John

The phone call that rattled the vacation John was trying to enjoy came on Saturday, the afternoon after Jeanie and he had dealt with that drunken asshole at Diner 96. John was still setting up his new home: the old hunting cabin. He raced up the steps from the basement. The floral wallpaper his ex-girlfriend, Linda, had picked out still graced the kitchen walls, but that had been so long ago. Now the place felt nice but impersonal, like a vacation home should.

"Hello?" he said a little impatiently. "Hello," he said a second, third time. Maybe the connection out here was bad. He had wanted to spend his vacation days alone at the cabin, settling in. Most of the place was unpacked and set up, but there were a few boxes left and he was desperate to go into town for groceries, before the storm, unless he wanted the Parmesan rind and the jar of olives in the fridge to be his dinner.

The telephone connection crackled. Thunder rumbled outside. He waited.

Some static and then finally, a voice. "John," a woman sounded impatient. "It's McKenna."

His stomach tightened in worry."Shouldn't you be focused on recovering from that broken leg? And I'm under orders to be on vacation," he said dryly. "What's going on? The Bureau called me yesterday. Does this have to do with-"

"EarthOutfitters," McKenna interrupted. "Yeah. The Bureau, did they tell you that the place was clean? So, that theory was floated to the Task Force? That EarthOutfitters was a front for gun-running? Well, it's been checked out. The place was clean. There was no front. Those people were innocent, all those people working there and shopping there."

"Yes," John said tightly, holding his breath, "They said it was clean. Over in Michigan they raided the home of the owner and founder, that Lewis Whitehorn fellow. The search didn't have a warrant, but Whitehorn didn't deny them entry or demand one, either; sounds like he had nothing to hide."

"Well, the search proved that, I think," McKenna said, "they found nothing in his house, audited him and the business. Not so much as one unreported penny, and taxes have been paid."

"So you know what this could mean, don't you? My own Bureau ...Or someone ... fed people a bullshit theory that this place was a radical hotbed. Painting Whitehorn as a fringe type and his business as an arms factory."

"Someone tipped off A.C.T. that a gun smuggling deal was going on. Then it was bombed. Who set the bomb?"

"I sure as fucking hell don't know," John said, anger rising. He took a deep breath, counted to four, and let it out.

In John's mind, the attack on EarthOutfitters had been just the latest in a series of violent attacks that had been flying back and forth so quickly lately that it was impossible to keep up with who was paying who back for what anymore. It seemed like lately he and his team had been coming across more dead Natives a lot lately.

The official report had said that the explosion had been caused by an extreme white group. Once, John might have believed them. He shook his head. No, not even then. Not that Headquarters would see anyone who was there as innocent. Reports had come in, reports of a gun smuggling deal taking place in the back room of the local mall's EarthOutfitters shop. The SWAT team had been sent in to make some arrests and things had fallen apart. John more than half suspected that they had been meant to.

The state of Illinois was going to hell. Its borders were menaced by attack, after attack, after attack on the reservation lands that overlapped and now the violence was in their state: EarthOutfitters almost a martyr. In Wisconsin had been that explosion during opening shift at the local wood cutting plant that was on Res land. And here, in Chicago, the fire at the local library. The dug up, desecrated graves in the white church yard. Those two boys recently that had been jumped and beaten too close to death to stand much hope of recovery. Plenty of reasons for someone to want the bust to go bad. Looked like they'd gotten their wish.

That day, at the epicenter of the blast, he'd felt need for revenge emanating off of the crowd of onlookers like so much heat. He'd turned his back, ignored them, ignored the shouted insults and catcalls. Hadn't looked at them as he'd passed a blown-out window. He knew what he'd see. Same thing this always caused no matter what color skin the crowd had. He didn't need to see the anger, the frustration, the want, the need, for spilled blood.

Three hundred years. It was a long time to bear a grudge. A long time to fight a war. Three hundred years of whites pushing Indians off their land and three hundred years of the Indians fighting back. The whole nation was a mismatched quilt work of Indian and white land. The Americans resented the harness on their movement. The Indians referred to all non-Indian land as the Lost Lands. A sudden streak of anger burned through John. Weren't they all supposed to be American?

After World War Two and subsequent prosperity, there'd been squatters on land they didn't have a right to. Then Reservation land had been needed for expanding industries. There had been protests. Protests had eventually become riots. Riots had been put down using force. The protesters who rose out of that didn't act like protesters anymore. They acted like terrorists. And that's when the government had formed ACT. The Army Counter-Terrorists. At first it had worked. And then the Indians had formed the Alliance Warriors Society.

And between them, the two groups had managed to send everything straight to hell.

McKenna's voice on the phone broke into his angry reverie. "John? Are you still there? John?"

"Yeah," he'd said in an uncharacteristically shaky voice. "Sorry. I was somewhere else. Jesus, Mack," he sighed, using the nickname they all called her. "Do you know what this could mean?"

"Fuck yeah, I do. It was a setup. But there's no way to tell if it was in the Bureau or not."

"This has to stop," John said, unable to keep his voice level.

He was so angry, he felt dizzy and sick at the same time, vision wavering. He leaned heavily against the wall and pressed a hand to his eyes. There was static on the line. He wondered if the weather was bad in Chicago. There was going to be a big storm here up at Black Lake, likely rain and sleet, maybe snow. Late spring was off to a shitty start, indeed.

McKenna's worry and anxiousness was like a living thing; John felt it exhale and begin crawling up the line.

He felt like he was going to throw up. And he knew why.

Jeanie. Always, it came back to her, this girl he didn't even know.

"You okay?" his partner was saying.

"No," he said, "I need to tell you something. You have to keep this between us, okay? If anyone finds out, they'll hurt her." His words were coming too fast and he was on the verge of not making sense.

"John, what are you talking about?" McKenna was calm. She'd been his liaison partner for years now. He'd been at her wedding. "Whatever it is, it's going to stay between us, okay?"

He'd stood at her wedding. They'd done stakeouts together. She was his partner. McKenna was solid. He could trust her.

"Uh, okay. Listen, Mack. ..." Nervous, he kept repeating himself. He forced himself to say it. "The day we were there. At EarthOutfitters. There was a girl. She was alive. Unconscious, but alive. I ... I told Anderson she was dead. I got us out of there."

"What?" McKenna sounded incredulous.

"I couldn't let them take her, Mack," he pleaded, "I just couldn't. She was just a young college kid, out cold, probably suffered a concussion. I ...I had found her pulse. She had no weapon that I could see in that darkness. She was alive and I couldn't let them just throw her in the back of a van. You know how Interrogation goes." His voice had dropped to a whisper, and he'd slumped on the floor, back against the wall, hand over his face. "I just couldn't," he said, "This violence is senseless. My own Bureau could have pulled this. Someone was trying to make EarthOutfitters out to be the next Waco." He was just glad McKenna was not here ,watching him huddled on the floor, swiping in embarrassed anguish at tears.

"Okay," McKenna soothed, "John, relax. It's okay. You might be right, about the Bureau. But don't jump to conclusions. And I would've done the same thing: lied to Anderson's puffy face that she was dead. You know what a pig he can be."

Her voice had hardened as she talked about their fellow Task Force member, as they remembered the absolute batshit situation the previous year near Waco, Texas.

"Anderson enjoys his work a little too much, I think," McKenna said after a moment.

Anderson was a hard-ass with a taste for gore and violence, a serial harasser who saw nothing wrong with flirting with married women, catcalling girls on the streets, looking for trouble with Natives, and who had a reputation in Interrogation that preceded him.

"Promise me, McKenna. This stays between us."

"John. Of course. Any idea what's become of the girl?"

John could lie. Or he could be honest.

"John?" McKenna prompted; he knew she knew he was holding back.

He made some excuse to stop talking to her, and hung up the phone.

His hands shook as he hung up the phone. He tried to go back to his own business, but the room around him spun. He somehow made it to his bed, which rose up to meet him in a soft embrace. He buried his head on his arms, sprawling into the pillows.

Oh, dear God. Jeanie. Always Jeanie. She haunted him.

But he had to forget about her.

Jeanie Leclair could do what she wanted, go where she wanted, date who she wanted, and John wasn't going to get involved.

There was no way in hell he would allow himself to get any closer to her. It simply would not be appropriate. He was bad at relationships. He was at least ten years older. And they were enemies. And, he could unwittingly put her in danger.

Closeness between them could not ever be. No matter that he might have started falling for her the moment he'd seen her, laughing and alive and beautiful. No matter how much he wanted to protect her from the world out there. This terrible world he and his ilk had helped to create.

Jeanie

His coat was hanging in her closet, and she was thinking of ways she could casually run into him to return it. It was likely going to snow, and she ought return it. Not long ago, it was T-shirt weather. Now everyone was bundled in sweaters again. She wished this miserable spring over with and longed for summer.

He'd draped it over her shoulders as she'd sat shivering in the night. She'd give it back. It was a fine coat, made of wool blend, in a rich taupe color with burgundy-colored buttons. It had a Brooks Brothers label on the inside.

The day was cold, with the promise of sleet, maybe snow. Yet here she was with her friends, swimming at the Rec Center down the street from the little frame house they shared. This place was freezing right now, but they heated the water.

Jeanie moved with precision through the lap pool's warm water, her front crawl a seamless work of practiced technique. After all the hits her body had taken recently, this surprised the hell out of her. Her doctor had admonished her not to swim to the point of exhaustion as she was just getting back to it. But he highly advised against contact sports.

That was just as well. The very thought of playing in a stickball tournament made her want to vomit.

The aquatic center was crowded. Every lane full. As other swimmers churned the water, Jeanie tuned them all out, concentrated on just herself. Many of these people were regulars, just like the three of them; they had said hello and made friendly small talk with several already. A few lanes down from Jeanie, Tsia viciously cut through the water in an aggressive butterfly. Mae was at the diving well. Jeanie took her swim more leisurely. Really focused on getting to know her body in exercise once again.

She still roiled with embarrassment over the events of the other night at Diner 96; all of it, including Maddie's behavior. It just irked the hell out of her that Maddie seemed to be trying to match-make the two of them, and it irked her even more that John seemed to be enjoying it sometimes, bantering with her, but then would admit to her that he didn't think it right of Maddie to send her over to him with his beer and not telling her who it was for. Jeanie had had no idea it was for him. But then, she'd ended up needing him around. Which pissed her off, plainly. Because she already felt weak. All the time feeling exhausted and needy and half the person she'd been.

She could almost fool herself. Jeanie could almost pretend she was the same person she'd been before the EarthOutfitters bombing.

But she wasn't the same person. She found it hard to simply make it through the days on half of her hearing. It was exhausting not being able to hear, having people yell at her or push her or get in her space. Talking was exhausting. She was terrified of being too loud. Before she'd been injured and lost hearing in her right ear, she'd had a lovely laugh, a zest for life, always a word in on the conversation. Now, she was afraid to raise her voice at all because it was hard to tell how loud she was talking. She stuck to just-above whispers and at 23 years old felt like a virginal librarian, unattractive, withdrawn and depressed. Her asthma had worsened, flaring up due to stress. Tsia and Mae would struggle to get her out of bed some days, when she would plead migraine or cramps or just seething anger.

But the girls were optimistic, full of good cheer and kind efforts. So was her family.

They were full of advice.

"Don't worry so much, Jeanie. Keep healing. Once you get back to swimming, you'll feel like your old self."

"Once your ear heals enough to get that hearing aid, your world will open up again." (Yeah, like an old lady's)

"See a counselor." (They cost money)

"Get a new pet."

"Don't sleep so late." (Fuck off)

"Go outside. But don't go out with wet hair." (You sound like my mother)

"Did you say your Rosary? I'll light a candle for you."

"Stop wearing all that heavy eyeliner. Your face is so pretty. You know grunge will never catch on." (I was wearing kohl well before the bombing, thank you)

"Eat meat. You know this vegetarian thing is the last thing you need." (I hug animals. I don't grill them)

"Darling, are you sure you don't want to move back in?" (I'm turning 24!)

They all had advice and it was well meaning, but it was flying at her from all directions. Jeanie didn't know what to do with all of it. So she took swimming as a first piece of advice. Swimming was familiar, comforting, an extension of her personality. It was safe. She needed Safe. She needed Better.

That day in the diner, the one where she'd met John, she had genuinely been feeling alright. Tsia had made her laugh with an old story, and Jeanie had enjoyed the memory so much she'd forgotten herself, had laughed as her old self would have.

John Smith had unraveled her recovery, sending her into a spiral of uncertainty and existential chaos. She was upset, naturally, to have been found by her enemy, no less. Sometimes, she felt little will to live, to do much of anything. There were things, important things to her, that seemed pointless now. One was the resistance movement she and some friends had tried to start.

That was how she demarcated her life, now: Before the EarthOutfitters bombing and After. Peace efforts mostly seemed pointless: there was bloodshed every day, practically. So many days, she felt ready to just give up.

But here, now, the swim felt good and needed. It gave her time to think. Think about a lot of things really, including John Smith. She was so confused. Aware that she was very attracted to him physically. Confiding in her priest almost weekly at confession had only amplified the feelings. The man couldn't possibly relate: he was old, a dry husk in his cassock resigned to celibacy.

Jeanie had never quite understood how celibacy made a person more godly. Her upbringing had been strict. Sober-minded nuns and priests at her convent school, where punishments were harsh. Her parents had dragged her to church every Sunday, there was never meat on Fridays, and there were long fast days and Holy Days of Obligation.

Still, not two days ago she'd again whispered her same confession to the old priest here in Chicago and pretended she heard what he said, mumbling something vague at about the time she thought she should respond. The priest was ancient and very hard of hearing, so they were a disaster together. She hadn't heard whatever he'd said, and banged her scraped knee on the way out of the confessional in her flustered haste to leave.

Her best friend, who had functioned like something of an older sister, was gone. She had Mother and also her Aunt Vicky around, but they lived back home on the Reservation. Living on her own here in Chicago, Jeanie felt adrift and alone when it came to dating and sex and relationships. Jeanie's college roommates and friends had ventured into sex, but Jeanie had never seen the appeal of losing her virginity in the back of some dude's car, or a roach motel, or somebody's dorm.

So why was she now constantly thinking of John Smith? Why did she see appeal in this man, of all men? For God's sake, a federal agent! Her enemy. John Smith was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen, yes. She constantly thought about how warm and secure his hands felt whenever they were on her skin. His intense masculinity. The mesmerizing green of his eyes. The kindness and tenderness he showed her. The gentle deep tone of his voice. His longish, messy light colored hair. Everything about him was beautiful, even the way his clothes fit and it was evident that he stayed in good shape. He was gorgeous even when he was exhausted, even when he looked so goddamn weary of this war.

That. The fact that John Smith was a federal agent made this whole thing even more strange.

And this latest incident at work with the drunken asshole ... God, she felt angry just thinking about it. These last few days, she had thought about just quitting, walking away from everything and everyone and going as far away as she could. She wished Mother and Aunt Vicky were here, and not on the Reservation back home.

Aunt Vicky was amazing: she rarely asked questions and never pried into her niece's business. She kept Jeanie at an arm's length from her own ridiculous brother-in-law: Jeanie's father. Mother and Father had split some years ago, with Mother going to live with Vicky, her sister. Father was a radical Native activist back on the East Coast, on the other Reservation that was home, the one which was the place of her birth. And Father was lately something of a menace. Aunt Vicky was mortified as his sister-in-law. And as his daughter, Jeanie was in dread. Jeanie thought day after day about just showing up again at Aunt Vicky's house, into the embrace of both women whom she loved so much.

Jeanie had lived with them a few years ago. She'd shown up there fresh from the Reservation back East, the day after she'd graduated high school, and only left for Chicago because she thought she could make a life there. And now she was alone, working minimum wage on the late shift at a greasy diner. It was ironic, dreams shattered. It's not that she didn't like Jeb or Maddie or the diner or even the work itself. She generally felt safe there, because Diner 96 seemed like a dreamscape where everyone got along (mostly). It's just that she'd had other plans.

Jeanie had no doubt that tonight, no matter how tired she was, she'd have a hard time sleeping. His coat was hanging in her closet, that thought crossed her mind for the hundredth time today. Spent, body quivering with exhaustion, she climbed out of the pool. She felt okay, but had her inhaler in her bag, just in case.

No ... she took a moment to assess. Dripping wet, hair sopping under the cap, the gentle swell of her breasts at the neckline of the sporty one-piece, muscles exhausted, body awash in much-improved circulation and the endorphin rush of Sport. She could feel color in her cheeks again, feel the satisfaction of a good, solid workout. She felt good, not just okay. She smiled to herself as she pulled off goggles and cap and grabbed up her towel, shivering violently now in the icy aquatics room.

The shivering wouldn't stop, in the room's frigid interior. She padded away in flip flops, and as she sank gratefully into the hot tub, she smiled again. Her life didn't seem so bleak now that she had her sport back. She could do this, as she had done before. Swimming was a part of her she had not realized so poignantly she couldn't live without. She had missed this so much the last two months.

Warmth returned to fingers and toes. The hot tub to herself, she let her mind drift. Thought about ways to return that coat to John: it likely was going to snow, after all. He'd want it back. She fought a rising wave of angst, threatening her pure euphoria right now.

She didn't want to be attracted to him. She didn't want to fall in love with him. She didn't want to imagine scenarios where she would cheerfully, gratefully, flirtatiously return the lovely Brooks Brothers coat. Oh, quite: She never wanted to see him again.