it! And Silas Springwater says he used to smell it –"

 “Mr. Springwater is ninety-two years old. And high as a kite, most of the time. There’s no telling what he smells.”

“Yeah, well. He actually cares about this tribe; about our people, and the old ways.”

        “Silas would tell you to shut the hell up and do the work,” Hector said.  “This isn’t the old days. The tribe has to generate income, and income comes from the resort. You think the casino is what our people are about? You need to pull your head out of your ass and see the big picture! We’re here to make money to fund the reservation; build a school and teach our history to our young people. That’s how we legitimize our nation -- not by scaring the piss out of girls from the city. Especially when their dates are spending at the rate her boyfriend was.”

“Whatever,” Lucas scoffed. I could almost hear the wind coming out of his sails. “He was her boyfriend like I’m Russel Means.”

“Don’t even get me started on him.” I heard Hector begin to walk away.

“On Russel Means? Or the luqal silimx’s boyfriend?”

“Either. Both. I don’t give a shit. Just take the rest of your fifteen, and then get back on the floor, okay? Try to act like you actually care about this job.”

The elevator door opened, and Benji ushered me in.

“After you,” he intoned, faux-gallant.

I waited for the doors to slide closed before turning to Benji, crossing my arms over my body.

“Benji, does my perfume smell weird, or something?”

He certainly hasn’t been acting like it has. 

Suddenly, as if to further prove my thoughts, he sidled up very close to me.

“No, of course not,” he purred, stroking the back of my arm. “I think you smell amazing. I love that you put on perfume for me.”

Something finally snapped. I took hold of Benji’s wrist and removed his hand, dropping it like a sack of dog shit. I took a step away from him.

“Sorry, but I didn’t put on perfume for you. I put it on for me, to feel good about myself. Didn’t you hear what those guys were saying about me?”

“Yeah, they said I was obviously your boyfriend.” Benji had quickly backed away and shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning like a toddler who didn’t get the toy he wanted for Christmas. “Why? Is that such a horrible idea?”

Your hands can stay there, too.

“Look, I really appreciate you taking me out, but I just need a little more personal space than what you’ve been giving me tonight, okay?” 

The elevator door opened, and I stomped out, working my way toward Benji’s truck, on a roll and determined not to make eye contact with him.

“Plus, I’m more than a little freaked out by how that dealer acted – like I smelled disgusting, or something. I’d really appreciate it if you could just take me home – to my home – so I can take a shower and go to bed. By myself.”

I reached the truck and stood next to the passenger door with my arms folded, waiting for Benji to unlock the cab. He planted his feet on the other side of the vehicle, and looked across the truck bed at me. A red flush was creeping up his neck.

“First of all,” he said, throwing up his hands, “I can give you space. I can wait for what I want. For a little bit, at least. And B: I think you’re being immature and paranoid. Who cares what the Indians said about you? If they even said anything at all. I sure as shit don’t know what you’re yapping about. I think you’re making everything about you. God forbid, you think about my feelings, or what I want.”

“Benji, I’m not what you want,” I replied flatly, deciding to let Hector and Lucas’s comments go, for the time being. “I don’t think we have anything in common. I tried to tell Deon this, but he pretty much insisted that I go out with you and give it a fair shot.”

“A fair shot? Great. That’s just great.” 

Benji finally unlocked the cab. Laughing cynically, he threw himself into the driver’s seat; I cautiously climbed in next to him. 

“So this has just been a pity-date the whole time?” he asked. “I’m just a free meal ticket? Just because I didn’t go to some hoity-toity art school like you did, you think we don’t have anything in common. I’m just not good enough for you, huh?”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, but I bet you were thinking it.”

“You’re not really being fair.”

“I’m not being fair?” Benji laughed bitterly again and pressed the ignition. “I just dropped several hundred bucks, trying to impress you and keep you entertained, and now I find out I’m not even gonna get a blowjob tonight? Don’t talk to me about what’s not fair, okay?”

We spent the drive back to Willamette Falls in awkward silence. Eventually, Benji turned on some music. While some country singer crooned about the no-good woman who broke his heart, I sat in the passenger seat feeling guilty; like I should have handled the whole situation differently. Even after Benji unceremoniously dropped me off in Sarah and Deon’s driveway, the thoughts still chased each other around my head.

 I should've said something sooner, rather than snapping at him. I shouldn't have let him pay for everything; should've made it less like a date.

 

He would have insisted on it anyway. It's about the ego.

 

I shouldn’t have worn this stupid cocktail dress.

 

Wear what you want, and don't feel guilty about it. He'd probably still be making passes at you if you wore jeans and a t-shirt.

 

I should've said no to the date altogether.

 

Sarah and Deon would’ve pestered you to give him a chance until you agreed.

 

So I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t? I’m just powerless?

 

Maybe I was too uptight. Uptight around Richard, and now Benji, all because of something that had happened a long time ago, and far away from Willamette Falls. Daniel had been somewhat blunt with me, too. I’d said as much to Richard during the job interview.

Yeah, but Daniel actually has some manners. And taste. And isn’t trying to touch me all the time.

But you wouldn’t mind it if he did, would you? 

As I stared up at Deon and Sarah’s townhouse, I thought about how I was going to explain everything to them. I might be able to sneak past their room tonight and jump into the shower before getting cornered, but that wouldn’t stall them for long. Morning would come, and Sarah would want all the details, most of which I was still trying to sort out for myself. Deon would likely shrug and tell me to give Benji another chance, that sometimes opposites attract.

One step at a time. Just go take a shower, get to bed, and things will be better in the morning. 

 

I didn’t sleep well. Despite a half-formed plan to sleep in and hide in my room, I eventually left the townhouse early the next morning, and managed to avoid Sarah and Deon. I decided to go into town for coffee.

Main Street of Willamette Falls had yet to be hit with the Sunday brunch crowd. But as I sat in a café window seat with my latte and a pastry, I saw Marie-Jean Abernathy pass by on the sidewalk outside. She noticed me in turn, and stopped in her tracks to wave excitedly.

A moment later she was in the seat across from me, after ordering a chocolate croissant for herself at the counter. She peeled off her sweater and pushed back her wild curls with her sunglasses.

“Damn hot flashes… how’s that coffee?”

I shrugged. “It does the job.”

She unabashedly reached across the table, grabbed my cup, and took a swig for herself.

“Ugh. Swill,” she muttered, though not unkindly, and under her breath so the barista wouldn’t hear. “For future reference: I can make a chai or matcha blend that’ll taste five times better than that, and not give you the jitters. Though the croissants here are pretty good, I’ll give them that.”

“Is your shop normally open this early? And on a Sunday?” I chuckled at her.

“My door is always open to friends,” she smiled.

“Good to know,” I grinned back. “I may need a place to retreat to in the coming weeks. Somewhere other than a bar.”

“I was gonna ask – did you not get that job, hon?”

“Oh, no – I got it, actually.” MJ pumped her fist and held up her hand so I could high-five her. “My roommates are just adamant that I go out with a friend of theirs, and I don’t know how to tell them that he’s an asshole.”

“If they’re really your friends, shouldn’t they understand?”

“Maybe so, but Benji’s their friend too. I don’t want to be the bad guy and make them choose between us. And I guess I’m just not that great with confrontation.”

“Fair enough. But if you’re going to be tutoring a kid, you might want to get better at that, or the little brat will run all over you.”

“Funny story, actually,” I perked up, glad for the chance to change the subject. “Turns out I’m not tutoring a young kid after all. Not even a teenager. My client’s son is in his twenties. And pretty bright, it seems like. To top it off, they live in this, like, Gothic-Tudor hybrid mansion out in the Columbia River Gorge. It’s absolutely beautiful out there.”

It was barely perceptible, but MJ had stilled. She blinked a few times. “You’re not working for the DiAnnon family, are you?”

“Yep, that’s them. I’m tutoring Daniel.”

MJ stopped blinking and stared straight at me. “Dark-haired kid, kind of frail-looking? Supposedly pretty mild-mannered?”

The way she said it made me feel like I needed to come to his defense. “I mean, at first, yeah. But once you get to know him… he’s got his own opinions and ideas. He has no need for machismo, but he thinks for himself. Why? It sounds like you know the family.”

“Yeah, I know Richard and Angela,” she said quietly. I noticed her stare had left me and turned inward.

“Oh. Okay,” I said, trying to break the obvious tension. “One of my roommates, and Benji, all work for their lawyers. That’s how I met Richard and Angela -- at a gala for the law firm and its clients. How do you know them?”

“I was invited to Daniel’s christening,” MJ said, her eyes still distant. “Or, the secular equivalent of a christening, I suppose. But that was a while back, obviously. The DiAnnons aren’t exactly religious, but they like to have people from different spiritual backgrounds in their… their circle, I guess you could call it. They feel like it gives meaning to major family events and gatherings.” She rolled her eyes. “I haven’t been back there since. I don’t love the feeling of being the Token Witch in their little collection. And that house gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” I said. I could tell MJ’s relationship with the DiAnnons was a bit of a sore spot, so I tried to move the conversation along. “But I loved the library where I’ll be working, and Daniel seems pretty cool, so that was enough to offset the ‘Disney Haunted Mansion’ vibes. Though apparently that sort of display of wealth really pisses off their neighbors.”

“You met neighbors?”

“I think so,” I continued. “I pulled over to check something on my car on the way home, and this woman walked up out of nowhere and started harassing me, telling me ‘Stay away from the DiAnnons, you don’t know what goes on in a house like that,’ and all this other weird stuff. I don’t know. Maybe she was high.”

MJ raised an eyebrow and squinted. “Yeah, she could’ve been a local pipehitter. Or it might have been one of the Boone sisters. They’re another old family in the Gorge. I heard a bit of gossip that a cousin of theirs got some sort of a job at the DiAnnon house -- like a maid or something -- and the sisters weren’t too happy about it.”

“That would probably be Denise. I met her. She’s kind of… brisk. Maybe it’s a family trait,” I shrugged. “Her cousins – the Boones – are mad because Denise and I got hired, and they didn’t?”

“I think it’s more along the lines of ‘Denise went turncoat.’ As in, she’s sucking up to the rich people and trying to act above herself. Like she’s too good for her own people. But like I said – it’s all just trashy suburban and small-town gossip.”

The barista walked by and set MJ’s warmed croissant in front of her. MJ picked at it for a moment, breaking it up into bite-sized pieces. I chewed and sipped in amiable silence, hoping she might say more.

“Speaking of libraries,” MJ said, after a few swallows. “You know the old Carnegie library up the street is still open to the public, right? You could hang out there, if you’re needing to get out of the house.”

It was MJ’s turn to change the subject, I noticed.

We finished our croissants and walked the few blocks uphill to the old library, perched on a grassy knoll, looking like an old red brick school building with beige columns. MJ led the way through the foyer, our steps echoing off the terrazzo floor. She waved toward the checkout desk and a sign that said “apply for a library card here” next to an old PC, then signaled for me to follow her into the stacks.

“I don’t come here as much as I used to, but when I did, I spent most of my time here,” she said, pointing to small tags on the shelves that read “New Age,” “Spirituality,” and “Alternative Religions.”

“I don’t know if any of this is your bag,” she continued, “but the Local Reads section is just a couple shelves over, if you want to bone up on area history. Who knows? It might give you some insight into the Gorge community.”

I scanned the shelves for anything that caught my eye, skipping over things like “The Secret” and “The Power of Now” in favor of more academic-looking material:  a compendium of folklore from Native tribes of the Pacific Northwest, and a tome entitled “Communion With the Earth.” I plucked out both from their slots, and pinned “Folktales of the Coast Salish” under my arm while flipping through the other volume. I expected something over-the-top-witchy, but instead found myself paging through a sort of gardening book, with herbalist anecdotes. I recognized recipes for a few of the tinctures that MJ sold in her store.

“One of my favorites,” MJ grinned. “Which reminds me: I have a small herb garden behind my shop that’s gotten overgrown something fierce. If you’re willing to come by and help me with it sometime, I’ll give you all the free basil and mint you can carry.”

“MJ, I’m not going to help you grow pot,” I teased.

“Oh, I definitely smoke the Devil’s Lettuce now and then,” she winked back, leaning into the joke. “But I sure as hell don’t grow it. Growing those little fuckers indoors is way too much work for a weed, and growing them outdoors can still get you arrested. No, I legitimately mean stuff to put on your pizza and your Easter lamb, or whatever it is you Christians eat for holidays.”

“Lamb for Easter is a little on-the-nose,” I snickered. “Though, it’s not like I’ve set foot inside a church in years so as to speak with any authority. But sure. I can probably help out with your garden. I could use the time outdoors, in between holing up in here and in the DiAnnnon library.”

I put “Communion with the Earth” back on the shelf, but held onto the Native folktales, thinking I might integrate it into one of Daniel’s lessons, and also hoping the librarian might let me take it out without an Oregon driver’s license. (I hadn’t had a chance to get one yet.) I was turning to walk back down the isle when another book caught my eye: “Snoqualish Dialects.”

“Random question,” I said, turning to MJ. “I know this is going to sound odd, but: If I smelled funny, you would tell me, right?”

“If you smelled funny?” she looked appropriately confused. “Like… if I smell B.O. on you, you need me to remind you to shower?”

“Not… exactly,” I said. “It’s just that Benji took me to the new Snoqualish casino for our lousy date last night, and one of the card dealers asked me to leave his poker table because he was put off by the way I smelled. I haven’t felt that gross or insecure since high school. Do I smell weird to you?”

“I’ve never heard of anything so stupid in my life,” MJ scoffed. “A dealer kicking you off his table because you probably have a nicer perfume on than what he’s used to? For cripe’s sake. You smell fine, hon. If anything, you just have the smell of my shampoo and the DiAnnon’s money on you. If a card dealer picked up on that, then it should turn him on, not off. Don’t pay it any mind.”