Celilo's Shadow Page 8

  “Baker Bluff?”

  “Bingo. And if the government exercises their right of imminent domain, he won’t get as much money as we’re offering.”

  Clarice said, “I can find out if that’s really what the government has in mind for the property. But even if it’s true, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Tony threw both hands in the air. “No problem? There go all our plans. No big resort, no lounge act, no life of luxury, no nothing. Just a bunch of old bones.”

  Clarice gently cuffed his bare shoulder. “Stop with the gloom and doom. You sound like a nervous old lady.”

  “Why the hell shouldn’t I be nervous? I’ve worked my butt off for over two years now, squirreling away whatever cash I could get my hands on, and for what? Just when I think financial freedom is within my grasp the damn Injuns spoil it for me.”

  “No, Tony. We’ll spoil it for them.”

  “I’m dead serious and you’re talking nonsense,” he said, rolling to the edge of the bed. He stumbled to his feet, pulled up his shorts and scanned the room. “Goddamn it, where’d my pants go?”

  Before he had a chance to begin hunting and gathering, Clarice scooted off the bed and grabbed him by the arm. Tony started to resist until she pressed her naked body against him in a tight embrace. “I’m serious, too,” she said, releasing him slightly and slowly walking her fingers up his chest. When she reached his neck, she wrapped her arms about him and thrust her hips forward in a grinding motion against his crotch.

  “Jesus,” he murmured. As she nestled her head on his shoulder, he closed his eyes and held onto her ass with both hands. Thus embraced, they began a slow and undulating dance in place. Tony may have been drunk and angry but her naked body pressed against him had a calming effect. Calmness quickly turned to arousal. When her ministrations had accomplished the desired result, she led him back to the bed and they lay down together.

  Their lovemaking, while brief, was uncharacteristically tender. Clarice kissed him repeatedly and even caressed his still aching head. It was a comforting gesture that surprised and pleased Tony. For the first time, he considered whether he might be falling in love with this woman. But it was just a fleeting thought, easily dismissed. What do I know about love? It was a Jack Daniels fuck and nothing more.

  As they shared a post-coital cigarette, Clarice asked, “Tell me, Tony, what do Indians fear as much as the dam destroying their fishing grounds?”

  “I don’t know. Running out of beer?”

  She laughed. “No, silly, they fear the desecration of their ancestral burial grounds.”

  “Dese-what? Speak English, woman.”

  “Desecration. Mutilation. Making their cemetery unusable.”

  “You’ve lost me, babe.”

  “That’s okay. Just follow my lead and the Baker Bluff deal will go through without a hitch.”

  Tony had no idea what Clarice had in mind, but it didn’t matter. He could always depend on her to fix things. Nude or fully dressed, he’d follow this woman anywhere. But nude was always better. As he snuggled against her, he congratulated himself once again for having had the smarts to hook up with such a clever dame.

  Chapter Seven

  The Mayflower van had been parked across the street for a couple of hours but Dessa still hadn’t caught sight of the new neighbors. Thanks to her mother, almost everyone living in Hillcrest had heard about Mr. Sam Matthews and his teenage daughter long before their arrival. Maureen Feldman worked part-time at Pacific Savings and Loan and had met Mr. Matthews when he came in to sign the loan papers for his house. The day after his appearance at the bank, Maureen hosted the monthly meeting of Petal Pushers—a neighborhood gardening club—and let it intentionally slip that she had first-hand information about their newest residents-to-be. Although dedicated to learning about native flowering plants, the ladies-only members were quite willing (eager, in fact) to table the scheduled discussion about cultivating roses to hear what Maureen knew, especially when she said there was no Mrs. Matthews. Delighted to take center stage, Maureen drew out the suspense by serving coffee and cake before launching into a description of the handsome widower who’d soon be living amongst them.

  Dessa made it a practice to hang around the house whenever her mother hosted the garden club. Most of the time the topic of conversation was beyond boring—she couldn’t care less about growing dahlias, rhododendrons, azaleas or any other flower-related discussion. But sometimes the ladies proved to be a valuable source of items that she could publish in Heard on the Hill, a neighborhood newsletter that Dessa had started last spring.

  Originally, the one-page newsletter was a school project, but demand had proven so great that she upped the price from a nickel a copy to a dime and continued publishing it during the summer. It was a laborious process since she had no printing press and had to rely on an old Smith-Corona that she’d rescued from the trash bin. It came equipped with sticky keys and even worse, required a ton of carbon paper and retyping to duplicate each issue. Consequently, her “print run” was limited and usually ended when she got tired of typing. She figured she spent more of her allowance on paper than she made selling the newsletter, but that wasn’t the point; Dessa loved being in the know.

  She had discovered that people liked to see their names in print and it wasn’t too difficult to get them to talk about themselves. The fun part for Dessa was when they dropped interesting tidbits about others in the neighborhood. Then Dessa had to use her editorial judgment as to just how much she could publish without getting into trouble. The best stuff, unfortunately, never made the cut, but she had noticed that sales doubled whenever she included anything even remotely bordering on gossip. It was a fine line she walked as editor and sales manager.

  She had listened intently as her mother described Mr. Matthews in gushing terms but she’d said little about his daughter other than mentioning in passing that she was fourteen. Now that father and daughter were finally moving in, Dessa was eager to get a look at them for herself. Just not for the reason her mother had hoped. Dessa didn’t have many friends, which bothered Maureen Feldman more than it did her. Her mother was an unabashed social climber and Dessa’s lack of interest in bolstering her own popularity was a constant source of friction between them. Dessa shared her mother’s fiery red hair and green eyes, but resembled her short, bony father in every other physical attribute that counted. And as her mother frequently pointed out, she had inherited her father’s stubborn, opinionated personality.

  It was bad enough that Dessa didn’t try to make friends with kids who lived at Hillcrest, but her refusal to swim or play tennis at the country club where she could meet the “right” kind of girls—meaning the daughters of the town’s most influential and wealthiest families—was particularly vexing to Maureen. “Wasting time writing a silly gossip sheet is never going to help you socially, Odessa.” She had no desire to imitate her mother’s embarrassing efforts to win approval from the country club set, especially since the Feldmans weren’t even full-fledged members due to the “No Jews Allowed” clause in the club’s by-laws.

  Although neither parent would admit it, Dessa believed that their family’s provisional membership was granted solely because the board members counted on Stanley Feldman’s extensive and lucrative business dealings to fund their own projects. His substantial donation to the construction of a lavish new clubhouse next to the golf course was an additional inducement. Dessa considered herself more aligned with her mother’s Irish Catholic roots than her father’s Jewish heritage but it didn’t matter. The family didn’t attend church or synagogue or observe any religious traditions or practices unless going to Bingo night with her grandmother at St. Peter’s counted. In any case, Dessa was sensitive to discrimination and her parent’s so-called country club membership bugge
d the heck out of her. “I’d rather die than suck up to those snobby, anti-Semitic hypocrites like you do,” she told her mother. Maureen’s response was always the same, “Your looks aren’t going to get you anywhere in life, young lady, so you had better stop being such a stubborn smart-ass and figure out how to fit in.” So far, the only thing Dessa had figured out was that writing was what she wanted to do in life—and it didn’t require either good looks or the ability to fit in. In fact, she told herself, a smart-ass attitude might even help. It certainly hadn’t hindered sales for Heard on the Hill whenever she slipped in a snide remark or two in an article.

  As she peeked out her bedroom window for the hundredth time, she saw that the Mayflower movers had stopped their labors to take a smoke break. They’d had several other breaks since their arrival, which was mostly due to the interruptions caused by a steady stream of neighbor ladies dropping off “welcome to the neighborhood” goodies. Now that the dust had settled a bit, Dessa decided to use the lull in activity to meet the newcomers. Since Mr. Matthews was old news by now, she hoped to learn something about his daughter that she could include in the next edition of the newsletter. Dessa had no illusions about developing any kind of friendship with her, especially since her mother had pushed the idea. “This is the perfect time to make friends with her, Odessa.” The unstated sentiment was that Ellie was too new to know about Dessa’s unpopular reputation with the teenage crowd.

  As she crossed the street, she overheard the movers talking. When it became apparent the three men were talking about Ellie, she stopped alongside the truck’s rear wheel well to listen.

  “How old do you think she is?”

  “Ha! You’re talking serious jailbait, my friend. Serious.”

  “Man, oh man, ain’t that the truth? She’s a looker, though.”

  “Shit. If I had some of that tail, I’d be a non-stop pokin’ machine.”

  A burst of laughter followed the coarse remark. Wow, thought Dessa. That’s the kind of exchange she wished she could print. The quote would sell out the newsletter in a flash. One of the men shushed the others. “Hey, cool it,” he said. “Dollface just came outside.” They ground out their cigarettes and resumed working. As they began to wrestle a large couch out of the truck, Dessa walked onto the sidewalk. When Ellie spotted her, she grinned and waved.

  Although crudely put, the movers’ assessment of Ellie’s beauty was, if anything, understated. She wasn’t merely good looking; she was the prettiest teenage girl Dessa had ever seen. She had long blonde hair, dark blue eyes, perfect white teeth and a killer body. If she hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed that Ellie was at least sixteen. No fourteen-year-old that Dessa knew had boobs that impressive. Simply put, the new girl was stunning. Embarrassed by her own shortcomings and the absolute certainty that she’d never ever look half as good as Ellie, Dessa was momentarily speechless. She had always believed that brains were a better attribute for success than beauty, but in reality, girls like Ellie had it made. Dessa hated her instantly. Eying her barely-there shorts and low-cut blouse, Dessa wondered if Ellie realized just how provocative she appeared. Could she be that unaware of her own natural beauty? Or, was her suggestive attire a calculated attention-getting ploy? Whichever the case, Ellie Matthews could be dressed in a flour sack and still look good. Feeling suddenly mean-spirited, Dessa blurted out the first snarky comment that came to mind. “Hot enough for you?”

  She didn’t expect an answer and Ellie didn’t offer one. “Hi,” she said cheerfully, “I’m Ellie. What’s your name?”

  “Dessa.”

  “I’ve never known anyone named Dessa before. Is it a nickname?”

  She nodded. “It’s short for Odessa. But only my parents call me that. To everyone else I’m just Dessa.”

  “Well, just Dessa, would you like to come inside my house and cool off with a Coke?”

  Much to Dessa’s surprise, she found herself intrigued by Ellie. She seemed friendly and nice, but that was to be expected when you were new to a neighborhood. Once she settled in and met some more kids, she could change quickly. In Dessa’s experience, the good looking, popular girls at school couldn’t be bothered with her—until they needed her to bail them out of an academic jam. If Ellie were just putting on an act, Dessa would find out soon enough. She had a knack for detecting bullshit when she heard it. “Okay,” Dessa said. “A Coke sounds good.”

  As is usually the case on move-in day, the Matthews’ house was a chaotic mess. Packing boxes—some partially opened, others still sealed and stacked one atop the other like building blocks—competed for space with an assortment of chairs, end tables, lamps, and other furniture. Dessa passed on Ellie’s offer to give her a tour since the layout of the 1,000-square foot house was the same as every other house in Hillcrest. It had a living room, dining room, kitchen, one bathroom, and two bedrooms on the main floor with laundry and storage space in the unfinished basement. Dessa’s mother wanted to live in Fremont Heights, a prestigious enclave of larger homes with more amenities, but Stan Feldman had a major financial stake in the construction company that developed Hillcrest. He refused to live anywhere else, no matter how supposedly rich they were or how often his wife called him a stingy, stubborn bastard.

  Ellie cleared a pathway that led to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Here,” she said, grabbing two Cokes and handing one to Dessa. “There should be a bottle opener around her somewhere.” She rummaged through a couple of drawers with no success. “Probably still packed,” Ellie said, irritably.

  Just then Mr. Matthews entered the kitchen with a cardboard box labeled Dishes. He looked the way Maureen Feldman had described him to the garden club ladies, although she’d failed to mention that his ears stuck out a little too much and his nose was crooked like it’d been broken at one time. Maureen had said he “radiated sex appeal” but Dessa thought that was ridiculous. Mr. Matthews was at least forty or maybe even forty-five. Sex passed him by a long time ago.

  He set the box on a Formica dining table and asked Ellie, “What are you trying to find?”

  “Bottle opener,” Ellie said, slamming the drawer shut. “Can’t find anything in this stupid mess!”

  So, thought Dessa, the girl has some fire in her. Surprisingly, his daughter’s outburst didn’t seem to faze Mr. Matthews. If Dessa had acted the same way, her mother would’ve been all over her. “Hand your bottles to me,” Mr. Matthews said, patiently. After setting their bottles on the table, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a knife. Dessa had never seen a knife with so many strange looking blades. “It’s called a Swiss Army knife,” he said, catching her fascinated expression. “This little gem can do just about anything.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Matthews,” Dessa said when he’d opened her Coke.

  Ellie downed half her Coke in one noisy gulp followed by a deep, rolling belch.

  “Nice one,” Dessa said, giggling.

  “S’cuse me,” Ellie said between another loud belch and giggle.

  “When you can compose yourself, Ellie, perhaps you could introduce me to your friend. She already seems to know who I am.”

  “Her name is Odessa. She lives across the street.”

  “Glad to meet you, Odessa.”

  “She wants to be called Dessa.”

  “Okay. Dessa it is,” Mr. Matthews said, smiling warmly. “Why don’t you girls get yourselves a snack?” He gestured to an assortment of cakes, pies, brownies, and numerous other desserts lining the kitchen counter. “We’ve got plenty of goodies to choose from.” Dessa spotted the chocolate chip cookies that her mother had baked that morning. From the looks of things, the entire garden club had followed suit with their own special treats.

  The girls grabbed a brownie and took their Cokes into Ellie’s bedroom while
Mr. Matthews went back outside. “Dad let me choose which bedroom I wanted,” said Ellie. “I chose this one because it overlooks our backyard.”

  “Cool.” As Dessa sipped her Coke, she noted that Ellie’s choice was also the largest bedroom in the house. Odessa’s parents had claimed the same room in their house for themselves. Maureen called it the master suite which she said meant “For Adults Only.”

  Ellie’s room had a bed with several boxes stacked atop a bare mattress. Ellie shoved the boxes aside to make room for Dessa and her to sit. “It looks kind of empty in here right now,” she said after they’d settled themselves. “My study desk, chair, dressing table, and chest of drawers are still in the truck. They’re all brand-new.”

  Ellie didn’t seem to be bragging, but the inventory-like listing of her new possessions hit Dessa wrong and, without even thinking, she responded in exactly the way her mother said was why she never had friends. “Oh, that’s too bad,” Dessa said, sadly shaking her head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, it’s just . . . forget it, it’s nothing,”

  “No, really. Tell me.”

  “Since you insist. It’s just that with all that stuff crammed in here it’s going to be much too crowded for slumber parties.” Dessa had never been to a slumber party in her life but she knew the popular girls all favored such things. And she had no doubt that Ellie would run with the popular crowd as soon as school started.

  Ellie studied her bedroom as if seeing it for the first time. “You really think so?”

  The room was practically made for slumber parties. “Maybe. Maybe not,” Dessa said, shrugging.

  Ellie’s shoulders sagged. “You’re probably right,” she sighed. She paused a moment as if to mull over the problem. “I know what!” she said excitedly, “You could help me arrange the furniture so that it does work for sleep-overs.”