The Hummingbird's Cage (3 page)

We
live just outside Wheeler, a city of twenty thousand bordering the Navajo reservation. The town is roughly equal parts Caucasian, Hispanic and Indian—not just Navajo, but Zuni and Hopi, too. It's been described as a down-and-dirty sort of place. Billboards crowd the two interstates that run into town and out again. Signs are always advertising half-off sales on Indian jewelry—mostly questionable grades of turquoise and silver crafted into belts, earrings and squash blossom necklaces, but also smatterings of other things, like tiger's eye cabochons set in thick rings and looping strands of red branch coral. The town is notorious for its saturation of bars, liquor stores and plasma donation centers. Unless you live there, or need gas or a night's sleep, or you're in the market for souvenirs of Indian Country, it's more of a drive-through than a destination.

The McGill County sheriff's office is headquartered in
Wheeler, but its jurisdiction actually lies outside the city limits—about five thousand square miles of high desert. The rugged sandstone mesas that make up the northern horizon begin about twenty miles east, and they are something to behold, rising up out of the earth in a sloping, unbroken line, bloodred and striated.

In any given year, the county might see two murders and a half dozen rapes. I know, because Jim likes to tell me, studying my face as he recounts the details, which are far more lurid than what makes it into a deputy's report. A dozen arsons, two dozen stolen cars. Four hundred people will drive drunk. Thirty will go missing, and some will never be seen again. Three hundred will be assaulted—at least, those are the ones that make their way into a report. These usually consist of brawls between men who've had a few too many, or jealous fights over a girl, or squabbles between neighbors. Less often, young men will jump a stranger for his wallet or whatever contents of his car they can easily pawn. And some are what are commonly known as domestic disputes.

If you wonder why I never became a statistic with the sheriff's office, it wasn't for lack of trying, and not just on Jim's part. If you've never been in my shoes, you likely could never understand. Ten years ago, I couldn't have. The closest metaphor I know is the one about the boiling frog: Put a frog in a pot of boiling water, and he will jump out at once. But put him in a pot of cold water and turn up the heat by degrees, and he'll cook to death before he realizes it.

After the slap comes the fist. After the black eye, the split lip. The punch that caused me to miscarry was a bad one. After that, came the fear: That I did not know this man. That I didn't know myself. That he could seriously hurt me. That he might
even kill me. That there was no one to turn to, so thoroughly had he separated me from familiar people and places. He had moved me into his world where he was an authority, an officer of the law, and I was the outsider, an unknown quantity.

Then there was the shame. That somehow I had caused this. That somehow I deserved this. That this was, as he so often told me, my fault. If only I were smarter or prettier, took better care of the house, were more cheerful. If only I had salted the beans right, or hadn't left the toothpaste tube facedown instead of faceup.

In point of fact, when I finally felt the water start to boil, I did try to get help. But Jim was ready. It happened the first time he cracked one of my ribs, and I dialed 911. He didn't stop me. This was an object lesson, only I didn't know it. The deputy who knocked on the door was a longtime fishing buddy who still had one of Jim's favorite trout spinners in his own tackle box at home. By the time the deputy left the house, he and Jim had plans that Sunday for Clearwater Lake.

Jim waved the man out of the driveway, came inside and closed the door. I was leaning against the china cabinet, holding my side. Laurel was a toddler then, and wailing in her crib. It hurt so bad to bend that I couldn't pick her up. Jim came at me so fast I thought he intended to ram right through me. I shuffled back against the wall. He braced one broad hand against the doorjamb, and with the other shoved hard against the china cabinet. It toppled over and crashed to the floor, shattering our wedding set to bits, scattering eggshell porcelain shards from one end of the room to the other.

Jim was red with rage, snorting like a bull. “You stupid bitch,” he said, panting hard. “Clean this up.”

He stepped toward me again, this time more slowly. His
hand came up and I winced in anticipation, but he only cupped my cheek in his palm, stroking my skin. When he spoke again, the pitch of his voice was changed utterly—low and gentle, like a caress.

“And if you ever call them again, I swear to Christ I will cut your fucking fingers off before they even get here.”

*   *   *

After that, you feel the heat, but not the burn. After that, you get on your knees and pick up the pieces, grateful you can still do that much. And after that, you lean over your daughter's crib no matter how much it hurts and pick her up and hold her so tight you think you'll smother both of you.

Laurel
turned seven yesterday, and it was a good day. Jim was off and had picked up presents—a dress with ruffles and matching shoes, a DVD of
Sleeping Beauty
and a stuffed rabbit with a pink bow around its neck holding a heart-shaped pillow that read,
Daddy's Girl
. He'd suggested a coconut cake, even though Laurel's favorite is chocolate. I made chocolate, but covered it with coconut icing.

Laurel doesn't like ruffles, either, or matching sets of clothing. Left to herself, she'll pair pink stripes with purple polka dots and top it with a yellow sunhat freckled with red daisies. It will look like she's pulled on whatever has risen to the top of the laundry basket, but in fact she will spend a half hour in careful consideration of this piece with that before making her final decision. Jim jokes that she must be color-blind. He calls it “clownwear,” and if he's home to see it, he makes her change. But I let her mix and match as she pleases, because she says she is a rainbow and doesn't want any color to feel left out.

Jim's
probation has ended. Three months of good behavior, ten days served, an official reprimand and a misdemeanor conviction that a career man can overcome with enough time and a little effort. That was the sheriff's encouraging speech when he met with Jim and me this morning to, as he says, close the book on an unfortunate incident.

As far as he knew, we had merely argued. And I, being foolish, had taken the stairs too fast and slipped. And if it was anything more serious than this, well, he was a big believer in the healing power of time.

“I've known you two for—how long? I never met a nicer couple,” he said. “You're young; you can get beyond this. You've got a daughter—Laura? Think of her. Go home. Get your family back. Forget it ever happened.” He wagged his finger at Jim and laughed. “But don't ever let it happen again, Corporal.”

Jim grinned. “No, sir. It won't.”

As jail time goes, Jim had it easy. He was kept in a separate cell to protect him from other prisoners, some of whom he might have arrested. His buddies brought him men's magazines to pass the time, and burgers and burritos instead of jailhouse food. They shot the breeze with him and played cards to ease the boredom, the cell door open for their visits. It might as well have been an extended sleepover. Jim joked with them, lost good-naturedly at poker, winked when they delivered the magazines.

When he was finally released . . .

No, not yet. Not yet. Not yet. I can't tell it yet.

What I can say is that it wasn't my fault Jim went to jail—it was the doctor in the clinic across the Arizona state line that Jim took me to in case it was something serious. Wheeler is only a few miles from the border.

I can't remember what set him off this time—some trouble at work, most likely, that carried over. And it was mid-November, and Jim never does well during the holidays. But this time I was vomiting blood, and feverish. I was afraid I was bleeding inside, and convinced him to take me to a doctor. I swore I wouldn't say anything.

To all appearances, Jim was the concerned and loving husband, holding me up as he walked me through the doors of the clinic. He was near tears as he explained he'd come home to find me half conscious at the base of the stairs, our little daughter frantic, trying to rouse her mother. The nurses seemed as concerned for his welfare as for mine.

But the clinic doctor was young, fresh off a hospital residency in Phoenix and clearly not stupid. He could tell a bad beating from a fall. He called the local police department,
which referred it back to McGill County for investigation as suspected domestic assault.

The doctor had me admitted to the small regional hospital, where I stayed for two days. During that time, he visited me to check on my progress, and to press for details.

I could tell he meant well. He asked what happened to my bent pinkie. How I came by the scar that bisects my left eyebrow. The scalding burn on my back. He said he would send someone from the local domestic violence center to speak with me, if I wished.

I didn't wish anything of the sort. He was young and earnest. To men like him, illness and injury are the enemy, and they are soldiers in some noble cause. I felt like he was flaying me alive.

“You're safe here,” the doctor said.

I stared at him. He was a fool.

“Where's my daughter?” It was not a question.

Jim didn't visit me—he wasn't allowed to visit while the report was under investigation. He was put on paid leave from the sheriff's office, so he stayed in our house outside Wheeler, putting Laurel on the school bus every morning, waiting for her when she got home again every afternoon.

When I was released from the hospital, I returned home and Jim moved in with a buddy and his family. They commiserated over what was clearly a misunderstanding. A bad patch in a good marriage.

An assistant county attorney met with me once. She came to the door in heels and a tailored skirt suit that showed lots of shapely leg. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She wore dark-rimmed glasses, but only for effect. They made her look like a college student. I'd never met her, but knew of her—
police officers and officers of the court are members of the same team. And cops gossip like schoolgirls.

Her name was Alicia and she was full of swagger, lugging an expensive briefcase, a cell phone clipped to her belt. She couldn't have looked more out of place in Wheeler than if she'd parachuted in from the moon. If I'd had the smallest sliver of hope for rescue, which I didn't, Alicia dashed it just by showing up.

We sat at the kitchen table, the better for her to take notes. I poured her a cup of coffee that she didn't drink and set out a plate of oatmeal cookies that she didn't touch. I fed her the story Jim had made up, and she saw right through it. Just like the doctor in Arizona, Alicia pressed for “the truth,” as if it were something tangible you could serve up on demand, like those cookies.

“According to the medical report, your injuries are consistent with a beating,” Alicia snapped, impatient, glaring at me over her dark rims. “We can't do anything unless you help us. He'll get away with it. Is that what you want?”

I was calmer than I thought I'd be. I shook my head. “He already has.”

Alicia's penetrating stare bordered on disgust. She slapped her folder closed and stood up. I was surprised—she had a reputation as a terrier, and I thought she'd put up more of a fight.

“Women like you—” she muttered under her breath, shoving her folder in her briefcase.

Something snapped inside. I stood up, too, heat rushing to my face.

“And women like
you
, Alicia,” I said through clenched teeth.

She froze for a second, studying me. “What are you talking about?”

“You really should be more careful. When your boyfriend,
Bobby, knocks you around, don't call Escobar at the station house to cry on his shoulder. The man can't keep a secret. And, my God, you should know it's a recorded line.”

Her pretty face turned scarlet. Later, I would regret being so blunt, so mean. But caught up in the moment, I couldn't stop myself. Laying into her felt electrifying, like busting loose from a straitjacket, and for the barest second I wondered if this was how Jim felt when he lit into me.

She slammed the front door behind her and we never spoke again. I did see her in court at the hearing for the plea agreement. Without the cooperation of the victim—that would be me—the case was weak. Jim's defense attorney and Alicia worked out a deal: if he pleaded guilty to misdemeanor disorderly conduct, the felony assault charge would be dropped and he'd serve minimal time. A felony conviction was too great a risk for Jim—it would mean the end of his police career, not to mention a lengthy jail sentence.

The judge agreed. It took all of two minutes.

To this day, if anyone should ask—and no one ever does—I would tell them the same thing I told everyone else: I got upset that day, slipped and tumbled down the stairs. I would swear it on any Bible put in front of me.

I would swear it because Jim wants it that way.

What they don't know is what happened the same afternoon that Alicia stalked out of our house.

After she left, I opened the back door to call Tinkerbell in from the yard. It was chilly, and after a run she liked to curl up on her blanket by the kitchen stove. Usually she was ready and waiting, but not that day. I called again and again, listening for her yippy bark, expecting to see her fox tail fly around the corner. But there was only uneasy silence.

I stepped outside, and that was when I saw Jim's Expedition parked to the side of the road a short way from the house. The windows were tinted, so I couldn't make out if there was anyone sitting inside. I scanned the yard again, panic rising.

That was when I saw Jim.

He was standing next to the shed, watching me. It was a bloodless stare, and it stopped me cold. I stood there transfixed, unable to speak or move. Or turn and run.

He took a slow step toward me, then another. All the while his eyes fixed on me, pinning me like an insect to a mounting board. Then he stopped. I noticed then he was carrying something in his arms. His hand moved over it, like a caress. It whimpered. It was Tinkerbell.

I opened my dry mouth, but it took several tries before I could manage words.

“Jim, you're not supposed to be here.”

He smiled—but that, too, was bloodless.

“Now, that's not very nice, is it, girl?” he baby-talked playfully in the dog's ear. “Not a ‘Hello,' not a ‘How are you?'” He looked at me and sighed. “Just trying to get rid of me as fast as she can.”

“How . . . how are you, Jim?” I stuttered, struggling to sound wifely and concerned. “Are you eating well?”

He laughed softly.

“Come here.”

“We're not supposed to talk.”

“Come here.”

“Laurel will be home from school soon.”

“We'll be done by then. Come here.”

His voice was pitched so pleasant, so light, he might have been talking about the weather. I started to shake.

I moved toward him. When I was close enough, he told me to stop. He turned to the shed, opened the door and gently dropped the dog inside. Then he closed the door again.

I could have bolted then, but to what purpose? Jim was faster, stronger, cleverer. And at that moment, I didn't trust my legs to hold me up, much less handle a footrace.

Before he returned, he grabbed something that was leaning against the shed. I hadn't noticed it until then. It was a shovel—the one with the spear-headed steel blade he'd bought last summer when he needed to cut through the roots of a dead cottonwood tree. It still had the brand sticker on it:
When a regular shovel won't do the job.

When he came back, he offered it to me. I shrank from him and shook my head.

“It's okay,” he said softly. “Go on. Take it.”

The shovel was heavier than I'd expected, or maybe I wasn't as strong. It weighted my arm and I had to grasp it with both hands.

“Follow me,” he said.

He led me behind the shed, just short of the six-foot wooden fence that lined the rear and sides of the property. He searched the ground for a moment, considering, as if he were picking out a likely spot to plant rosebushes. Then he pointed.

“There,” he said.

“Jim . . . I don't understand.”

“What's to understand, idiot? You got a shovel. Use it.”

His voice was mild, his mouth quirked in what might have passed for a smile. But his stare was like a knife. Like a spear-headed steel blade that would have gladly cut me in two if only it could.

I didn't dare disobey. I took a deep breath and stabbed the
shovel in the dirt. I set my foot on the shoulder of the blade and kicked. I began to dig.

The tool was built for plowing through rough ground with the least resistance. Spear it in, kick the blade deep, carve out wedge after wedge of red earth. It was easier work than I would have thought, except for one thing: I wasn't sure what I was digging.

But I had an idea.

A ragged hole was getting carved out, the pile of fresh dirt along the edge growing bigger, when Jim dragged his foot along the ground, drawing invisible lines.

“Here to here,” he said.

I straightened and wiped the sweat from my face with my forearm. I leaned on the shovel handle, panting, and considered the perimeter he'd just marked off.

A rectangle. Just big enough to hold a grown woman, maybe, if her arms and legs were tucked tight.

A grave.

One wedge of earth at a time.

Jim had pulled a bare stem from the bougainvillea bush near the fence and was twirling it aimlessly in his fingers.

“You aren't done yet,” he said.

I could hear scratching coming from inside the shed. Tinkerbell was pawing at the door, anxious to escape. I turned in desperation toward the wood fence that was boxing me in. With Jim. With no way out. I knew how the dog felt.

“That goddamn hole won't dig itself,” Jim said mildly. “Ticktock. You want Laurel to see?”

Instinctively, I glanced at my wrist, but I wasn't wearing my watch. My mind reeled. I could try to stall until the school bus came. A busload of children, a driver—I could dash out and
scream for help. Jim wouldn't dare do anything then, would he? Not in front of witnesses?

No, of course he wouldn't.

But what he would do was take no chances. The second we heard the rumble of the bus engine, he'd do exactly what he'd come here to do, before I had a chance to run away or make a peep. Before the bus ever got close.

And after the bus had dropped Laurel off, after it had rumbled away again, Jim would still be here, with blood on his hands. And what would happen to her then?

I picked up the shovel and stabbed it back in the dirt. I had a hole to dig, and now there was a deadline.

By the time I'd finished to Jim's specifications, I was queasy from the effort. I stepped back, leaning against the fence to catch my breath, still grasping the shovel. Jim walked to the edge of the hole and peered in, cocking his head and pursing his lips. It wasn't awfully deep, but apparently deep enough.

He walked over and wrested the shovel from my grip. I cringed.

“Stay put,” he said.

Then he turned and headed to the front of the shed.

I heard the shed door unlatch, heard it open, heard him mutter to Tinkerbell to stay put, just as he'd ordered me. I heard the door close.

It wasn't but a few seconds until I heard the whine again . . .

Then nothing.

I pushed myself off the fence and stood frozen in place, still trying to catch my breath. Straining hard to listen.

I heard the shed door again, this time opening. Then Jim rounded the corner, the shovel in one hand, Tinkerbell in the other, toted by the scruff of her neck.