The Hummingbird's Cage (6 page)

Something
jarred me awake—not a noise or movement, but instinct. The digital clock on the dresser read 2:31 a.m., and Jim wasn't in bed beside me. The sheets where he lay were cold to the touch.

I sprang from bed, adrenaline surging, and made my way to the hallway. There, I could hear a tinny melody drifting from Laurel's room. Cautiously I followed the sound. I recognized it—a song about wishing upon a star, coming from a Cinderella music box Laurel had gotten from Santa last Christmas.

There was a night-light close enough to Laurel's little canopy bed that I could make out Jim bending over her sleeping form. My breath caught in my throat. I froze in place, staring.

Whenever Laurel had nightmares, I was the one to sit at her bedside till she fell back to sleep. She must have had a bad
dream, and Jim must have heard. Watching him with her then—so gentle, so warm—was like stumbling on a stranger. At a Jim that
might
have been, but for whatever reason—because of whatever devil hunched on his shoulder, hissing in his ear—could never quite close the deal.

I watched as his fingers trailed along Laurel's cheek, the way he used to brush mine a million years ago. His expression in the obscure light so tender, it jolted me to the bone.

“Sleep, baby,” he shushed.

The
two weeks after Bernadette left the house passed like a forced march through a minefield. For the first time, I was glad of regimentation and rules. They ate up the hours. They helped settle my mind and keep the lies sorted into the right piles.

An odd sensation began to brew in my chest, churning it up. Night after night, I lay in bed taut as a bowstring as Jim slept next to me. I examined this new feeling, turning it over and over in my head like a found foreign object.

Finally, I identified it:
hope
.

I didn't like it. Resignation doesn't ask for anything. Pain can be numbing.

Hope has expectations. Hope can be dashed.

At times, I even found myself bitterly resenting Bernadette for laying this new burden on me—a terrible secret that seemed to press against my lips, straining to burst through as if daring
to be caught. But always the resentment lifted the moment Jim left the house, the risk of discovery easing for one more shift at the station. His absences washed over me like a death house reprieve.

It helped not at all that nothing was expected of me, except to be ready when the moment came. I couldn't bear a second's idleness. Chores done, I'd rake the leafless yard, dump clean clothes out of bureau drawers just so I could relaunder them. Scrub the kitchen floor, then change the bucket water and scrub it all over again. Bite my lips till they bled.

Sometimes I'd hear the stuttering roar of a bike engine in the distance and imagine it was Bernadette or Sam. I'd wonder whether she'd ridden the two hours to Albuquerque for the plane tickets yet, or if she'd bought them over the phone and was having them mailed to her at the Palomino. Maybe the tickets were lying on her nightstand even now, just waiting for the jailbreak.

Then another thought would crush me: What if she'd changed her mind altogether? Decided to dump Jim's loser wife like deadweight? Was she even now in Durango or Flagstaff or San Antonio? At those times, it was all I could do not to pick up the phone and call the number she'd left. What stayed my hand was the realization that the only thing I could do if she answered was to pinch out a pathetic, “Are you still coming?”

The easiest thing was keeping it from Laurel. I was so well practiced in that already. And there was so much at stake.

That last night as I lay in bed, my mind could level on only one thing:

Tomorrow
.

Insurrection Day

As
scheduled, Laurel had early dismissal from school. The bus dropped her off around twelve thirty. She showed off her certificate for passing first grade and I suggested a fried-chicken lunch on Saturday to celebrate. Jim approved. I fought to hide my nerves, fixing my face into something neutral, waiting for him to hit the shower before work. I laid out his fresh uniform with shaking hands.

By the time he was strapping on his Sam Browne, my face was flushed. When he kissed my cheek, he paused for a second to ask if I had a fever. I don't know if it was concern in his eyes or suspicion. I blamed it on the excitement of Laurel's special day.

At 1:58 his Expedition pulled away.

Laurel changed into her play clothes of many colors and I sent her out to the backyard. I stationed myself in a chair at the front window and stared out at the road, my fingers knit together so tight my knuckles cracked, listening to every tick of the sunburst clock above the couch. I grew light-headed, and realized I was holding my breath. So I decided to time myself to the deliberate beat of the big clock—
tick, breathe in; tock, breathe out.

At 2:33 came the distant roar of a Harley.

My heart twisted in my chest like a snared rabbit. This time, my breath caught and held till I could see motes of light. I didn't care. I sat as fixed as a tombstone, head bowed, willing with all my might for the roar to come closer.

And it did—a faraway growl from the west, growing louder and louder as it approached the house, closer to the ticking clock, closer to the harp-backed chair that was the only thing, it seemed, keeping me from sinking down to the molten core of the earth.

Closer and closer, until—

Bernadette rode up like an archangel in studded black leather on a steed of steel and chrome, a bandanna capping her head, her long hair flowing behind like a banner.

I exploded through the front door and nearly knocked her down before she had a chance to set the kickstand, hugging her hard, weeping, my eyes and nose running shamelessly.

“I wasn't sure you'd come,” I choked out at last. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Hell!” She gasped, laughing, staggering under the impact.

When I let her go at last, wiping at my wet face, stammering out an apology, she stripped off her gloves without a word, reached into a zippered pocket of her jacket and handed me a
blank envelope. Inside were the tickets, five hundred dollars in cash, an Albuquerque street map with the airport circled in bold red marker, and a phone number and address on a sheet of lined paper.

“Your friend will be waiting for you at the airport in Boston,” she said.

I swayed on my feet. “She remembers me?”

“Of course she does.” Bernadette was regarding me with frank amusement. “I told her it was a family emergency and you had to leave town fast. She didn't even ask what it was—I figure you can explain when you see her. She says you and your daughter can crash with her and her husband as long as you need to.”

I stared speechless at the bounty in my hands. When I looked up again, Laurel was watching us uncertainly from the side of the house. She'd heard the motorcycle rumble to the edge of the front lawn and had come to see. We'd never had such a visitor before, and she wasn't sure how to take it. Her little hands were knotting anxiously.

“Hello,
niña
!” Bernadette called out, smiling. Then she turned back to me and murmured low: “Remember—the gas station just this edge of town.”

I nodded. I knew this. Of course I knew this. The game plan was ridiculously simple, straightforward. But even so, it helped to have her spell it out one more time.

“Then turn right around, and it's a straight shot to Albuquerque. Don't stop—no food, no nothing. McGill is a big county, and there's more prying eyes and gossiping tongues around than you know. Get out fast, and don't look back.”

“What about you? It might mean trouble.”

She grunted. “Knowing that
pendejo
, there's no ‘might'
about it. Which is why—as much as I'd
love
to stay and watch the meltdown—Sam and I decided to pack up tonight and head out. We're thinking Reno—honey, I'm feeling lucky.”

She winked and began pulling her gloves back on. “Don't linger, Jo,” she murmured again, this time in earnest. “I mean it. Get your ass in gear.”

I nodded, clutching the envelope to my chest. It struck me that this would likely be the last time I would ever see Bernadette—a stranger who was sticking her neck out, at no inconsiderable risk, to help a woman she'd just met. And why? Was the goodness of her heart that profound? Or was her desire for revenge against Jim that deep?

Maybe it was a mix of both, and if so, that was fine by me.

“Wait—how do I get in touch with you? How do I thank you?”

Bernadette didn't answer. She swung onto the bike and kicked it to life. She punched the throttle twice and the big engine growled back in response. Laurel covered her ears as Bernadette laughed. Then she nodded in my direction.
“Adiós, hermana!”

She accelerated hard, her rear tire raking the edge of the lawn, spraying grass and dirt behind. The front of her bike was airborne for a second; then it squealed on the pavement as she raised a hand in salute, barreling back toward Wheeler.

“She's
loud
,” Laurel said in wonder. I laughed as I dried my face on my sleeve.

“Yes, sweetie, she is that. How do you feel about going for a drive?”

For us, it was an outrageous idea. I might as well have asked if she wanted to sprout handlebars and spoked tires and go bicycling on the roof. Her eyes widened, but she didn't ask
questions. I fetched the car keys from the hook inside the front door.

The air was warm; the sun was shining. The engine started right up. I felt giddy, and so weightless I could have floated up like a hot-air balloon. Laurel was studying my face so earnestly that I laughed. She smiled back, but her eyes were still so anxious I felt a pang of guilt.

No matter. I was doing this for her. For both of us.

It was four miles to that first gas station on the outskirts of town. I gave the attendant a twenty from Bernadette's envelope and began to tank up, the meter clicking away.

It was clicking for a minute or so before I noticed the choking odor of gasoline getting stronger by the second. It was then that I saw liquid running out from underneath the car, streaming toward the road.

I froze—fairly sure what it was, but not daring to believe it.

I forced myself to pull the pump handle from the filler neck of the car and set it back in its cradle. Then I dropped to my hands and knees and peered under the chassis. I saw the gas tank and understood: a hole had been punched in the side of it, near the middle. Gasoline had chugged out onto the pavement.

No wonder Jim never kept more than a few gallons in the thing. No wonder he never took it in for service, but maintained it himself or had a friend tend to what he couldn't.

A starving gas tank meant a short leash on me. And this was his insurance policy.

I pushed myself back to my feet, rocking on legs ready to buckle. I could never make it to Albuquerque on just a few gallons. There were gas stations along the way, sure, but not many. And in between were long stretches of nothing. I couldn't begin to guess if I could make it from one filling station to the
next, or if I'd end up stranded on the interstate waiting for Jim to track us down—which he surely would, and most efficiently. Then there'd be nothing left but to get hauled back to the house, and what was waiting for us in the shed.

Jesus, I'd even handed him the perfect story to tell anyone who asked—his miserable, mental wife had taken their child and run off to distant parts, never to be seen around here again. He'd play the abandoned husband as skillfully as he'd played the doting one.

I groped for options. First was giving up—abandoning hope like the fickle cheat it was and driving back to the house. Chasing this last hour, these last two weeks, out of my memory. Burning the envelope and its contents, swearing Laurel to secrecy. But Jim would be checking the car's mileage after his shift, and how would I explain the extra miles? An emergency trip to the grocer's?

“Joanna?”

I turned toward a familiar voice, guts twisting. There stood Deputy Munoz in civilian clothes, tanking up an SUV with two kids inside. There was genuine concern on his face.

“You okay? You're shaking like a leaf. Is that gas coming from your car? Let me take a look.”

“No!” I barked as he flinched. I caught myself, pitched my voice to something less full-on crazy. “We're all right. We're fine. We're . . . going home now.”

I was backing away as I spoke, till I collided with the Toyota. Then I turned and snatched at the door handle. I fell into the driver's seat and cranked the ignition, Laurel watching, her eyes as big as hen's eggs. Munoz was heading toward the car, leaning over to peer inside. I pulled out so fast the tires squealed.

My one thought was the Palomino. Bernadette would know what to do. Maybe we could hide out there. Sleep on the floor if we had to.

It was a stupid idea, and I knew it. Selfish, too, because it would put her in more danger than she already was. But in the end it didn't matter—at the motel there was no sign of a motorcycle anywhere.

Bernadette and Sam might be back any second, or they could have checked out already and left for good. There was no time to wait and find out. And no way I'd ask at the motel office and implicate Bernadette even further.

One thing I was absolutely sure about: Munoz would be calling Jim up by now. Munoz was a good guy. He'd figure Jim would want to know his wife was having car trouble and needed help. That she looked really upset. Maybe she was sick. Maybe someone could call the motor club. Maybe Jim could swing by in his unit and help her out himself. Wives appreciate that sort of thing.

I sat idling in the motel parking lot, gripping the wheel, weighing terrible options. But the one image that crowded out every other was that of the shed behind the house and what was buried behind. The machete on the wall.

Laurel was staring at me. Willing me to do the right thing. More than ever, I felt the weight of her little life in my hands.

As I looked back into those frightened eyes, it was clear what I had to do. For her sake, if not for mine. She'd lived long enough in the shadow of a psycho.

I shoved the car in gear and pulled from the lot, beelining for the highway.

For Albuquerque, for freedom, one way or another.

The insurrection was still on.

*   *   *

The gas got us to the big truck stop near Continental Divide, about halfway to Grants. Grants is a good-sized town, and there'd be more stations once we got there. By now I was beginning to believe we might.

I bought three plastic gas cans, gallon size, and filled them. I loaded them in the trunk, then started to tank up.

It's a popular truck stop along Interstate 40. A family-style restaurant inside, and a bank of showers for truckers and long-distance travelers. The pumps were busy. I glanced around uneasily, trying not to stand out. Laurel's face was fixed on me through the rear window.

There was an undersized, tinny-looking car at the next pump. The driver gassing up was a young man who looked sixteen trying to pass for thirty. He wore a torn T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black skinny jeans. His red hair was cropped close, except where it spiked into a cowlick at the crown like a rooster, or some ironic Dennis the Menace. He was wearing earbuds, listening to music on a player that was bulging in his back pocket. His leg jiggled to a beat only he could hear. The lobes of his ears looked freakishly large, till I realized they were stretched out by plugs the size of wine corks.

Red Dennis pulled his music maker from his pocket and was glancing down at it when something on the ground caught his eye. He looked over at me and pointed under my car.

“Whoa, lady!” he said. “You're leaking!”

He said it loud enough to hear himself over his own music.
Loud enough for half the people at the pumps to hear. Some of them turned to stare.

I yanked the nozzle from my car and shoved it hard back on the pump cradle. Red Dennis was heading toward me, tugging out his earbuds. His T-shirt had a Rolling Rock beer logo and a big picture of a baby in a diaper lying on its back sucking on a beer bottle.
No harm here,
the shirt read.
The kid's already shittin' green.

Before he could get anywhere close, I was in the car slamming the door and locking it, cranking the ignition and aiming for the highway.

A quarter tank and three gallons extra would get us to Grants. Yes, yes, I was sure of it.

I checked the speedometer, determined to stick to the limit and under. I noted the mileage. I gripped the wheel with sweating palms, holding it steady, smack in the center of the right lane. I wouldn't give a patrolman any excuse to pull me over.

Two miles out, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

And there in the distance I saw it: flashing lights, red and blue. Far off, but coming up fast as a bullet train.

And I heard it: the scree and whoop of a siren.

It was eating up the distance between us with a vengeance. And I knew exactly who was behind the wheel.

Laurel heard it, too. She twisted in her seat to peer through the rear window and started to whimper.

I could barely draw a breath.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
“Help.”