Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (3 page)

Jolted again from the verge of sleep, I stare at
the ceiling. Again and again, the puppy barks—a plaintive exclamation, like
he’s scared to be alone at night. I kick off the velour blanket. I doubt I
would sleep anyway, even if each yelp wasn’t perfectly spaced to allow me
enough time to drift off and then jolt me back out.

Every time I close my eyes I see Brita asking for
help. I see past the killer’s expression, his eyes…vague, and nothing inside
him. I have watched a woman die. I couldn’t help. I have no one to tell. My
money is gone, and I have no way to get it back. If Lorna’s spending spree
really was because of a bonus and I tell her about the flute case…either way I
won’t get it back.

I need freedom. Since I slept—tried to sleep—in flannel
lounge pants and a sweatshirt, I only need to grab my shoes. My room is back to
the way I like. I kick the pile of clean laundry a little farther away from the
dirty pile. One shoe sits upside-down by the closet. It takes a minute, but I
find the other one behind a pile of books I need to return. I carefully step
over the creaking part of the floor in front of my bedroom door. The television
is on, but the sound is muted. Thom’s eyes are glazed; he sleeps while he
watches. The lip of a bottle sits wedged in the seat of his recliner. I think I
can slip out.

“Where…” He has to clear his throat to finish.
“…are you going?”

“Oh, sorry, did I wake you?”

“No.” He yawns and rubs his eyes.

“Bummer you lost your job.” I fold my legs and sit
on my feet at the edge of the couch. Lorna has decorated this room with Navaho
pottery. One day I plan to buy a Paiute basket and tell her my brother is
Paiute; I’m Paiute and Cherokee. Lorna always makes a ridiculous deal that she
is Puerto Rican, not Mexican.

Maybe it isn’t worth it—I do like the pottery.

“Eh, they were jerks.” Thom repositions in his
chair. “They said I was going to make ten dollars an hour. They were always
lying. Didn’t even give me my last check.”

All of my brother’s employers seem to lie. Makes
it hard to differentiate where his expectations end and truth begins.

“You should get to bed, girl.”

I’m still used to late nights and sleeping-in from
my old schedule. But since at night I see Brita in my mind, I’ve started
sleeping even more during the day.

“I’m going for a walk.” At least I plan to go for
one, but I don’t move. Thom presses the volume up so we can hear it.

Thom looks in the direction of the hall, and then
sneaks a drink.

“Thom, have you ever been to church?”

He laughs. “Yeah, once.”

“What was it like?”

“I don’t remember since I fell asleep. Boring, I
guess.”

“Why would people go?”

“Their god wants them to, he makes them. Ask
Lorna. She’s the spiritual one.”

“We’ll see.” I don’t ask Lorna questions like
this.

“Why you wanna know?”

“I got invited, but I don’t think I’ll go.”

“That’s probably the only way to find out what it’s
really like.” He takes another drink. “Just remember to stand when they stand,
and sit when they sit.” His voice slurs. “There are many gods.”

“Quiet!” Lorna, from the other room. She sounds
ridiculously alert. Thom presses mute on the remote.

Many gods? I only hear these kinds of things from
my brother when Lorna is not with us. I won’t risk bringing her out. Either
way, our conversation is over.

“I’m going for that walk. Night, Thom.”

He waves and returns to watching the television,
turning it back up a notch.

The air is colder than I expected. I hesitate at
the open door.

“I said, turn that down!”

I shut the door on Lorna’s screech and walk fast.
Before I reach the end of our trailer, I’m too cold to continue. Just ahead, a
blanket waits on a folding chair at Raenah’s. I wrap it around me and walk in
the direction of the barking dog. At least I can find out who got a new dog only
to leave him out all night. I pass a nice looking house and then another
trailer, a double-wide, newer than ours.

The stars are fading. My dad used to tell me stories
about them. He also told me there are spirits everywhere, in everything. But
Thom calls them gods. Is that different?

Birds begin their morning noise. I wish I had my
flute. A song my dad taught me plays in my brain. I practice the fingering
while still clutching the blanket. I don’t know why, but that song speaks to me
on a level deeper than my hearing.

My eighteenth birthday is next week. I could
contact my dad, in Oklahoma, if I wanted. Only, since I came to Thom’s house, I
haven’t heard from him—not a phone call or letter. Why should I bother him now?

Footsteps?

I stand still and turn my head to the side—a distinct
skid of shoe against pavement, then silence. I step again and veer to the side
of the road. A rustle of clothing follows my speed. I stop. Silence again.
Rotten garbage everywhere. At least the smell of it—I don’t see anyone’s
trashcan out. Why did I walk directly in the middle of the road? Why did I
assume I would be alone? I jump to the side of a house where it’s particularly
dark and hide. Crouching. Cold. Waiting. I breathe through my mouth trying to
be quieter.

Silence continues until my legs tingle. Finally, the
dog’s bark echoes in the empty street. What was I thinking? It’s only me and
the night out here, not the curse. Am I going insane?

Now, about that helpless dog. I walk fast to warm
my body. My dad always warned me not to sweat in the cold or I’d freeze after I
stood still. Slowing, I find the right pace.

The sun begins to rise, and I have covered our
reservation without finding the dog. The reservation: our community of trailers
and homes in a valley of low, barren hills—unwanted land. Raenah sits in her metal
folding chair. I can’t believe it supports her with the rips I saw in the woven
seat. She has a comforter wrapped around her. She looks like a tepee, her
frizzy hair the plume of smoke.

“Oh, there’s my blanket.” This is the voice every
grandma should have. Gentle, even when she scolds—always cheerful.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nope. I figured whoever took it needed it more
than me.”

I start to pull it from my shoulders.

“Wait.” She motions me up on to her Astroturf
porch. “Finish the sunrise with me. I’ll make you hot cocoa in a minute.”

“Do you have grape soda?”

“Always,” she says this firm, matter of fact.

I sit in a chair next to her, thankful for the
blanket to shield me from whatever spiders are hiding under the dirt and leaves
on her porch.

“How did you get your car back?” I point to the
blue Volkswagen Rabbit.

“Lorna had it towed.”

“Really?”

“No kidding.”

We laugh together and then sit in silence until
every corner of darkness has been replaced by a swirl of desert dawn.

“Raenah, do trees have spirits?”

“Yep.”

“Are there gods?”

“Nope. The Great Spirit’s the only god, living in
the unseen world with the spirits.”

So spirits have a ruler, too. Do wars and poverty exist
in this unseen world? Do they have to look for jobs?

Do spirit parents beat their kids and get them
taken away?

Sunday. The Sunday. It’s only half past eight in
the morning so I’ll be ready early. I wash my hands and dry them on my jeans as
I turn and look in the mirror. I look good in these jeans. They were my first
purchase from Wild Lily money. The first thing I ever bought for style, rather
than price. My hair sways just above the leather Silver brand patch.

I brush it—a long, tedious job. I don’t really
like my hair. It’s just very dark, very thick and very straight. I’ve wanted to
cut it for years, but every time Lorna suggests it, I decide not to.

I set the brush down and look at the finished
result. The stitches are out. I turn my face from side to side. A little makeup
and the bruising is hardly noticeable. Too bad the makeup couldn’t change the
way my high cheekbones have squished my eyes, my square-ish jaw and wide mouth.

Why did Hayden ask me out? He didn’t look at me
with that I’m-really-in-to-you expression, not that it matters. I need to get
out; I’ve only left twice during the past two and a half weeks. Once to get the
stitches removed, and once for a walk to The Wild Lily, where only a charred
shell remained. I cried when I saw it, but not for the building.

“Where are you going?” Lorna asks from outside the
bathroom.

“Morning, Lorna.”

She wears a bright pink, fuzzy robe with the belt
cinched above her belly.

“I’m going....” I finish with a mumble. Usually
this deflects her. It’s not like she really wants to know.

“Where?”

“Church.”

Her dark skin lightens a shade, but only on her
face. I was prepared to yell back and storm out, but she looks genuinely
afraid. A pressure slides across my digestive tract. I can feel this morning’s
toast moving through.

Lorna reaches a quivering hand out to my shoulder.
She draws back before she touches me.

“That’s not a place for you.” She holds a
fingernail with chipped red polish in front of my nose.

The sleepless night reaches tentacles of fatigue
around my body. It’s all I can do to remain standing.

“After all I have done for you. Brought you here.
Cared for you. Cleaned for you.” Her words come in sharp angry beats that she
tries to muffle.

“Yeah, cleaned. Tossed the one item I brought with
me.”

“Are we going to talk about this again?’ She pulls
at the hair near her temple, like she is talking to a toddler.

I don’t want to tell her about the money, just in
case she is hiding my flute from me and hasn’t found it yet. “I can go where I
want.”

“Shut up, you little…” Her hands grab my shoulders,
and like a whip—her arms pull me back into the bathroom and spin me behind her.
I plop onto the closed toilet seat. One of these days, I’m not going to let her
do this kind of thing. I mean, she’s four inches shorter than I am.

She makes a show of looking down the hall, hiding
our confrontation like Thom hides his drink. She places her hand over the
five-pointed star pendant that she constantly wears around her neck. It seems
to give her courage.

“I saw him put his palm on your face and speak the
curse.” Lorna moves her trembling hand over her own face, reenacting, “He asked
that the spirit would follow you.” She pulls her hand down quickly, wipes it on
her robe and then looks at it. “What I haven’t told you is—it was your
grandfather.”

I have family besides Thom and Lorna? “Our mom’s
dad?”

“No, the other one.”

My dad’s father? “Is he still alive?”

“If he is, he still lives in the Humboldt Colony
somewhere—northern Nevada.”

So close? “What’s he like?”

“You’ll never see a more evil face.” She whispers
and grasps her pendant again. “His eyes, they look right into you and rape your
brain.” Lorna takes a deep breath and turns back, but doesn’t make eye contact.
“You weren’t my baby, but I almost took you from his arms when he called down that
spirit on you.”

That pain is in my gut again.

“I was so thankful when your dad finally did it.
He wasn’t completely worthless.”

“A car’s here.” Thom yells from the front room.

“Remember—” Lorna squats, her black eyes look up
at me. “Your dad felt you were better off with his ex-wife’s first son, than with
his own father.”

“I think it’s the same cop.” Thom yells again.

“Oh.” Lorna jumps up and smiles at me like she is
giving me a secret. “What a nice surprise.” She deposits her robe, crumpled, on
top of the bathroom counter. Her silk pajama set is new, and very short. She
has tiny bird legs.

“What are you doing here so early?” Lorna beats me
to the living room. “You’ve caught us all in our PJs.”

“Hello…Baby.” He looks past Lorna when I enter. Warmth
crawls up my neck, as she slowly turns to look where Hayden looks. Everyone’s
eyes are on me and I know the precise moment she realizes he is here for me.

Because she gasps.

I love how his tan skin makes his hair seem
shimmery blond. Hayden doesn’t look as tall without his uniform, but he’s a
good three inches taller than me, so that is enough. He wears khakis and an
ugly, bright green and white polo shirt with stripes running up and down. It
makes his muscles look like a convict pressing against cell bars. Actually, the
shirt isn’t that ugly.

“It isn’t exactly mountain bike weather yet. I
thought we’d just take a drive.” He has a generic smile, as though he really
doesn’t care what we do.

“Great, do I need a jacket?”

“Only if you want.”

I grab one and lead the way outside.

“Will you come back for lunch?” Lorna’s petulant.

“Umm,” He looks at me and I shrug.

“Maybe more like dinner?” Hayden answers her.

“Ohh-Kay-e!” She waves from the porch in her
skivvies.

“What a beater.” I point to a rounded pickup
truck. It’s probably as old as my dad. Not that I care, but an old truck like
that warrants a comment.

He jerks his hand to his chest and pulls out an
imaginary knife. I laugh.

“Don’t look at what she is—” He rubs a hand along
the primer-gray bed and puts his hand back to his chest. “Look at what she could
be.”

He’s so serious I feel awkward. “Whatever.” Does
it mean he’s creative? He has a vision? He looks past the exterior? Probably he
just wants to sell it for more than he bought it.

He walks to the driver’s side so I head to the
passenger door.

“A 1947 classic. Chevy’s first, post-war vehicle.”

“So it’s like a hobby?”

He nods. “I hope to have her done for Hot August
Nights.”

I have to pull hard to get the giant metal door closed
all the way. I’ve always wanted to go to the ‘50s festival and parade in downtown
Reno. “That’d be cool.”

“Well, I’ll need someone to ride with me.”

“I won’t wear a poodle skirt.”

“Fine, but you might have to eat a giant
hamburger.”

I just smile. I don’t usually find it this easy to
talk to people. The seat is bouncy and he seems to hit every pothole on purpose.
I like him.

“I’m not going to make you go to church.” He
watches me. I think he does want me to go.

My breath catches as I remember the warning. I
turn and look at Lorna, still waving. “Actually, I want to go.”