Chenoa shrugged her slender shoulders. “Then I’m in.”
After the bright, blistering heat, the dark, air-conditioned bar enveloped Monica like a refreshing dip into an icy pool. The union members surged around her, washing up against the bar like waves against rocks. Waving their arms, they shouted for soda, water, beers or wine coolers. The bartender, a twenty-something white boy with spiked blond hair, rushed to fill their orders.
Chenoa, her hand firmly on her mother’s arm, led her to an empty table near the bar. Torn between her desire to stay as close to Chenoa as possible, yet her wish not to appear so obvious, Monica hesitated.
Mrs. Whitecloud waved her over. “Come and sit with us.”
Monica went over to the table. There were three chairs. Monica sat in the one next to Mrs. Whitecloud. Chenoa was still standing.
“So, what do you want, Mother?”
“A beer,” Mrs. Whitecloud promptly responded.
Chenoa rolled her eyes. “I’ll bring you water first. You need to get some fluid in your body. Beer will only dehydrate you.”
She went over to the bar. Monica congratulated herself for resisting the urge to watch Chenoa walk away.
Mrs. Whitecloud waited until her daughter was out of earshot. “You would think that I am the child and that she is the mother.”
Monica smiled. “She’s very caring. You’re lucky to have her.”
“Caring.” Mrs. Whitecloud huffed. “More like Miss Busy-Body, Know-It-All.” Then she sighed. “But you are right. She is a good daughter. It has only been me and her since her father died.”
A wistful look fell over Mrs. Whitecloud’s face. “It is from him Chenoa gets her looks. My family did not want me to marry him. Because he was an Indian.” Mrs. Whitecloud snorted. “As if we were descended unmixed from the Spanish hildagos or something. But I did not care. I loved him. I loved him so much it hurt.”
Mrs. Whitecloud looked keenly over at Monica. “You ever love anybody that much?”
Monica was about to answer but Chenoa had returned. She had a glass full of ice, a bottle of water and two beers. She slid one beer in front of Monica as she sat down.
“I thought I was paying?” Monica said.
Chenoa shrugged, her long dark hair moving across her shoulders. “You can get the next round.” She opened the bottled water, poured the water into the ice-filled glass and handed it to her mother.
“Drink.”
Mrs. Whitecloud frowned but drank the water. The glass was half-full when she finished.
“All of it, Mother.”
“All right, all right.” Mrs. Whitecloud finished the water. Then she stood up.
“Where are you going?” Chenoa asked.
“If it is alright with you, Miss Nosy-Nell, I am going to empty my bladder.”
Mrs. Whitecloud moved her rotund body through the obstacle course of tables and chairs toward the back of the bar.
Chenoa sighed, making the exact same sound her mother had earlier. Then she looked over at Monica. “Your mother anything like her?”
“My mother died when I was fifteen.”
Chenoa’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Monica took a swig of her beer. It was cold and bitter and slid past the tight knot in her chest that always appeared when she thought of her mother.
“Don’t be,” she said. “I mean, I appreciate the sentiment and all but it happened a long time ago.”
Chenoa’s eyes narrowed. “Not so long ago it doesn’t still hurt.”