Dick had said that more than once, and he wasn’t the only one. It’s true, I suppose; I’ve always believed that people are inherently good, even if some try hard enough to disprove it, and I have never been a fearful person. There’s too much fear in the world. Too much blind judgment.
You know, sometimes I think you’re a white-man Indian. You love everybody. One of these days some damn white eyes ain’t gonna love you back.
Jimmy. My brother, Jimmy, who’d been just the opposite of me, who hadn’t trusted anyone and judged blindly and didn’t love enough. Dead at twenty-three, and with no one to blame but himself. Drunk and driving too fast on a country road near Petaluma, where he’d been working on a dairy ranch; took a turn too fast and rolled his pickup down an embankment into a ditch. Short, sad, empty life. I didn’t want to die that way, with hate in my heart and nothing to show for my years on this earth, not even a legacy of smiles.
Still, he’d been right about one thing. There was a white eyes who didn’t love me back. Prejudice had nothing to do with it; no one could ever fault Dick Novak for racial bias of any kind. It was his ex-wife. And Storm Carey. And me — something about me that I couldn’t change, couldn’t make right, because I didn’t understand what it was and perhaps he didn’t either.
Just as I reached the end of the pier I looked back again, and John Faith was still standing, motionless, next to the boat. Solitary figure, bent slightly against the wind. Alone in the dark.
Like you, Audrey Sixkiller, I thought. Pining away for a white eyes and spending too many nights alone in the dark.
Lori Banner
I noticed him right away when he walked into the Northlake Cafe. We were pretty busy for a Thursday night, but you don’t miss seeing a guy like that — not even if you wanted to. I mean, he was big. And he had one of those craggy, scarred faces that turn a lot of people off but that I’d always kind of liked. Pretty men of any size turn me off and I don’t like skimpy types with so-called normal looks. That was what first attracted me to Earle. I thought that man I married had character, but all it was was hard-rock meanness covered with a layer of bullshit.
I wasn’t the only one who stared when the big stranger came in. Everybody did. It got kind of quiet for as long as it took him to glance around and then settle himself into the last available booth, which happened to be on the side of the room I was working. Customers kept giving him looks, mostly out of the corners of their eyes, but he didn’t pay any attention. He sat there with his scoop-shovel hands on the table, waiting.
I had an order to pick up but instead I grabbed a menu and took it over to him. “Hi there,” I said, and I showed him my best smile. I have a nice smile, if I do say so myself. My best feature. Third-best feature, Earle says. Mr. Crude. “Welcome to the number-one restaurant in Pomo.”
He didn’t smile back, at least not much, but there wasn’t anything cold about the way he looked at me. Whoo, those eyes of his. They’d scare the pants off you if he was in a temper — scare most people just sitting here the way he was. Not me, though. Not once I looked straight into them. They weren’t as hard as they seemed on the surface, all shiny and bright like polished silver. There was a gentleness in them, way back deep. Just the opposite of Earle’s eyes, which look gentle on the surface but aren’t. Earle doesn’t even know what the word means.
“What’s good tonight?” he asked without picking up the menu. I liked his voice, too. Real deep, like it came from the bottom of his chest.
“Well, everybody seems to like the special. Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, cream gravy.”
“That what you had for dinner?”
“I haven’t eaten yet. When I do... the venison stew, probably. But not everybody likes venison.”
“I like it fine. That’s what I’ll have.”
“Good choice. Something from the bar first?”
“Bud Light.”
I went and put in his order and picked up the one that was waiting. Even as busy as I was the next few minutes, I couldn’t keep from glancing over at him three or four times. He really interested me. Not that I wanted to do anything about it. Well, maybe I wanted to, a little, but I wasn’t going to.
When I brought him his beer and a basket of French bread and butter I said, “You’re from a big city, I’ll bet. San Francisco?”
“L.A., recently. How’d you know?”
“You have kind of a big-city look about you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know. Only big city I’ve ever been in is San Francisco. You on vacation?”
“No.”
“Just passing through?”
He shrugged. “I might stay for a while.”
“Well,” I said. Then I said, “This is the best place on the lake to eat, no kidding. Lunch or dinner.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Darlene came over as I was pouring coffee to take to the couple in booth nine. She tucked up a piece of her red hair and said, “That’s some hunk over there. He looks like a refugee from a slasher movie.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“Yeah? You can’t help liking ’em big and nasty, I guess.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You know what I mean, Lori. New bruise on your chin there, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Makeup doesn’t quite hide it. It wasn’t there yesterday.”
“Mind your own business, Darlene, okay?”
“I just hate the way that man treats you.”
“Earle’s got a temper. He can’t help it.”
“He doesn’t have to take it out on you.”
“He’s getting better. He’s trying.”
“Sure he is.”
“He is. He promised me he’ll stop drinking.”
“For what, the hundredth time?”
“I mean it, that’s enough.”
She said, “It’s your life,” and went back into the kitchen.
Well? It is, isn’t it? My life?
The venison stew came out and I brought it to the big guy. I leaned low when I set the plate on the table and those silvery eyes went right where I knew they would. I let him look a few seconds before I straightened up. I’ve got nice boobs, firmer than most women in their midthirties; I don’t mind men looking at them. There’s no harm in looking, or being looked at. I think it’s a compliment.
“Anything else you’d like?”
“Not right now,” he said.
“Just wave if there is. My name’s Lori.”
He nodded.
“What’s yours, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I thought he wasn’t going to tell me. Then he said, “John.”
“John what?”
“Faith. John Faith.”
“No kidding? You don’t look like somebody with a name like that. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“What do you do? I mean, for a living.”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“I work with my hands.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“I’m not married, if that’s your next question.”
“Huh?” It wasn’t going to be.
“But you are,” he said.
His eyes were on the gold band on my left hand. I glanced at it, too, before I said, “Yep, I sure am.” But right then I wished I weren’t.
“I don’t play around with married women.”
“Well, that puts you in the minority, John. Most men don’t care who they play around with.” Some women, too. Like Storm Carey, for instance.
“I’m not most men.”
Lord, no. “Truth is, I don’t play around either.”
“Come on like you might.”
“But I don’t. See, I’m a friendly person,” I said, because I didn’t want him to keep thinking what he was thinking about me. “Naturally friendly. I like men and I guess I can’t help flirting, but that’s as far as it goes. Really, I mean it.”