Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (10 page)

A resounding chuckle tremors in his chest. It
vibrates against my arm. “Brody is right about you, Baby Bird. You’ll bring the
wolves.” He whispers my stage name like a lover.

He turns back to the dancer.

“She’s not very good, is she?”

Now that he mentions it…she doesn’t have much
rhythm. She’s just a new girl. I used to dance “new girl” style.

“Skinny drug addict.” Clint says this so quietly
that I barely hear it myself, so it seems coincidental when the girl’s head
snaps in our direction. She flips her hair, but from my angle her crestfallen
expression is still visible.

“Let’s get something to drink.”

I lift my arm. A cocktail waitress walks straight
toward us through the now sparse room. I get an Amaretto Sour, and Clint a Jack
Daniels.

“Man, I can’t get you in that blue dress outta my
mind.” He takes his arm off my shoulder and sits back.

He looks at me, all over. He doesn’t look into my
eyes, like Hayden did, but Clint searches my body. Stuck on the surface.

Everywhere we’ve gone for the last two nights, the
vivacious blonde I’m with has gotten all of the attention. Now, Clint looks at
me. It feels so good to have so much power.

“So what’s in the bag?” He pulls my backpack onto
his lap and unzips it before the area where his arm rested cools.

He knocks aside The Pearl. My flute looks fragile
in his hands. “You play?”

“Not really.” I lean forward like I’ve seen Cori
do many times. As though I’m unaware he can see down my dress. Clint responds
by returning my flute, zipping the bag and focusing completely on me. I smile at
Clint seductively and slide my backpack between my ankles.

Tonight is my second Friday dancing. Last weekend I
was on a side stage in sync with a few others. Tonight it’s all me. My act, on
center stage. That’s what it is: an act. I pretend to feel sexy, that I’m not so
nervous sweat drips a river down my spine. The dance is supposedly a traditional
strip tease; complete with the giant peacock feathers I saw in the costume room
the night Brody took me to that benefit.

It was his plan all along. Now I truly am Baby
Bird.

At least I’m not nude. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see Talia lead a customer behind a shoji. At least I don’t have to do
that.

Clint smiles at me from the front row. Pretending
gets easier. He compliments me often. He makes me feel stronger and sexier than
I am.

When the lighting changes, I slip out like Cori
suggested. Magical disappearance. She really has a flair for theatrics. She
waits for me in the dressing room.

“Perfect,” she screams.

We hug and Brody comes in the room.

“Fab-u-lous.”

Cori leans her head to the side and smirks at me.
She mouths the words, mimicking him.

“I think we’d like to use you as our model,” Brody
comments, but it’s like he’s still deciding. “Take some pictures, you know, for
advertising.”

Cori gives a little squeal and squeezes my hand. Is
he talking to me or Cori?

Clint enters the room like a lightning storm on a
summer day. Unexpected, unnerving. “How’s our new poster girl?” Clint puts his
hands up in the air, holding an imaginary sign. “Billboards, signs on taxicab
roofs, fliers.” Clint walks right up and kisses me where my earlobe meets my
jaw. “You’re the girl.”

“What do you think?” Brody looks impatient. He
could be repeating a question; I couldn’t really hear Brody and Cori’s
conversation. Brody and Clint seem to stare at each other.

“Will you do it?” Three sets of eyes attend me.

“Sure.”

Clint makes a little half wink where his eye
doesn’t fully close. “See ya.” He nods goodbye with his crooked nose.

Brody leans forward and kisses the spot where
Clint’s lips touched. Brody’s lips are wet. “We’ll set up a photo shoot
tomorrow.” He turns and reaches the door in just a few strides. Brody snaps his
fingers and points at me. “Thanks for bringing back the blue dress, ‘ppreciate
it.”

The satin gown? Did Hayden bring it back? I stare
at the door long after it shuts, still envisioning an empty hose box and
taillights fading in dust.

The rain drips down, cooling my skin. It feels
like I’m breathing water, showering in oxygen. I close my eyes to the hazy sky
and receive the downpour. Late spring showers cause bright green to pop up
everywhere. How does life circle around so fluidly? Does Hayden’s God or
Raenah’s Great Spirit give this to us? Or does the cycle of the earth turn
while one of them sits laughing at us in the muck?

The cab arrives, and I realize my sweatshirt and
jeans have soaked in every drop. When I show up wet and shriveled, the
photographer will probably send me away and tell Brody to send someone pretty—maybe
Cori.

I leave the fresh air for the musty car. When I
close the door, it feels like I’ll suffocate in the driver’s sweat and the
smell of a wet dog.

“294 Horse Trot Drive.”

“No problem.”

I set my backpack on the seat beside me. Chills
start at my toes and crawl up to my wet hair. I wish I had an extra sweatshirt.

Rain pelts the front window. Why won’t he just
leave the wipers on, instead of waiting until the last possible minute to clear
his view? The address Brody scribbled has faded where my wet thumb gripped it,
but I stared at it long enough. Too bad it didn’t occur to me to find shelter
from the rain while I waited for the cab; although, if I had a choice, I would
still be standing there.

Don’t I always have a choice?

 The taxicab driver waits longer than I think is
necessary at a stop sign, before turning into a residential area.

“294 Horse Trot Drive?” I didn’t expect to take
the pictures in someone’s house.

“Yep.” The driver says without elaboration. He smoothes
his red mustache. The rain beats the window, trying to get to me.

I’m getting tired of paying taxicabs. I think I’ll
look for a car, now that I have a steady income. Nothing like Cori’s. Something
simple. Maybe an apartment should be first. Yes. Definitely an apartment is
first.

The house is on the corner. There is a huge tree
with draping branches that hide the house and cover most of the yard. I pay the
cab driver and head up the walkway. The neighborhood has wide streets and at
least one large tree guards each yard. Most have a car, RV or a boat parked in
the driveway. 294 Horse Trot Drive is a white house that could use a little
paint, especially around the garage door, just above the brick.

I trip. A huge crack presses up from the driveway,
the tree’s roots escaping the cement. The tree—probably planted for the benefit
of the house—now strains against the house and tears the foundation.

Will today help me? Add to me? Or will it be like
this tree? I’ve heard the jokes, “I was young,” or “I didn’t know what I was
doing.” But I do know. I’m making good use of my figure while I have no other
options. I’m still in control.

The paper Brody gave me has SIDE DOOR scribbled below
the address. At the end of the walkway on the right, a screen covers a red
front door. There’s a “wipe your paws” mat in front of it.

Budding bushes peek out on the left side of the
garage. When I walk closer, I notice a cluster of four red bricks buried in the
grass leading around to the side of the house. My whole foot fits in each step
and I’m careful not to step in the grass.

The white metal side door looks like it just
accesses the garage. It hurts my cold fingers to knock. The door pulls open
slowly to an attractive but pudgy man about 40 years old. He has tan skin and black
eyes which are open wide—curious. His eyebrows are long and scraggly, not as
manicured as his graying mustache. He holds a “Nevada Open” mug smelling
strongly of artificial vanilla coffee. It makes me feel nauseous and hungry at
the same time.

It takes two breaths before I realize he is
waiting for me to speak. “Brody sent—”

“Great.” He steps back.

The garage walls are painted pale green. A
moveable rack filled with stringy and lacey lingerie blocks a water heater. A marbled-brown
drape covers the garage door behind a stripped queen-sized bed flanked by
industrial lights sitting on either side. The bed’s bluish floral pattern looks
new and unused. To the left of the room sits a chaise lounge and a few
different chairs covered with vibrant colored comforters and pillows. On my
right, a rotating dish heater glances back and forth, surveying the room. Just
behind the heater, several peacock feathers stare open-eyed at me. They are my
feathers from the club.

“I’m Rodrigo.” He offers his hand and a polite
smile. I reach out, but his clasp solidifies before our hands actually grip. He
shakes my fingers. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water? Wine
cooler?”

“It’s a little early.” I still don’t have a watch
but I called the cab at nine.

“Might help you relax.” He points with his mug at
a little black refrigerator on a table. “Lots of stuff in there, I’m gonna get
a refill and we’ll talk about what you envision.” Rodrigo walks to the lingerie
rack and pulls out a plastic hanger with an emerald teddy. “This’ll match your
feathers over there.” I cringe. How many people have worn it before?

“Brody already had something in mind.” I set my
backpack on the floor and pull out the shiny onesie he gave me, with the
address and a sealed envelope, which he said was my payment. A note slides out,
folded in the onesie.

Don’t forget to bring me your birth certificate
and social security card.

--Brody

The teddy has a black background, swirled with electric
blue and teal dots, like a leopard print. There isn’t much on the backside. It
pulls the colors of peacock feathers perfectly. Brody and his satin.

“Good. Take your time getting changed. There’s
robes.” He points next to the door I entered, where three pegs hold several
robes. There are two full-length mirrors on either side of the robes. Rodrigo
holds his mug in a toast and walks up the two steps into the house.

I stand for a full ten minutes, shaking in a silk
robe next to the disk heater. Rodrigo enters and walks slowly, balancing a full
mug of the vanilla-perfumed, pale liquid.

He pulls a velvety wing chair across the cement
floor, lifting it over the edges of the geometric-designed area rug. He angles
it toward the heater. “Have a seat.” Rodrigo pulls a water bottle from the
fridge and it makes me think of Cori. Why didn’t I bring her with me? “Give
your hands something to do even if you aren’t thirsty.” He smiles when he hands
it to me.

The part of my calf facing the heater feels a
little burned. I shift in my seat.

“Your makeup has run a little.” Rodrigo sits on
the corner of the bed and sips his cup.

I run my ring finger under my eye and glance at
it. Black crumbles smudge the tip.

“I have a box of odds and ends over there if you
didn’t bring some.”

I have some, so I shake my head. “That’s okay.”

“What kind of activities do you like?”

I shrug and smile, thankful I can twist the water
bottle lid off and on.

“All right.” Rodrigo takes a long drink and when
he speaks again his voice is gentle, quiet. “Do you prefer skydiving or reading?”

I feel a little shaky and agitated, but I don’t
mind answering that question. “Reading.”

“Summer or Winter?”

“Summer,” I answer almost immediately.

“Red wine or White wine?” He leans in, waiting
patiently.

“Grape soda?” I hear myself giggle with the
answer.

Rodrigo laughs with me. “I see.”

The questions continue until I realize I no longer
feel cold. He goes to the side of the backdrop and presses a cabled controller
that looks like a large remote control. Different colored sheets move up and
down while he decides.

“I think old master canvas. White, no, beige…subdued…not
distract.” While he mumbles to himself, I grab eyeliner and mascara from my
bag. I go to the full-length and refresh what the rain damaged. Still wishing
Cori was here, I draw in the eyeliner heavier than normal. It doesn’t really
look like me. This is the dancer, Baby. When I wash it off, I’ll be Sparrow
again.

Rodrigo directs me to the chair. He has thrown a
bluish drape over the bed and scattered pillows across. “I’m not going to ask
you to look confident. Let’s try this: we’re gonna go with surprised. Like the
camera has caught you off guard. Intruding. I want you to turn and look at me
from over your shoulder.”

I obey.

“That’s it. Widen your eyes. You didn’t expect to
see me.” He holds the camera ready, but doesn’t take any pictures. “Are you
ready to drop the robe?”

This makes me feel dumb. But, as I start to lower
it he says gently, “Hold it there, don’t lower it all the way yet. Perfect.”

After an hour of taking pictures, nothing feels
intimate at all. It’s just work. My ribs ache from holding my body arched and
still. He spends more time adjusting lights and instructing me than clicking. We
turned off the heater at least a half-hour ago. Now I wish for a fan to deflect
some of the heat from the lights.

I’m glad he didn’t lie and tell me I was beautiful
the whole time. It was just work. Actually, easier than work in many ways.

“You makin’ enough over there?”

“At the TorchLight?” I just pull my jeans over the
teddy while Rodrigo puts away his various lenses and camera equipment.

“Yeah. Are you making enough money?”

“Well, sure. Most comes from tips though.”

“Most from tips? Brody pays you?” Rodrigo looks
confused.

“Mm hmm.” I nod. Although Brody pays me cash and he
asked me not to tell the other girls. The other girls technically pay him to
work there—like when a cosmetologist rents a booth—they tip the house. I only
tip the bartender, the den mother and the bouncers.

This makes me wonder why he wants my social
security card since it’s all cash.

At first Rodrigo looks sorry for me, then he huffs
an “oh well” sound. “If you ever want to make extra money, I have an internet
business.”

I converse with him and act nonchalant. I try to ignore
that he’s offering to pay me for pornography. As I close the door to the garage
and walk away, I pretend the pictures I already took weren’t a breath away from
full-blown porn. It’s not like there’s a difference in taking pictures in a
negligee to sell clothes for Sears or taking pictures in a negligee to
advertise a business. Right? I feel the same way when I look at a Sunday paper
department store ad as I do when I look at the girls at work.

In Rodrigo’s driveway, I tear open the envelope
Brody gave me. The check is for one thousand dollars. I forgot to call a cab, but
I’m not going back into Rodrigo’s studio. Fortunately, the rain has ceased. This
time I step over the lump in the driveway and just start walking. I know now
that if there is any God up there, his sole purpose is to watch us flail around
in the muck. Thom might see those pictures. Everyone in Reno could see those
pictures.

“Sparrow.”

I look up into Hayden’s face. Again, he shines
down on me, summer—weeks early. One corner of his cleft lip angles up, but he
looks sad. Does he know what I have done? Why does he follow me everywhere? I
think I’m crying. My tears will wash away my makeup. Will they be enough to wash
away all of Baby bird?

Hayden puts his arms around me. His shoulder is at
the perfect height for me to rest my head. We fit like a puzzle piece—my temple
on his collarbone. Hayden strokes my hair but does not speak. I sob into him
several minutes.