Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (8 page)

Three. I mentally repeat the whole thing: 5-9-7-3.

“Remember this, Baby. Someone who hides in a
parking lot—has something to hide.”

I resist the urge to comment on his eloquence.

He stops in the hallway and turns. His soft hands
thaw the arctic skin on my shoulders. He looks down at me, those mossy pools
glimmering. “I’m not going to let anything happen to one of my girls again.”
His right hand leaves my shoulder, but the warmth lingers. He gives me a little
push with his left hand and walks behind me until I reach the dressing room. Then
he is gone.

I misjudged Brody the night he took me out. He may
have wanted to play around, but I probably gave him the signals that I wanted
it too. He is a good boss.

The night passes slowly without drinking. I have always
hated alcohol, but I understand now why my brother would see it as a “means to
an end.” It doesn’t change your situation—your pain—but it makes you not care.

Fortunately, I’m not a bar girl, so I don’t have
to stay late to do side-work like the cocktail waitresses. I leave with the
dancers. Tonight, Brody hands me a fifty for my cab ride.

I have the cab drop me at the start of my street,
and I walk the rest of the way home. I want a chance to get the perfume and
stale liquor scents from my hair and clothes. Thom and Lorna have probably been
asleep for three or four hours, so a few more minutes won’t matter. There is
just enough light to see where the key fits and let myself in.

“Sparrow.”

I jump even though I recognize my brother’s voice.

“Oh, hi, Thom.” I press the lever down so the latch
on the door will not click when it shuts. The room is gloomy. I can barely make
out the shape of my brother sitting in the darkness of our living room.

“S’late.”

“Been drinking?” I ask, even though I can tell.

Thom is silent for minutes. I grow tired of
standing in the dark. It’s been a long night. I start toward my room.

“Where…have you been?”

He speaks so slow I can tell he really
concentrated on articulating. I hate that I made him feel like Lorna does. So,
I answer, “Work.”

“Seen Hayden lately?”

Why ask? Why tonight? “No. Not for awhile.”

“He’s a good guy.”

I lean my side against the wall. Suddenly it feels
like I’m trying to hold up both Thom and myself.

“What are you doing?” I ask my brother.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Thom doesn’t need to get up in the morning, he can
cat nap day and night.

“I was thinking about something Hayden said.” He
continues.

I wait, but Thom doesn’t divulge.

“Wanted to know if you were going to see him
again.”

There is an emptiness inside as I answer. “I don’t
think…” I can’t even finish. It’s like Hayden has awakened this gnawing hole I
would have been better off not knowing about.

Thom stands and walks to me. He takes my hand and
gives it a little squeeze. I don’t remember him ever touching me before. His
hand is heavy and cool. After what feels like the entire cycle of the moon, I squeeze
back. His skin is clammy.

“Night, Sparrow.”

“G’night, Thom.”

I drop my clothes on the bed, slip on some lounge
pants and slide under the covers. The extra weight of the clothes on my feet
bugs me, so I kick them off. My favorite jeans hit the floor, jeans I bought
with dancer money.

I’m not disappointed with the fifty-one dollars in
fives and ones that I left wadded up in my pocket. But when I danced, I averaged
two hundred a night, so how can I settle for fifty-one now? I roll onto my back
and hold my arms up for an imaginary flute, embracing the air since I have no
music to hold me. My fingers move where they should but the only melody that resonates
from me is a groan inside my chest. If there’s a God like Hayden believes, he
could give me back my music—my flute.

“Is there…are you?” I cannot finish asking. I
don’t know what would be worse, there really isn’t a God in control—or there
is.

I’ve never understood the dreams everyone describes
as running but going nowhere—laden legs that don’t respond. I feel my muscles
contract, sinew taut against a sturdy frame. I’m not sad. I lift my arms and look
to the sky to receive sun on my face. My song, my father’s song rains down on
me. It becomes my clothing. It isn’t musical notes falling, but something like
feathers or cotton, wisps of white raining and settling on me. I say it’s music,
because I hear it more than I see it.

Another sound, not part of my dream, and suddenly I’m
awake. Cool air dries my eyes as I lift my lids, adjusting to the dark. It was
the rumble of a truck. Hayden? I jump from bed, afraid my noise will hide what
I want to hear. Skipping by the creaky area at my door, I head to the kitchen
in my lounge pants and tank top. A step. Someone is outside. Then, the sound of
a vehicle rolling over gravel. I run to the front door and watch the red
taillights of a truck behind dissipating dust. I walk to the edge of the
trailer, wondering what he could have possibly done.

My heart flies to the back of my throat, gagging
me. The hose-box lid is ajar. I run, knowing already that the dress is gone. My
hand slides along the cold plastic, feeling every corner in blindness. I pull
back, hand empty except for condensation.

Maybe the stars were not alone the other night
when they watched me. I look up, betrayed. They might not be alone in watching
me now. My hand reaches out until I feel the trailer’s cold, aluminum skin. I
press my body into the shadow of it and inch my way back to the front door. I’m
not dreaming, but now I know how it feels to have unresponsive, laden legs.

A sleek Corvette races by. Cori might pick
something like that. I ignore the older, rusty vehicles; somehow she doesn’t
strike me as economy model, either. There isn’t a bench or anywhere to sit in
front of the TorchLight, but meeting her here means she won’t have to drive all
the way out to the reservation—or see where I live.

The TorchLight’s new front looks great with
landscaping and a sign. The entire remodel is cleaned up and forgotten. Even
evidence of last night’s party has disappeared except some discarded cigarette
butts. Funny how much the place doesn’t sparkle now that I’ve seen it in the daytime,
the night, filled, empty and even under construction.

A white convertible Mazda Miata hugs the corner,
and I watch Cori lean into the turn. Her hair lacks the cactus shaped spikes,
but still shows spunk as is juts out from a hot pink bandana tied like a gang
banger. She has large black hoop earrings that swing from her ears when she
brakes in front of me. The morning glow glints off her shimmery lips when she
smiles.

“Are you ready for the ride of your life?”

I have my hands crammed into the back pockets of
my jeans, my backpack looped over my right wrist. I swing my hips to show her
the bag.

“You didn’t bring much.” She opens the door and
kicks her legs out dramatically. “Trixie only seats two, but there’s a decent
trunk.”

“You named your car?” And she gave the car a stripper
name, too.

After I toss in my bag, Cori shuts the trunk and
gives me a saucy grin.

“My grandma held to the firm belief that if you give
your car an identity, she’ll drive for ya longer.” Cori traces a finger along
the bumper. “Of course, first sign of a repair needed—I’m upgrading.” She
giggles and we climb in. The soft leather seats hug my hips and back.

“A name’s important, don’t you think?” Cori has
her hand on the stick-thing by the wheel. “Mine is actually Coribella.”

She folds down the visor to look at her teeth and
lip-gloss. “I’m not calling you Baby all day. Tell me yours and I’ll let you
drive.”

I have no interest in telling her that I was named
for a small, plain brown bird. “I don’t have a license. Besides, there’s no way
I’d drive something this nice.”

“What?”

“I never had a need to drive.”

“You don’t drive just for need.” She pulls away
from the TorchLight so fast my head folds into the seat as snugly as the rest
of me. Cori—or Coribella, I guess—squeals and turns round a corner, driving
like a maniac. We turn right and almost get hit by a guy in a huge painter’s
truck. He honks and swerves, but Cori and I just laugh. The equipment, ladders
and stuff slide around in his truck bed. My fingers tingle. I feel alive.

We pull onto the freeway, and the angry painter follows.
Cori blows him a kiss in her rearview mirror, and the car lurches forward in
such a way that I again feel the superiority of the seats.

I settle back and let the wind whip my hair like
kite tails around my face. After a minute I reconsider, I don’t want to
detangle it later and I grab hold to pull it into the car with me. With the top
off, we won’t be able to say much, so I sit back and enjoy the bite of the cool
April morning.

 “If you get too cold, we’ll put the top back on.”
Cori yells.

I turn and shake my shoulders ‘whatever,’ but I
hope she doesn’t. I close my eyes—if only we could just race away forever.

We don’t. The car slows and I sense we pull off
the freeway. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and sit forward. We’re on a street
similar to where the Wild Lilly once stood. Signs like “cash for guns” and “no
credit/bad credit okay” decorate windows and billboards. Cori parks. She looks
at me expectantly, so I get out of the car and stretch. The hum of the freeway
reverberates nearby. She opens the trunk and pulls out a white rectangle box
with a pink “D” dangling from it. I follow her into a store simply labeled
“Pawn.”

The harsh clang of a bell rings just above my head
when I cross the threshold.

“Hey, Lenard?” Cori calls out to the disorder. Discarded
treasures loom above, below and beside me—like bats in a cave. Saxophones and
drums mount the walls. Bikes dangle from the ceiling. Racks and shelves with
tarnished silver and other antiqued metals squat, lying in wait.

“Back already?” A toilet flushes and a stooped,
wizened man enters. He fumbles at his zipper in our presence. His black
suspenders lay crooked because of a lump on his right shoulder. They clamp onto
creased, navy, polyester slacks. His lips pull back from his teeth so far I see
as much gum as I do stained enamel. His smile is predatory, an aged version of
one I’ve seen a million times.

“More schmucks—giving you jewelry and such?” He
reaches his hand out to Cori’s box.

“Perfume this time.” She answers.

“Ah. Dior. J’Adore. Mmm.” Black dirt lines his
ridiculously long nails and I can’t bear to watch him handle the smooth white
box.

Cori leans over the glass counter containing guns
and plays with a string of beads dangling from a pink flamingo. I turn and walk
down the aisle. Age is a funny thing. It doesn’t matter if you are kind or
dirty, you will get old. Not all old people are Raenah. Some weak, crooked
bodies could house monsters inside; they just no longer have the strength to
hurt. I wonder if my grandfather is stooped. Thinking of him this way feels
like that first second you drive over a hill too fast.

Someday, I’ll stand over him. I’ll laugh at his
curse.

My ankle smacks against an ornate clock. It slides
off the bottom shelf and lands on the floor. Kneeling, I pick it up and try to
place it back carefully.

The clock is a herald to my missing piece. If not
for this beautiful trash, I would not have seen it…My friend, my flute. It
waits expectantly; it stares, knowing I would come. The worn wood is silk to my
fingers, it will be mousse to my tongue. Every pattern, swirl and line in the grain
is familiar. Quivering fingers turn it, searching. Yes! The burnt profile of a mallard
verifies that it is mine. My dad held my hand as I burned that shape into the
flute.

“Okay, Baby. Ready?” Cori sounds pleased. I guess
her flirting got the price she wanted. “Find anything you can’t live without?”
The bell clangs as she opens the front door.

I slide my flute into the sleeve of my sweatshirt
and stand. It’s longer than my forearm so it protrudes. I try to shield the
mouthpiece with my palm. The ground fades beneath my feet, but I command them to
move anyway. Cori stands just beyond the door. I’ll make it; I’m so close.

A Shoshone-Paiute badge stands before me. I look
up into Hayden’s face. How did he? He blocks me.

“Hey,” the owner yells.

Hayden’s brows rise as though he’s surprised to
see me. He will stalk me, and lie?

“Are you going to pay for that?” The dirty old
man.

Tears come. I look up into Hayden’s face. A guilty
plea: “It’s mine.”

My Hayden steps aside.

I stand in shock that he would let me steal. Mr.
“It’s not right.” My feet stay sealed to the pawn shop floor.

“What are you doing?” Cori’s voice is the rope,
tossed just in time to keep me from sinking.

Without looking back at Hayden, I move toward her.
I slide the flute from my sleeve and hold it up. “It’s mine.” Tears rain down.
Cori won’t understand why.

She looks behind me, then at me.

“My name is Sparrow.”

Cori leaps into the driver’s seat. “Hurry.”

Wings must have taken me to the car, because suddenly
we race down the freeway as I hold my flute to my chest.

Cori sings out, “That’s how we waste the day away
in the merry old Land of Oz.”

My flute shakes in my hands.

We pull up to a gated apartment complex. I assume she
has another errand until she punches in a code. Her shoulder strategically
blocks the numbers she presses.

I lean against the black wrought-iron railing while
Cori digs around in an enormous hot pink bag. My flute is shoved up my sleeve
again, the end grasped in my hand. She never said anything. Does she care that she
helped me rob her favorite pawnshop? The courtyard below has a kidney bean-shaped
pool and an abundance of landscaping, though most is dormant. A man sings opera
music from the level below. I wish it were louder.

“That’s Mark.” Cori bobs her head toward the
sound. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

I nod.

The pungent smoke of a cigar floats on the strains
of Mark’s song. I’m intrigued by the smoldering spiced scent. Apparently Mark isn’t,
because the singing stops and a window slams.

There’s nothing in Cori’s house that doesn’t look
like it was purchased for that exact spot. She must have grown up with money.
There is nothing haphazard or eclectic, actually, nothing that looks like her.

“This is my place.” She holds her hands out to her
side. I didn’t notice her clothes in the pawn shop but here they scream at me.
She wears a brown corduroy skirt, and a gauzy tee-shirt which says “Dansons.”
The glittery letters arc over the Eiffel tower and a pink ballerina. Under her
see-through tee-shirt is a black lacy bodice. Her legs are covered in hot pink
fishnets, which actually match the bandana perfectly. Brown suede knee-high
boots complete her.

“No. This isn’t your place. You belong in a London
flat, with thrift store furniture.”

“You’ll never get me to leave the US again.” She
crinkles her nose. “Hungry?”

I drop my backpack on the leather couch and follow
her to the kitchen.

“That’s actually where you’ll sleep since I just
have one bedroom.” She opens the stainless steel refrigerator. The inside
contains about two dozen individual servings of light yogurt, a mega bottle of
maraschino cherries, a jar of green olives and beer. “Dairy, fruit, grain?” She
laughs.

“Yogurt sounds great.” I choose lemon, and Cori hands
me a spoon.

“I need to sleep. We’ll go out about nine, but I
have a few friends coming over first. Get your rest.” She lifts the lid from a
leather ottoman and pulls out the softest blanket I’ve ever felt.

“Cashmere, of course.” Does she ever speak without
laughing?

I’m thrilled she’s going to sleep. Not just
because it’s my routine, and I wondered how I was going to manage a night on
the town, but because I didn’t want to become reacquainted with my flute in
front of her.

Once I’m alone, I move my pack to the floor and
walk around the great room, eating. The first bite of lemon zings pain into my
jaw and I wish I’d chosen a different flavor. There aren’t any pictures of
people, only abstract art in muted colors. I search for anything that says Cori
to me. I walk slowly, taking my time, saving the bookshelf I noticed for last.

After I throw away the empty yogurt container and
wash the spoon, I head over to the eight-foot cherry shelf. It looks like a
library collection, but duller. The book-jackets are faded and lack the hues I
see in the grocery store best-sellers. I lift East of Eden. The paper feels
thin and brittle, like an old person’s skin. I replace the book between
Tortilla Flat and The Grapes of Wrath. I’ve read all of those. There are a few Steinbeck
that I haven’t read. I lift “The Pearl.” The white letters of the title are
surrounded by an unsightly shade of blue with dark blue half-moons. Maybe it’s supposed
to look like water. The blue is framed in black and surrounded by what was once
a mostly red border, but now seems sun-bleached.

The repulsive cover calls to me.

I lay it on the couch. Cori should be settled by
now, but I need more privacy. There are French doors by the kitchen. I let
myself out to a swept balcony with a glass patio table for two. A dead plant
and dried dirt sit to one side in an exquisite three-foot-high, jade-like vase.
No Navaho pottery here.

I sink into a white metal chair with pastel
cushions. April 27. Two months, to the day, since I last saw my flute. It’s
almost cosmic—or divine. The shaft feels foreign until I slide my fingers over
the holes. A breeze lifts the pine branches nearby and I close my eyes, waiting
for it to lift me. I want the spirits of the wind or animals or trees,
whichever are strongest, to take me away. If only something spiritual would
touch me, carry me.

When I wondered if Hayden’s God could find my
flute last night, I didn’t believe—I never thought—why would his God help me?

With my eyes still closed, I lift the flute to my
lips. Just a few notes at first, I need to breathe music before I let it
consume me. After the sounds have become familiar again, I sing through the
wood my father carved.

When I’m finished, the silence is release. I’m
thankful the mournful reconciliation is complete. Just as I rise to leave the
balcony, Mark’s voice lifts in resonance and echo. There are no words at first.
He explores the cadence I just played. His sounds become words in a language I
don’t understand. His meaning is clear though, no one has ever felt more
heartbreak. I’ll weep from the sound of it. I lean over the railing to see if I
can catch a glimpse. I don’t know what I’ll say to him, “I’m sorry you hurt,” or
something; but I cannot let someone cry out like that.

My legs carry me through Cori’s earth-toned
apartment and out the front door. As I navigate toward Mark’s front door, a
wholly different sound emanates through the closed window, an upbeat-joke-of-a-song.
He starts again. He sings a scale. It was only practice. Who knew opera could
express such passion?

I try not to feel betrayed as I creep back into
Cori’s place. Am I the only one who hurts?

I take a sweater from my backpack and roll up my
flute. From now on, it travels with me. To work, home, wherever.

I stretch across the couch with The Pearl in my
hands. The pages are smooth, almost cottony. It smells better than library
books, but I knew it would. A small white envelope lands on my lap. The envelope
is unopened, the hasty script faded, the postmark 2005. Five years old?