Winter Counts(30)
“Thanks,” I said. “You know I want those assholes behind bars, too.”
“I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s do something fun tonight, take a little break. I don’t know, go out to dinner or whatever. I have a few dollars.”
This morning was getting better.
“That sounds good. Where do you want to go? Get some steaks?”
She smiled. “I don’t know, maybe something kind of touristy? What is Denver known for?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “it’s changed a lot since I was here last.”
“Let me ask someone.” She turned to the small table next to ours. There were three white women and two strollers parked there. “So sorry to disturb you, but we’re not from here. Could we ask you a question?”
The woman sitting closest to our table looked us over. She was wearing an expensive-looking camping jacket. I felt out of place in my old denim jacket and boots.
“Sure, what’s up?” she said.
“We want to do something fun in Denver,” Marie said, “go someplace special or see something unique to Colorado. Maybe a local restaurant? Any ideas?”
The women conferred. I tried to listen in, but it was hard to make out what they were saying because of their accents. They looked to be about thirty or forty years old, but their voices were high and nasal, like twelve-year-old girls with a cold. They sounded like a gaggle of ducks quacking. The first woman turned back to us while the other two continued their discussion.
“Do you mind me asking, where are you from?” she said in a friendly way.
“Not at all,” said Marie. “We’re from South Dakota, just visiting for a few days.”
“Are you, ah, Native Americans?”
“Yes, we’re Sioux, from the Rosebud Reservation.”
I observed that Marie had code-switched, referring to our people as Sioux so as not to confuse the women. The French word sioux meant “little snakes,” and was rarely used by Lakota people. The other two women turned back to us, having completed their discussion of Denver restaurants.
“We have the perfect spot for you! It’s been here forever, it’s kitschy and fun. Everybody goes there at least once; it’s like a restaurant and theme park. The food is meh, but you will have a great time, we promise! It’s called Casa Bonita.”
AS PROMISED, Casa Bonita was a weird blend of amusement park and Mexican food joint. The place was huge, with a giant pink bell tower standing in the middle of a parking lot. Inside, we were amazed to discover a thirty-foot-high waterfall and pool, cliff divers, strolling mariachi bands, puppet shows, and even a pirate cave. The hostess took pity on us and seated us away from the families with shrieking children. We were led up a series of stairs to a table near the top of the waterfall. The table was surrounded by fake palm trees and tiki torches, giving us some privacy and a close view of the divers. They appeared to be college kids, dressed up as bandits, pirates, and, yup, Indians. The divers would shout out the lines of their skits, which all seemed to revolve around good guys being chased by villains, before diving into the pool below. I was relieved to see that the bad guy was not a faux Indian but a person dressed up in a gorilla suit. After the divers made their jumps, the kids below us screamed their appreciation, and it was easy to get in the spirit of the place.
Our food came, and it was pretty far from the street tacos I’d had at Taco Mex. This was gringo fare masquerading as Mexican food, like a white man wearing a sombrero. Bland tacos, tasteless enchiladas, and mild refried beans. Three Coronas for Marie, a Coke for me. I’ll admit that the desserts were pretty good. At first I thought they’d brought us frybread, which surprised me, but the waiter told me these were sopapillas, or “little pillows” in English. Sweet fried dough, topped with powdered sugar and dipped in honey. They were lighter than Indian frybread, and, it pained me to admit, much better.
After our plates were cleared, we strolled around the place. We visited the run-down arcade, where we played Skee-Ball and ancient video games. Then we wandered through Black Bart’s Pirate Cave, a sort of haunted house with battered skeletons, treasure chests, and weathered old skulls, trying not to step in the random pools of liquid left by overenthusiastic children.
“What do you think of this place?” I asked.
“I love it.” Her eyes gleamed like the polished gems we’d held in the gift shop. “If I had a child, I’d take her here every week.”
I wondered what it would be like to have a child with Marie. Her smarts, my toughness. A little son. Maybe a daughter? I looked over at Marie and wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was. The music drifted through the fake palm trees, and it was easy to imagine that we were really in Mexico at some beach resort.
I turned to Marie. She moved closer, waiting for me. I started to embrace her, but I hesitated. I’d dreamed of this, but in an instant I also remembered the pain and depression I’d felt when she left me. The heartbreak had been so overwhelming, I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover. For months, I visited that grief every evening. I’d buy a twelve-pack of beer and play some gloomy songs. It was strange because, after a while, I’d started to look forward to those late-night sadness sessions—just my music, my beer, and my grief. It had become a part of my life, my new routine. The nightlands.
I’d finally gotten past that sorrow—and the booze—and carved out a good space for Nathan and myself. Things weren’t perfect, but I was content with the life we had. What would happen if I started things up again with Marie? I didn’t want the complications and the problems, not when I’d finally gotten some steadiness back in my life. It had been tough to get over Marie, but I’d made it through.