“Mutt, mixed blood, half breed.”
“Ah okay. Well, whoever calls you that is a jerk. You’re plenty Indian…I mean Native American.”
“Thanks. I think so too.”
A long stilted silence fell over the dig site. Will and I would glance at each other on occasion and my gut would bubble with desire.
“If I ask you something personal, will you get pissed?”
“That depends on if it’s a stupid question or a question asked out of honest curiosity.”
He nodded. “It’s just me being curious.”
This was a really nice side of Will. I wished he would let it out more often. “Then ask away.”
“How old are you?” He snuck a peek my way. An owl call rolled over the grasslands.
“Twenty-two. I’ll be twenty-three this November.”
He openly studied me now. I felt some heat warming my cheeks. “You look older than that.”
“It’s the beard. Trust me, under these whiskers I look like I’m fourteen.” I reached up to stroke the soft dark whiskers that had taken me so long to grow in. “And yes, Native men can grow beards. Plus, I have that White great-grandfather on my mother’s side don’t forget.”
“Sure right. Okay. I just thought you were older. You act ancient.” That made the smile slip from my face. “Don’t get mad, it’s just that you’re more comfortable with Nate than me.”
There were a million reasons for that, but I kept them all locked down tight. “Maybe I prefer to be around mature people. I do have goals. I want to go to college someday.”
“Then go.” I huffed at his words. “No, man, it’s nothing stupid. I just don’t get it. Why scrabble and work your ass off at this shithole ranch when you could get all the grants and scholarships in the world? It makes no sense.”
“I have to work here. Why is that so hard to grasp? Yeah, I can get a waiver, but I have a job that pays well—” He scoffed at that comment. “It pays well. I have responsibilities at home. Do you know what that means? To be responsible?”
“You sound like your grandfather.”
“Thanks.” He gave me a long, confused look. “What? I’m happy to sound like Kenruh. He’s the coolest, wisest man I know. Maybe if you spent more time soaking up what your brother and Nate are trying to teach you instead of sniffing after Paula and sneaking dope into the bunkhouse, you’d come off as less of a fuckwit.”
Shit. Why was all this venom pouring out of me? I didn’t like sounding so condescending. What was it about Will that pushed me into doing stupid things? I never spoke out like this. Never. If I had come at my grandfather with the attitude that Will came at the world with, my grandfather would have lectured me endlessly.
“What’s that word? Kenruh?”
“Shoshoni for grandfather.”
“Oh. Do you speak that fluently? Shoshoni?” he asked, the lantern glow caressing his face. And now he was back to the open honest Will, the defensiveness gone. It was like riding white water rapids without a paddle talking with this man. One minute he was being a jerk and the next he was genuine.
“I’m learning, but it’s barely conversational. Kenruh is fluent. There are only about five people on the reservation who speak Shoshoni well, however, there is a surge of younger people wanting to learn.”
“Cool. That’s cool.” I gave him a wary look. “No, I’m serious. It’s cool to want to speak your native tongue.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure how to handle this more serene side of Will, so I picked up my phone and went back to my book. He was always so fucking contradictory. The last time he had let down his walls just a little bit we’d both been drunk on Jim Beam and things had taken place. I waited for him to say more but he quieted then, drawing his legs up to his chest and hugging them to himself, staring at me reading for a while then turned his attention to the vast black skies overhead.
“Did your grandfather ever whip you when you were young?” The question fell out of the sky like a shooting star. My gaze flew from my phone to my coworker/crush/center of confusion.
“No, never. He’s part of an upsurge of people wanting to return to the old ways of positive parenting that many tribes used to follow before the European ideals of sparing the rod and spoiling the child arrived here.”
His blue eyes closed for a moment. “Spare the rod. Yeah, as if.” His throat worked hard. His jaw flexed. “What are positive parenting skills?”
My phone went to sleep. I let it slumber. “Well, he’s working with a group to teach Shoshoni to the tribe as well as raising awareness and desire to attend tribal ceremonies. There’s a small group that’s teaching new and young parents how to foster a strong parent-child bond. Instead of spanking or hitting, the tribe is trying to instill culturally appropriate and less traumatizing means of discipline.”
“Did your parents hit you?” His voice had gone soft now.