The Hummingbird's Cage (16 page)

Reuben was approaching with a tray, Simon close behind. He placed four foaming glasses on the table, along with four forks. I thought he'd made a mistake in the cutlery till Simon set down a small plate: on it was a huge cinnamon bun—exactly like the ones from my late-night binges in college.

Simon handed me a fork. “They even warmed it,” he said. “Shall we?”

They waited for me to take the first bite. It tasted just as I remembered, down to the sweet, dripping butter.

“They make these here?” I asked.

“Not ordinarily,” Simon said vaguely. “You have to know who to talk to.”

*   *   *

Later that night, Simon insisted on driving me home. He opened the passenger door of his truck and offered his hand to help me inside. I ignored the hand and climbed in on my own. The bench seat was upholstered in soft cowhide that warmed my legs, despite the deepening chill.

Simon started the engine, then turned a knob on the dashboard. “Doesn't take long for the heat to kick in.”

“I'm fine.”

I slid his coat from my shoulders and folded it neatly. I laid it on the seat between us.

“Are you?” he asked. I knew he wasn't talking about the chill.

The evening had been surprisingly pleasant, but now that Simon and I were alone, the resentment was back and doubling down. Just how was he expecting this lift back to the farmhouse to end? With the two of us parked in the driveway steaming up the truck windows? Sloppy kisses on the porch?

Besides, I couldn't look at him without seeing Davey pulling off his cowboy hat, exposing that face . . .

I turned toward the side window and watched as Morro swept past. The truck left the asphalt and hit the dirt road with a faint bump. As we drove on toward the farm, I shifted in the seat to look behind us.

Tonight the snowcap on the Mountain shone with a kind of phosphorescence. And there near the top was Olin's night-light.

If I climbed up and found that light, if I touched it, would it burn like fire? Or like ice?

Simon was reaching for the knob on the dash again.

“Corral's almost finished,” he said as warm air fanned my legs. “Pegasus has even jumped the rails a few times, but he always comes back. I wouldn't have thought he could hurdle that high—not in his shape. Maybe he's got wings after all.”

I dragged my eyes from the Mountain and straightened in my seat. “You're keeping the name?”

“Wouldn't want to disappoint Davey,” he said.

“He seems like a nice boy.”

“He is.”

“Yes,” I said tonelessly. “And he looks
exactly
like a nine-year-old version of my husband.” The words tasted bitter as rue on my tongue. “Except he has my eyes. Didn't you notice?”

I turned to stare at the window glass. I could feel Simon studying me, but he was silent for a long while. Then, “I knew there was something.”

We were almost at the house now; the drive from town wasn't long. Despite the warm air in the cab, I was shivering all over again.

“Yes,” I said. “There was something.”

Simon didn't answer. He kept his hands level on the wheel, his eyes on the road. And just . . .
waited
.

I felt no demands from him. No expectations. No judgments.

I knew we could ride the rest of the way without another word being said—we could drive clear up to Canada as silent as two monks—and it would be perfectly fine with him.

But this time the truth sat painfully in my throat, straining to burst free. This time there was no one compelling me to speak.

And that meant no one to resist.

“I was pregnant once before,” I began quietly. “Before Laurel, I mean. I lost the baby early. If he'd been born—” I shook my head. “His name was David. At least, that was my name for him. His due date was in June. Nine years ago. Sound familiar?”

I was startled to realize my cheeks were wet. I wiped at the tears, then stared at my fingers.

We were drawing up on the farmhouse, pulling into the drive. The porch light was on; a single lamp shone through the
front window. The rest of the house was dark. It wasn't late, but Olin and Jessie kept farm hours.

Simon switched off the engine and made no move to exit or to help me out. Instead, he rested his left arm on the steering wheel and eased himself in his seat, angling in my direction. Still he said nothing.

If he'd questioned me then, I couldn't have gone on. I would have shut down, just as I'd done with the doctor in the clinic and with Alicia from the prosecutor's office. It wasn't from obstinacy or defiance. It was just that some wounds run so deep, they can cut you all over again in the telling.

But almost before I knew it—there I was, telling Simon. It helped that it was too dark to see his face well, or for him to see mine.

I told him about Jim's jealous rage that day, and the punch to the stomach. About the emergency trip to the clinic two days later. I even told him something I'd forgotten till that very moment—about rushing to the bathroom in the clinic before the exam because I was bleeding through my clothes. And somehow there was my blood all over the bathroom floor, the walls, and I panicked, pulling paper towels from the dispenser, frantic to clean everything up before anybody found out I'd made such a mess.

Then, after the exam, the curettage, with Jim hovering and the doctor advising us to go try again, we stood in line to pay the bill, just one more couple like any other in the room. An office assistant was soothing a fussy toddler, holding him over a machine to copy his tiny hands till he laughed.

As I stood there watching them, it was the first time—the only time—I shed tears over the baby. A nurse pulled us out of line and hustled us to a desk in a quiet corner to handle the
payment in private. Jim went through the motions of a man comforting his wife, his hand a vise on my shoulder.

Once home, he warned me never to mention the baby again.

And so I hadn't.

“Joanna, I'm so sorry.” Simon reached for me, but I shrank from him.

“I appreciate it—I do,” I said apologetically. “But I don't think I could handle a single bit of kindness right now. Does that make sense?”

“It does.”

“I always thought I'd break into a thousand pieces if I ever dared tell anyone about Jim. Like there'd be some punishment—from Jim or, I don't know, from God, for all I knew. As if the two of them were one and the same. Crazy, right? I mean, if one of them existed, the other couldn't possibly.”

“It's hard to make sense of the world when people do terrible things.”

“And get away with it—don't forget that.
And get away with it.
If God protects fools and drunks, he sure as hell protects bastards, too. Where's all that righteous anger of his, anyway? I've seen plenty of anger out there, but never his. If he hears the smallest prayer, he sure as hell can hear a scream.”

Simon was looking off in the distance. He had an earnest grip on the steering wheel.

“It can seem that way sometimes,” he said, his voice low. “In our darkest hours, it can seem like there's nothing out there. When you're fighting for your life, weeks into a battle—outgunned, outmaneuvered and so exhausted you don't know if you're awake or just trapped inside your own nightmare. Watching your buddies disappear one by one in a blast of
shells—just
gone
—or ground up like raw meat under tank treads.”

His voiced trailed off. I was watching him then, mesmerized by his profile, by the strain in his voice—so unlike him. I waited for him to go on.

“Artillery, mortar fire, tanks raking you from all sides . . . explosions so close your ears bleed. You wipe at the mud and the blood, knowing there's nowhere to run.
Nowhere
. So scared all you want to do is crawl up inside your own helmet. And you hear the screams. You hear the prayers, too. Impossible to miss.” He turned and gave me a thin smile. “Trust me. Impossible.”

“Simon . . . I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“No reason you should.”

“You make me ashamed.”

He cocked his head. “Why on earth?”

“I forget other people have scars, too. Where were you? Afghanistan?”

He didn't answer.

“No,” I continued slowly, “that couldn't be right. We haven't had battles like that over there. Weeks and weeks, against tanks . . .” I waited for an explanation, but he wasn't offering one.

“You know,” he said finally, “maybe some prayers aren't answered right away. Maybe we have to wait for it. Or
work
for it.”

“A bootstrap theology.”

“Not quite,” he said. “We don't always have to go it alone, you know.”

Suddenly I was remembering Bernadette.

“There was someone who helped me once,” I said. “And for no good reason I know of. She said it was because I asked her,
but even so, I don't know many people who would've done that. Jessie and Olin would have.
You
would have.”

“Joanna, listen. When you first came, you could've knocked on any door and been taken in. That's just the way it is. I believe that's how most people are, given a chance.”

“I wish I could believe that,” I said.

“Give it some time.”

I drew a deep breath; the choking knot in my throat was gone.

“Better?” he asked.

“I feel empty,” I said. “But in a good way—lighter, cleaner. You're a good listener.”

“Happy to lend an ear. Anytime.”

“You must be kidding. Why in the world would you want to hear about the hot mess that is my life?”

He pulled on his door handle. “It's late. I'll see you to the house.”

I
was raking oak leaves in the yard when Laurel bolted outside with a shout. She ran up and latched onto my leg. “Mommy! Mr. Olin plays with
dolls
!” She chortled.

Olin had followed her onto the porch, looking tickled.

“Honey,” I told her, “I'm sure Mr. Olin doesn't play with baby dolls . . .”

“No!” she said. “With little wooden Indians.”

I understood then what she meant: kachinas. They were in every souvenir shop in Wheeler—cheap, clunky carvings decked out with gaudy paint and feathers, glued to wooden stands.

“Those aren't dolls, sweetie. They're—” I fumbled for something inoffensive. “They're special figures in Indian culture.”

“That's near the point, punkin',” Olin told her. “But there's more to it than that. Come on—I'll show you.”

“You, too, Mommy.”

“In a minute. You go on—I want to get this done before Simon comes.”

I was finishing up when Simon and his dog rounded the café, heading for the house. I waved, and he raised his arm in turn. Pal must have thought I was giving him a signal because he put on speed and bulleted right at me. I dropped the rake just as he reared up, his front paws ramming my shoulders. I staggered from the impact.

Simon whistled and Pal jumped down and swung around, waiting for his master to catch up.

“Sorry. Did he get dirt on you?”

I brushed at my sweater. “No harm done.”

Simon gestured. “Missed a spot.”

“Where—here?”

“No.” He hesitated, then picked a crushed leaf from my shoulder. “There—now you're perfect.”

“And you're full of it.”

He laughed. We climbed the porch steps together, and I leaned the rake against the house. He glanced around curiously. “Where's my little lookout?”

“Inside. Playing with Olin's kachinas.”

“Ah. That could take a while. Have you seen them?”

“Not yet. Thought I'd look in when I was more presentable.”

His eyes swept over me again, this time down to my capris and bare feet. I'd kicked off my sneakers while I raked.

“You look just fine,” he said. “I should . . . go on upstairs.”

I nodded.

He took one final glance before disappearing inside. I followed soon after, checking in with Jessie in the kitchen to see if she needed help with supper.

“Not a thing,” she said. “What on earth are you smiling about?”

“What?”

“Child, you look right pleased with yourself. What's going on?”

“I don't know what you mean. I'll get Laurel washed up. Olin's showing her his kachinas.”

“Those?” Jessie muttered. “I hope he doesn't frighten the poor thing.”

She pulled off her apron and dropped it on the butcher block, then headed for the living room.

I hadn't seen Olin's den yet—I knew it was his personal retreat, but could only imagine what it looked like: deer heads mounted on the wall, a gun safe in the corner, a cracked leather sofa by a fireplace . . .

The door to the room was open and I followed Jessie inside. Olin was bending over Laurel, his palm outstretched.

“And this here they call the ‘Priest Killer,'” he was saying.

“Land's sake! Don't show her that!” Jessie snapped.

Olin was holding a figurine so tiny I couldn't make it out from the doorway. Laurel was staring at it, her eyes wide.

“Can I touch it?” she asked.

“Olin!” Jessie growled.

Before Olin could reconsider, Laurel snatched up the figurine. It was impossibly small—two inches, if that. And she looked mesmerized.

“Is that a knife with
blood
on it?” she asked. “Is he holding somebody's
head
?”

I drew closer. It was a stocky figure in a leather cape, loincloth and red moccasins. There were two red squares where his
ears should be and an orange ruff around his neck. He had a black wolflike snout. In one hand he was clutching a decapitated head; in the other, a knife tipped with red.

“Why did he kill the priest?” Laurel asked.

“Well,” said Olin, “Indians didn't much appreciate other folks sayin' their ways was no good, tryin' to make 'em follow theirs. So one day they up and went to war. Attacked a mission.”

“They didn't want to believe in God?”

“They did believe—in the Great Spirit. Believed other things, too. In the Earth Mother, in balance and cycles to life. And spirits everywhere—not just in people, but in trees and animals and every God-made thing.”

Laurel looked thoughtful. “I like that.”

“Me, too,” said Olin.

“I think the oak tree outside has a spirit.”

“I often thought that myself.”

“Why do people fight over things like that?” she asked.

“It'd take a wiser man than me to figure it out. Till a man goes to his reward, he don't know nothin' for sure. Till then, arguin' over it is like blind men arguin' over the color blue.”

Gingerly, Laurel handed the figure back to Olin.

“Mommy,” she said, “look at these.”

She pressed her face against a display case filled with carved figures of every size—from miniatures like the Priest Killer to others topping two feet. All were made of cottonwood root. Some were very rough, very old. Others were large and resplendent, finely sanded and painted, dressed in real feathers, soft fur and leather. None looked anything like the knockoffs in those tourist shops in Wheeler.

Olin explained that the older, plainer carvings were Hopi—
the pueblo tribe that originated the kachinas. The Zuni and Navajo had adopted them later.

By tradition, he said, there are hundreds of kachinas, each representing a supernatural being that protects, teaches, amuses or disciplines. They're also messengers to the spirit world.

Just before spring, the kachinas leave their ancient home in the sacred mountains to live among the Hopi, to help with the hunt and the harvest. Then in midsummer they hold the Home-Going Dance before they return to their mountains.

Some appear in animal form, while others are mudheads, or clowns, with fantastical headpieces. Ogres teach children right from wrong. And still others, said Olin, aren't strictly kachinas, but dancers. Many are revered for their virtues—their wisdom or healing, their skill as hunters or warriors. Some help the rains come.

Laurel found a tiny Warrior Mouse that Olin said saved a village from a hawk that was gobbling up all its precious chickens. The mouse taunted the hawk till it dived and impaled itself on a sharpened greasewood stick.

“What's ‘impaled'?” Laurel asked.

“A fine thing to have to explain,” Jessie muttered, heading for the door. “Supper in fifteen minutes.”

She left just as Simon entered. “Impaled?” he murmured, so close that his breath brushed my ear and I could smell the Lifebuoy soap on his skin.

“Some story about a Warrior Mouse and a hawk,” I said.

He nodded.

“Well,” Olin began slowly, rubbing his chin, “when the hawk dove to the ground, that greasewood stick was stickin' up just like a little spear, see? And the hawk, he flew smack into it before he even knew what happened.”

Laurel looked intrigued.

I pointed to a nearby figure. “What about this?”

Olin smiled. “Now, that's right special—and not just to Hopis. He's the Hummingbird.”

He picked it up—a figure less than a foot high, with a straight body painted aqua and yellow, arms crooked at the elbows. It was dressed in a white leather skirt, a green mask and green moccasins, and crowned with a ruff of Douglas fir. It didn't look any more remarkable than the others; in many respects, it looked much less so.

“The Hopis, they send the Hummingbird up to ask the gods for rain so the crops can grow,” Olin explained. “One time, when the whole world caught fire, it was the Hummingbird who gathered all the rain clouds to put it out.”

A colorful legend, I thought, but I wasn't sure why a Hummingbird that could summon rain was any more special than, say, the Antelope or the Long-Haired kachinas, which could do the same.

“And the Apaches, they got a story about a warrior named Wind Dancer who saved Bright Rain from a wolf,” Olin said. “He died and Bright Rain took to grievin', and the whole world settled into a long winter. Bright Rain, she set out on long walks, and a hummingbird took to flyin' with her, whispering words of comfort in her ear, restorin' the balance. Turns out, that hummingbird was Wind Dancer. And after a while, Bright Rain stopped her grievin', and winter broke and spring come again.”

Laurel was tracing the crown of the Hummingbird kachina. “Too bad Bright Rain didn't turn into a hummingbird, too, so they could be together.”

Olin smiled down at her. “When her time come, maybe she did,” he said gently. “Maybe heaven ain't all harps and halos.”

But he wasn't finished with the lesson. “Go back far enough,” he said, “the Mayans thought the hummingbird was the sun in disguise. And the Aztecs—to them, hummingbirds was warriors that died in battle.”

He was eyeing the figure thoughtfully. “And out of all of the kachinas, only the Hummingbird ever flew high enough to see what was on the other side of the sky.”

That intrigued me. “What did he find?”

Olin shook his head. “As the story goes—nothin'.”

Jessie's voice rang out from the kitchen: “Supper!”

The lesson was over. We put the figures away and headed for the dining room.

“Mr. Olin,” Laurel asked, “do all old people know as much stuff as you?”

He chuckled. “Li'l gal, I been thinkin'. I figure ‘Mr. Olin' is a mite formal for good friends like us.”

“But what should I call you, then?” she asked.

“What'd you like to call me?”

“Can I call you Opa?”

I shushed her. “Laurel, no.”

Olin looked puzzled.

“
Opa
is German,” I explained. “It means ‘Grandpa.'”

He considered for a moment. “Sounds easy enough to pronounce, for bein' German. You call me Opa anytime you want. What should I call you?”

“My name's Laurel.”

“True enough. But how 'bout I call you Honey Bunny?”

Laurel giggled.

“Only sometimes I might call you Honey for short, and other times just Bunny. But Honey Bunny for more formal occasions.”

Laurel took his hand. “What do you think heaven is, Opa?”

He looked around the room—from his wife to the hearth to the table set for supper.

“Well, Bunny, I think heaven is whatever, wherever and whoever makes you happiest.”

*   *   *

After supper, Olin and Jessie began clearing the table and Laurel headed upstairs to get ready for bed, leaving me to see Simon off. From the porch, I could hear bluegrass music on the radio inside. I pulled one of Jessie's woolen shawls around me as Simon turned to leave.

He hesitated on the porch steps.

“It occurs to me you haven't been to the pub yet,” he said. “I wonder if you'd care to rectify that.”

“What?”

“I mean, with your interest in Irish poetry, and the proprietor of the pub being Irish—it just makes sense.”

“You're trying to set me up with the pub owner?”

He laughed. “I'm not trying to set you up with anyone. I'm asking, in my clumsy way, if you'd care to go to the pub some evening. With me. The pub owner's married.”

“Simon, there are so many reasons to say no, I couldn't begin to list them all.”

“Then don't say no. Say you'll think about it. Then think about it.”

I hugged the shawl tighter. “Laurel's waiting. I told her I'd read to her before bed.”

“Night, then.”

He turned and headed to his pickup truck. I waved as it pulled away, certain he was watching.

As I entered the house again, I noticed the door to Olin's den still ajar. I could hear him and Jessie puttering in the kitchen, so I slipped inside for another look, pausing just inside the doorway.

I looked around at the sage green walls and white molding. His rifles and shotgun were mounted on a far wall, along with an old-style cavalry carbine. No deer heads, though, and no leather sofa. Instead, there were two overstuffed club chairs slipcovered in yellow flowers; both looked comfortable and well used. There were shelves lined with books flanking a deep stone fireplace, and on the mantel a display of Indian pottery, pewter mugs and candlesticks, and an enameled tobacco box.

As I turned to leave, I spotted a photograph in a silver frame on a small table. It was an old black-and-white of cowboys in slouch hats, kerchiefs knotted at their necks. They were surrounding a standing figure that looked remarkably like Teddy Roosevelt. As I read the caption, I realized it
was
Teddy Roosevelt:
Rough Riders, 1898
.

Several of the men were on their feet while others knelt on one knee or sat cross-legged on the bare ground. The landscape looked like Southwestern desert.

I scanned the faces—the young and cocky, the stern and worldly-wise. Kneeling in the foreground was a youthful cowboy with dark hair and a bristly mustache, grinning into the camera, cradling a carbine very like the one now mounted on the wall.

I leaned closer. The cowboy looked like a young Olin Farnsworth.

“See the resemblance?”

Olin was behind me, gazing over my shoulder at the picture.

“I didn't hear you come in,” I said. “What a time you must have had . . . storming San Juan Hill.”

Olin paused. “Well, that ain't exactly the case. Not all Teddy's boys made it to Cuba. When orders come, they wasn't enough room on the transport ship.” He nodded at the picture. “Some had to stay behind in Florida. Most of the horses and mules did, too, which wasn't an ideal situation for a crack cavalry outfit. And that's why the Rough Riders took San Juan on foot.”