name,” I say, meaning it. “I want to master it.”
He nods, studying me. “Nate is fine.”
“I’m going to leave you two,” Padre says. “I have an appointment coming in shortly and a class down here in forty-five minutes. Will you lead it, Sam?”
“I wasn’t planning on it but, yes, I will. It will be good to see everyone and to scrape some of the barnacles off my hull.”
“Great,” Padre says. “I look forward to it.” We shake hands and he nods at Nate before heading up the stairs.
I toe off my shoes. Nate does the same. “Let’s sit for a moment.” I indicate a couple of folding chairs along the wall. “Padre says you’ve been training for a while. A black belt.”
“Kenpo.”
“Excellent. I’ve always liked the art. And you’re a veteran of Afghanistan?”
He sits ramrod straight, hands on his knees. “I am. Fourteen months in Iraq too.”
Minimum responses and he has yet to break eye contact with me. A shy man wouldn’t make such intense eye contact. Perhaps he is just a man of a few words.
“How long have you been back?”
“Four months.”
Not only has he not looked away, I don’t think he has blinked. Okay, this is weird.
“I’m glad you made it home safely. How long were you deployed?”
“Nine months in Afghan,” he says, blinking rapidly.
Curious. His manner didn’t change, and his face remained neutral, but the eyes reacted. To what? My question or his answer? Best to change the conversation.
“Where did you study your kenpo?”
“Oklahoma City. I trained with Albert Madison for nine years. I earned my black belt before I went into the Army three years ago.” No blinking. Clearly, he’s more comfortable talking about kenpo than his military service.
“So are you finished with the army?” I ask just to test my theory.
Again the rapid blinking. “Yes.”
“I see. Well, I’m glad you’re here in my school. As they probably told you, I’ve been away in Vietnam taking a vacation.”
He nods, his eyes watching me, studying me, not blinking. I can’t tell if there is a reason for it or it’s just the way he is. He’s got the stoic Indian stereotype down, but there’s something brewing behind his eyes.
“I know of your …” His eyes are searching mine now, moving from my left one, to my right one, and back to my left one.
“What?” I urge.
Still without looking away, he takes a deep breath, exhales it.
“Your situation,” he says tightly. Then in one exhalation, he rattles, “I know about your situation. I followed it on the news and in the paper. I wanted to study with you because of what happened to you, and because so many said you’re a good teacher.”
His eyes narrow a little, as if trying to read my reaction. Well, I’m not going to reveal anything. He wants to train at my school because of what happened to me? What the hell?
“You’re going to have to explain, Nate. Why would my unfortunate actions be cause for you to want to study with me?”
For the first time he looks off to the side, blinking rapidly. He looks back, his eyelashes wet. He doesn’t seem to care if I see.
His voice is tight again, as if he’s holding his breath as he speaks. “Because something similar, but different, happened to me.”
Nate’s prominent cheekbones have taken on sharper lines and the skin across his broad forehead seems tighter than a few moments ago. His deep-set eyes reflect confusion, sorrow, and … I’m not sure what the other thing is. It’s similar to how my grandfather looked at me as he was nearing death from congestive heart failure. He wasn’t the sort of man to beg for anything, not even for his life. But there was something in his eyes, a beseeching, a need he had no control over.
“Did something happen in Afghanistan,” I ask. “Or Iraq? Something you think is similar to what happened to me?”
Nate looks at me for a long moment before nodding ever so slightly. “Similar.”
I wait for him to elaborate but he only looks at me. I can’t tell if he wants me to ask him questions or drop the subject.
“Do you have Indian blood in your family?” he asks.
I smile, partly because of the abruptness of his question and partly out of relief he changed the subject.
“Funny you should mention it, Nate. I haven’t thought about it in a long time, but my mother told me we have some Hopi blood on her side of the family. A great-great-grandfather or something.”
I wish I hadn’t said “or something.” Makes it sound as if my Indian heritage, however small it is, isn’t important to me. Maybe it isn’t; I never think about it. But now because I’m sitting with someone who appears to have a lot of Indian blood, I’m feeling uncomfortable.
“Hopi means peaceful ones, peaceful people. It’s from Hopituh Shi-nu-mu. Did you know?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t.” Why do I feel I need to apologize? Oh, I know why, because I’m ignorant about the blood pumping through my own veins.
“I am one hundred percent Apache. The word is a collective for six tribes from the Southwest. I am Chiricahua Apache. And no, I’m not related to Geronimo or Cochise. But I possess their warrior nature.”
I bet he does. He has an aura in constant flux. One moment it emanates a sense of peace and in the next, it radiates … sorrow? And there is some agitation. Right now, I see something else, something I’ve seen in our veteran SWAT guys, in my father, and in the old Vietnamese soldiers I met in Saigon. The aura communicates I don’t want to fight, but if I have to, someone’s going to be in a world of hurt. It’s an attitude I know well.
“What do you do now?” I ask.
“I’ve taken all the tests for the Portland Fire Department and I’m waiting to get hired. I’m told it could be anytime.”
“Really? Very good career choice.” I smile at him. “Didn’t want to take the police test, huh?”
He shakes his head. “Had enough of guns.”
I hear that.
* * *
“Everyone feeling good? Everyone feeling loose?”
“Yes, Sensei!”
“All right. Pair up and do a little light sparring. Don’t try to kill your partner but
