Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love Read online

  “Hit me back. Hurt me,” he orders. I hesitate and he shouts, “Slap me, punch me.”

  “Why?” I sit up and look at his eyes. They’re wide open, almost popping out of his head. The pupils are dilated.

  “Just hurt me tough girl, only don’t leave any bruises.”

  I’m not all that experienced but I’ve never had a problem pleasing, and sometimes enjoying, men. This is new to me. He’s confused too, I can see he’s in full retreat. “You really want me to do that?”

  “Just hurt me, damn it. Before I’m out of the mood.”

  I give him a light slap on the face, and, again, a little harder. “That do it?”

  “Getting there. Spank me. Spank me hard.”

  This is too weird. I can’t do it. I can see that despite what Levi says, He’s not up for it either. This is sick. Not for me. Not tonight. No way. I stand, put on my clothes and look down at Levi. He lays there and gives me a look I can’t decipher. He’s either ready to cry or try to do some major damage to me.

  Crying wins. I watch his eyes mist up and his lip quiver. He stays there a long time, then quietly gets up and dresses. “Let’s go to the party and try again later,” he says in a flat, emotionless voice. “I picked you out and you’ll have to learn to satisfy me. If you can’t, you’re going to be a very, very, sorry Squaw Girl.”

  Chapter 4

  The minute we enter the house it feels different—like we’re strangers on a first date. After an awkward silence, he takes my hand and guides me forward. “Nice place. Beats the teepees we got on the reservation. Who lives here?” I say to break the ice.

  “Belongs to Sharon’s parents. They’re on a Caribbean cruise. She graduated from the University of Minnesota, Duluth last year. Works as a stockbroker in Minneapolis. Not a happy camper—hates her job—hates the cities.”

  “Didn’t you used to date her?”

  “I dated a lot of people. Even your sister-in-law a few times. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  “Laura? When was that?”

  “After Jack knocked her up—after he married her. Bet he doesn’t know that either.” He shows me another lopsided smile.

  The idea of Laura cheating on Jack doesn’t bother me. I have low expectations of both my brother and his wife’s moral standards. The idea of Laura cheating with Levi does piss me off. They’re in two different worlds that I like to keep separate. He’s fishing for a reaction, but I don’t bite. “Laura’s a strong girl, I guess she really knows how to slap and spank. Too bad she dropped you.”

  “I did the dropping, thank you,” he barks, moving forward.

  I scan the crowd and estimate it at about twenty. I recognize about half from college. The others seem about my age, a few look to be pushing thirty. There’re all white, all upper class, all leading the life that I want to live. I rub the scar on my cheek, take a deep breath, and follow Levi across the room.

  I hear a rap beat coming from the top of a broad stairwell. It’s hard to see clearly in the dim light and the air is filled with a haze of smoke and the smell of weed. We step over a pair of prone, intertwined, bodies and move to a small group sitting cross-legged on a ring of pillows.

  “Sharon, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.” He says, looking down at one of the dim figures. A girl, about twenty-five struggles to her feet. Her legs are wobbly and one of her hazel eyes is dull and reddened, the pupil dilated. The other eye is also hazel but it is glass.

  I remember Sharon. She was a pair’s figure skater from Duluth and was shooting for a spot in the Olympics until she lost her eye when she got tangled up with her partner and his skate took it out.

  “What are you, another girl race car driver?” She lurches forward, gets too close and tries to focus her bleary eye on me. I smell her sour breath and push her away.

  “Be nice Sharon.” Levi stands between us. “Layla will be a senior next year. Smart lady—math major—probably end up teaching, maybe go to grad school. That’s assuming she doesn’t scramble her brain in those Friday night fights down at the casino.”

  Rita makes a sweeping gesture with both arms and almost falls over. “A prize fighter,” she yells, circling the room with her good eye. Looking back she sees my scar and high cheekbones. “Welcome to my humble abode fighter girl—Miss. Smart, Indian, fighter girl.” Fixing her eye on Levi, she grins and says, “What’s mine is yours.” She staggers and slides back to the floor.

  I get her meaning. I’m in no mood to let it go but Levi takes my arm and steers me away. The party is about equally divided between smokers and drinkers with a small group sampling nose candy on a glass table in a corner. Levi knows my aversion to all three and leaves me stranded. “Catch you later for another try. Be good.” He winks and makes his way to a group of smokers.

  * * *

  Looking around I have a gnawing feeling of doubt. Is membership in this snobby group of self-absorbed phonies worth the sacrifices I’ve made? Is it worth what I may have done to Roxy? Those doubts temporarily fade away and I feel my heart beat harder and my knees get shaky when I spot Andy, another townie and my first lover, behind the bar. He sees me and waves.

  “Thought you were heading for medical school. Didn’t know you’d end up tending bar.”

  “It’s a good place to hide. This isn’t my kind of scene. I came here with Sophie. She hooked up with one of Rita’s stoner friends I’m about ready to take her keys and leave. He leans across the bar and melts me with the Andy smile I remember so well. In spite of the polluted air and the musty odor of spilled beer his smell of after shave brings back strong memories. He looks the same too—an inch shorter than me, broad shoulders from competitive swimming, dirty blonde hair, and hazel eyes that shade to green when he’s excited.

  “A Coke please, invisible bartender,” I say, working to keep the quiver from my voice.

  He stalls for time, fiddling with ice cubes and pouring from a can. “How long’s it been, Layla?”

  That mellow voice and those direct, seductive eyes trigger emotions I’ve repressed and I pause for a minute. I eventually say, “It’s been three years six months and four days, but who’s counting?”

  “That long, exactly? You’re amazing.”

  “I’m a math major, numbers come easy. Besides, the night your father pulled me out of your car is permanently recorded in my brain.”

  He shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and smiles. “I had your bra off and was heading south. It was embarrassing.”

  The scene plays out like a video. We’re in his driveway after the soccer awards banquet. Dr. Mason shines a flashlight, yanks open the door, grabs my arm, pulls too hard, and I fall to the asphalt. I try to get up and he clubs me with the flashlight. He tells me I’m a “godamn worthless Indian whore, not fit for his son,” and to “stay away.” Levi doesn’t argue, doesn’t even look back, just walks away with him while I stagger to the car I’ve left parked at his curb.

  “You only called once after that. When I answered, you just hung up and I never heard from you again,” I say.

  “Worse mistake of my life, walking away from you that night. Second worse was staying away.” He looks down at the ice cube container. “My grandpa was a drunk. Was passed out on the tracks in the Superior rail yard and killed, run over by an ore train,” he continues, still looking at the ice cubes. “Dad had to raise his sisters—his mom was long gone. They were dirt poor. Now that he’s made it, he wants to distance himself from those memories.”

  “You mean from people like me.”

  “I’m ashamed for both me and my dad.”

  “People from Desperation Hollow can handle rejection. We’re used to it.”

  “We had a major row. There’s something about your family he doesn’t like - something in the past. He wouldn’t say.”

  “I saw him tonight at the hospital. He hasn’t changed his mind.” I force a smile and continue. “Past history, it worked out for the best. We’ve both moved on.”

  He doesn’t say anything,
looks up from the ice and mercilessly holds eye contact, finding the hurt and lie beneath my bravado. I look away and finally say, “What happened with Julie? I didn’t expect an invitation, but I thought you were tying the knot this spring.”

  “I got her on the rebound from you. She was a convenient escape, had the right social standing, and my family liked her. It took me three and a half years to figure out she wasn’t the one. She graduated from Wisconsin in January and took a job in the Silicon Valley,” he says, moving next to me in front of the bar. “I rarely see you on campus and when I do, you keep your distance,” he continues, putting his hand on my shoulder and moving closer.

  “The math and biology buildings are on opposite sides of campus. Students are in different orbits.” His face is now six inches away and I can tell from his expression that he knows that’s not the reason.

  “I’ve been trying to find a way to connect with you since I dumped Julie. My plan was to do it on the African trip, hope you’re still signed up.”

  “If I can get the money—I need to fight again to do that.”

  “One more question and I want the truth.” He pauses, drops his hands and gives me a searching look. “How do you feel about me?”

  The answer is complicated. I’m hurt that he pushed me aside to please his father. I’m angry that he found a white, socially acceptable substitute. But, the truth is, I’m still deeply attracted.

  “Nothing’s changed.” I decide to tell the truth and feel a tear forming. “Never will, I guess,” I whisper.

  “Thank god. Me, too.”

  * * *

  We’re nervously touching hands and wondering what to do next when Mia Olson and her witless companion, Chuck Nelson, spot us. I watch them cross the room. Chuck resembles a muscle bound frog and Mia looks like a downsized version of me without the blue eyes, scar or crooked nose. I can see that she’s had too much to drink by the redness of her normally dark complexion. She’s what the locals call a “Black Swede”—a term some think comes from the genetic consequences of intermingling with the Simis in the Scandinavian north.

  “How’d you get in here Peterson? I thought they kept your kind on the reservation after dark.” Mia smiles as she says it but we both know it isn’t really a joke. It isn’t really a smile either. Her lips form a sneer and her grey eyes are cold.

  “He dragged her in,” says Chuck, pointing his pudgy thumb over his shoulder toward Levi while looking at me with his bulging frog eyes.

  “Another trophy. Levi gets off on pain. First it was Sharon. He was only a freshman when her clumsy partner hooked her eye with his skate,” says Mia.

  “Last year it was Jenny, Andy Johnson’s younger sister. She flunked out after one semester and got into dirt track racing. They liked the novelty of a girl driver. I was there the night she wrecked. Damn near lost her leg. Now she’s all wired up—bones held together with braces and screws. Can’t walk without a cane, can’t drive a stock car, and can’t get back in school. She’s screwed two ways,” adds Chuck, smiling at his attempt at humor and showing me his crooked, yellow teeth.

  “That’s the only screwing she’s getting these days. Levi dropped her over Christmas vacation—must have been his new year’s resolution. But now he’s got a replacement—you.” Mia’s voice is slurred and she punctuates his statement by jabbing her finger hard into my chest.

  I don’t know why Mia is always on my case. She’s another townie and we were friends until ninth grade and played basketball together until we graduated. It didn’t help that I got a full scholarship and beat her out for all-state selection but she had it in for me long before that. Her dad’s the richest man in town—probably the county—maybe the state. Her mom died when she was a baby and her dad travels a lot. She was raised by an overly tolerant aunt. She’s rich, spoiled and self-centered. She’s also a member of the in sorority, and leader of the snobby rich girl clique. Unlike me, she has a clear future. She’s a business major and will work for her old man, Rolf, when she graduates. I usually ignore her taunts but not in my present mood, not after Roxy. No way Miss Perfect, not tonight.

  I grab her pointing finger, pull her closer and jam my knee hard into her gut. She drops to her knees and I see Chuck lurching toward me. I give him a left to the ribs, pivot on my right leg and whip the left across the back of his knees. He joins Mia on the floor.

  “Big jock like you shouldn’t pick on girls, says Andy, stepping between us and looking down at Chuck.

  They’re both drunk and it isn’t much of a contest—wouldn’t be if they were sober either because Andy would help with Chuck.

  The room grows quiet. All three groups: the pot heads, the boozers, and the sniffers stare at me like I’ve teleported down from an alien space ship. Not the way to impress the East Side rich whites.

  I feel a hand on my wrist. Levi pulls at me. “Let’s get out of here. Time for the second act.” His eyes are bright and his voice is low. I can tell the action turns him on.

  Andy puts a hand on the other arm and tugs me the opposite direction, toward the door. His eyes are hard and his voice is directive. “You don’t want to do that. Come with me.”

  I stand frozen until my phone vibrates. It’s Gus. His voice is flat, non-committal. I hear a series of clicks and muted conversation and then Mickey comes on. “She’s going to live but her mind may never be the same and they’re certain she’ll never see again—something about her optic nerve,” he blurts out. “Not your fault. Roxy didn’t train and was in no shape to fight.”

  I have no words. Finally, I simply say “I’m sorry” and hang up. Pushing Levi away, I let Andy lead me to the door.

  The crowd parts. We shuffle across the room, out the door, and don’t talk while he drives me back to the casino. We climb a small hill, stand in the cold wind, and watch the clouds move under the stars. When the tears come, Andy wipes them away with his fingers and licks them with his tongue. The questions keep playing over and over in my mind. Why did I let myself lose control with Mia? Why did I lead that sicko Levi on? What the hell did I do to Roxy? Who am I trying to be? What price must I pay to be normal?

  Chapter 5

  It’s just over a six mile run—three and a tenth out and the same back—almost a perfect ten kilometers from my trailer to the casino and back. I try to run it every morning except when I have a match at night. It usually relaxes me, the rhythm stimulates my creative juices, helps me see things from different angles. But, this morning, the further I go, the more I replay yesterday, and the angrier I get. The trail climbs a steep ridge, winds through a stand of Jack Pines, descends through a Buck Brush swamp, and follows an old logging road to the casino’s rear employee parking lot.

  It’s still dark when I start and when I hit the Jack Pines, I’m in an even darker mental place, feeling sorry for Roxy and pissed at myself and a little at Gus for making me do her that way. I could have played with her and waited for the obvious decision declaring me a winner. I stop and swing hard at a dead pine trunk with my open hand. It hurts and I don’t care. “Damn it,” I scream to the pines. Damn it—damn it—damn it,” I shout louder. The trees don’t seem to care and I start running again. I made a fool of myself in front of the East Side whites that I want to impress. I could have walked away from Mia—didn’t need to pick a fight. Didn’t need to get tangled up with that super-jock sicko, Levi, either. When I get to the Buck Brush, I’m moving at a six minute mile pace—way too fast for my comfort zone and the uneven terrain, but I don’t slow down. When I emerge on the logging road, I turn back to the endless stand of gnarled bushes and shout, “The hell with you all, too,” and push myself even harder.

  I’m so angry, so self-absorbed, and going so fast, I almost run into the GMC Sierra that pulls out of the trees and blocks me. I trip and on the way to the ground, I catch a glimpse of the guy in the white turtle neck with the Barrack Obama Halloween mask stepping out of the woods behind me. My head hits the packed dirt and little pinpricks of white dance before my eyes, b
ut not before I see that he’s pointing a 30-06 automatic rifle at me. When my vison clears, I get to my knees and see another Halloween character, this one wearing a Donald Duck mask, get out of the GMC and move toward me.

  “Get in the truck bitch,” he orders. His voice is muffled by the rubber mask but sounds high and unusually feminine. Sounds more like Daisy Duck, I say to myself, somehow amused by my time consuming observation.

  “Just a minute—hurt my leg—hold on.” I squat, and as I turn back toward Obama, I twist my fanny pack to the front, unzip it and pull out my little Smith & Wesson .38 Revolver with its 2-inch Barrel. My brother Jack, “found it,” taught me how to use it, and insists that I take it with me when I’m alone around the reservation. I’m a good rifle shot but can’t hit a barn door with the .38. I am fast with it though, and snap off a round in the general direction of the imitation president. It doesn’t come close but it scares him and he lets loose two wild blasts of the automatic. They sound incredibly loud in the close confines of the trees. One of them barely misses the duck and the other shatters the front side window of the GMC.

  “Not a bitch, Daisy,” I shout, rolling toward the trees and getting off another round. This one hits the GMC’s door and sends the duck scrambling for cover on the other side of the truck.

  “Fuck,” screams Barrack, lumbering toward me and firing a thunderous hip shot with the 30-06. This one comes close. I hear it ping off the large granite bolder six inches from my head.

  I crawl further into the trees and get off another shot. I’m lucky. This one hits Obama somewhere on his arm. “Fuck,” he shouts again and drops the rifle. I stand, take another step into the woods while pointing the .38 back at the duck. I’m about to comment on Barrack’s limited vocabulary and crank out another round, when I turn my ankle, and feel myself falling downhill, toward another bolder. Then, everything turns black and time stands still.