Cheyenne Madonna. Eddie MDiv Chuculate
fists blurring piston-like in front of her. Her eyes were wide like she was startled, and her lips formed an “O.” She blew her breath in short, smart huffs. With twenty yards left Jordan became scared he was going to lose and with this burst of adrenalin shot past her through the fence posts at the last instant. Barking, Butch came in a distant third.
They stood bent over at their waists, hands on their thighs, sucking air heavily. Looking up, Jordan saw tight buds of black hair in her armpits. The little silver dove on her necklace swung gaily and sparkled like it was flying. He grew weary of standing and plopped down on the ground. She did the same. Sweat had popped out on their foreheads. Jordan watched a bead drop from her chin onto her chest and roll down between her breasts and soak into her shirt. A breeze came and cooled them. Finally, she broke the silence.
“I didn’t know you could run like that,” she panted. “Hardly nobody beats me.”
“You’re the fastest girl I’ve ever seen,” he gasped. “You’re faster than anyone on my team.”
“Good race,” she said, and extended her hand for The Shake. They shook, then YoYo snapped her fingers and said, “You fast, baby. But you got lucky. I don’t like runnin’ in no cow pasture. I runs on a motherfuckin’ track.” She was moving her head back and forth like a chicken. “Now let’s go walkin’ around down here and see what all they is to do.”
After they threw rocks at turtles in the pond, Jordan showed her the small canyon where the landowners let people dump trash for five dollars.
“My grandpa found a fan here one time and fixed it,” Jordan said.
YoYo bent down over a pile of rubbish and withdrew a magazine gingerly, holding it by her fingertips.
“Oooooh. Look at this nasty magazine. People be dumpin’ some nasty books off in this motherfucker!” She held a picture up to Jordan. “This ol’ bitch be havin’ some big-ass titties.”
Jordan looked away. He’d spent entire afternoons in the canyon looking for Playboys but how could he look at them with YoYo around? He’d be back for it later.
“Ol’ white bitch,” YoYo said, and flung the magazine back.
“I know a place we can go,” Jordan said. “Come on.”
She followed him up a cow trail which led out of the canyon and into a grove of young trees. The trees had grown together closely and provided good heavy shade. They ducked and entered. Inside, Jordan had a place cleared where they sat down across from each other, leaning back on the small trunks.
“This your clubhouse or something?”
“No, I just come here when it gets too hot,” he said.
They sat quietly and listened to the wind rattle the branches and leaves, which made dizzying symmetrical patterns against the sky. Somewhere, a dog barked. Butch, sprawled on the ground, pricked one ear but kept his eyes closed. Jordan felt drowsy.
“You folks is Indians ain’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“My grandma be havin’ some Creek off in her, but Pops said I ain’t got no Indian,” YoYo said. She held her arm out in front of her. “See, if I had some Indian off in me I’d be light like you.”
Her arm was darker than his but not exactly black, Jordan thought. Blackern’ a charcoal grill, he’d heard Grandpa describe his friend Mr. Jones.
“Uncle Rodney say Indians got some dog off in them ’cause they be eating dogs but I don’t believe his crazy ass.” She paused. “You folks don’t eat no dog, do you?”
Jordan looked at Butch, who lay curved with his snout in his hock and a fly on his black-and-brown coat. Occasionally he’d puff up with air and sigh. They said he was German shepherd because he looked more German shepherd than anything. He had simply shown up at their gate. Out of the clear blue sky, Granny’d said.
Jordan didn’t answer. YoYo rubbed Jordan’s leg with the tip of her Converse and looked down at the small points of her breasts.
“What you think of these,” she said, cupping them underneath and lifting them up. “They ain’t big like that white bitch but they there. Wanna see ’em?”
“No,” Jordan said quickly, and stood. “Let’s go fishin’.”
“Aw, cuz, I don’t wanna do no motherfuckin’ fishin’. That’s all they is to do out here is go fishin’. I wish I was back in town.” She looked south, towards town.
“I know,” she said. “Let’s dance.” She gave a little jump in the air and began grinding her butt in rhythmic circles. She sang throatily, “I got somethin’ that’ll sure ’nuff do you good. Tell me somethin’ good, tell me that you love me, baby.”
Jordan could do nothing but simply stare.
“Come on, cuz, dance,” she implored, and floated over and tried to rub her butt against his. Jordan leaped away. “Come on, boy, shake that booty!”
Jordan ducked and ran out of the cluster of the trees into the open. Butch was up in an instant and then YoYo came out, laughing and whooping, and chased them until they reached the pond.
“Aw, shit! I gots to go home. My folks is home,” she said, looking toward the brick house.
Before Jordan could say anything she took off jogging. “Bye, cutey,” she said over her shoulder.
* * *
That night his grandparents sat across from each other like chess pieces at the kitchen table, drinking Brown Derby beer in a bottle. When they were drinking Jordan liked to pop in, drop a controversial bomb, then return later to see what road the argument was on. Once, he’d offered that Aunt Dorothy’s boyfriend Leo had said Zeke’s garden was scrawny. They took it meekly at first but an hour and a few beers later they were haggling over just how sorry lazy-ass Leo was. Tonight, Jordan dropped in and said that YoYo said Indians eat dogs.
“Don’t listen to that nonsense,” Granny said. “Did you catch any fish today?”
“Whaaat!” Grandpa said disbelievingly, drawing it out, like he hadn’t heard right.
“Oh, Lord, here we go,” Granny said, shook her head, and took a drink.
“Those sumbitches’ll eat anything,” Zeke said. “Carp, gar, nigger quail, rotten possum.”
Zeke seemed inflamed, holding his bottle in the air and pointing his finger around.
“Hush up, Zeke!” Granny said, trying to dismiss the conversation with a flick of her hand. “Talk about something else. I am not going to sit here and listen to this!”
Zeke ground to a halt, mumbled something about possums, and drank, shaking his head. He had a faraway look.
“I tell you one thing, an Indian will outwork a lazy ol’ nigger anyday!”
“Zeke!”
“Humph.”
Sorry he’d said anything, Jordan left the room, brushing back the thin white sheet they hung in the doorway when they were going to stay up late and drink. He lay on the bed with the fan blowing on him and tried to sleep. As he lay awake, he could see through the sheet the silhouetted figures of his grandparents moving about the kitchen. He dozed off once, then woke and crept over to the doorway and pulled the sheet back a slice.
Zeke was standing and pointing a finger at Granny. “Now, Flo,” he said, “I didn’t raise that boy to be a nigger lover.” Jordan went back to bed and heard them talk normal, argue loudly, talk normal, argue loudly until the rhythm, as usual, put him to sleep.
This Saturday, Jordan said he really didn’t feel like going riding around with them. Felt a little sick, he said, when really, he wanted to watch the Reds play the Dodgers. Usually, if he didn’t have a game, he’d go with