The Hummingbird's Cage (8 page)

It
was a struggle to settle my mind on coherent thought. It wanted to wander. It wanted to kick off like Laurel in that swing under the chestnut tree, shoot for the sky and keep going.

Staying occupied, going through familiar motions, helped to ground me. I didn't keep to my bed anymore, but helped Jessie with the chores—weeded the vegetable garden, kneaded dough, swept the heart pine floors and beat the rag rugs, hanging them over the fieldstone fence.

Jessie had to show me how to launder clothes in her big-bellied hand-crank machine—the old-fashioned kind I'd seen only in pictures. It had to be decades old, but they'd kept it in fine condition, and she insisted it still served her well. I'd hang the clothes on the line out back, fetching them in again when they were dry and smelling as sweet as buckbrush. Sometimes I'd bury my face in them and just
breathe
.

Always that terrible mountain was at my shoulder, reigning over the valley, hanging on my every move. I resisted looking at it the way you avoid looking directly at the sun, for fear it could blind you. But as with any forbidden thing, there was a strong temptation, too. To give in. To turn and steal a peek. To see what might happen if I did. But when I'd do so, the ground wanted to slide out from under me all over again, and I was reeling on the edge of a cliff.

The Mountain didn't seem to bother Laurel—she played for hours under its shadow, oblivious. I didn't dare tell the old couple how it disturbed me, or they might wonder if their houseguest was losing her mind. For all I know, they'd be right.

We landed at this place like true refugees—with just the clothes on our backs, and not so much as a toothbrush. Jessie bought clothes for Laurel at a general store in Morro—dungarees and shirts, a jacket, sneakers and socks. For me she bought yards of fabric and sewing patterns. From the styles of the dresses and skirts, some of those patterns must have been lying in store bins for years. Still, they were pretty in a vintage sort of way.

Jessie had an old Singer machine—black and gleaming, smelling faintly of machine oil—stored in a walnut housing cabinet. She'd mail-ordered it ages ago, she said, from a catalog. After supper, Olin and Laurel would play dominoes or checkers, while Jessie and I would sit in the corner, the machine whirring away.

Nearly every day, Jessie and her husband assured me they'd heard of no police search for a woman and child, but I failed to see how they'd know—they owned no television and took no newspaper. From what I could tell, their only link to the
outside world was a radio—a boxy antique that picked up a single station that broadcast oldies music and radio shows.

It was as if the old couple had decided one day—decades ago—that a rustic life suited them, and they would keep just as they were for as long as they could. As if they had extricated themselves from the evolving world, and not just from its modern conveniences. Sometimes when I looked at them, I got the unsettled feeling that I was watching them through a rearview mirror, slowly receding from me.

Despite their reassurances, Jim never strayed far from my mind. I couldn't seem to shake him, however hard I threw myself into routine. I couldn't peer out a front window without expecting to see a deputy's unit speed up the dirt road or beeline for the house. In fitful dreams, police lights strobed outside, but were never there when I woke.

Back in Wheeler, whenever Jim would drive us to town, I'd stare out the car window and note all the places to hide. Every house with busted windows and an overgrown yard. Every shed with no padlocked door. Every boarded-up business. Every playhouse, doghouse, culvert.

In my mind, there was no hole so tiny that Laurel and I couldn't squeeze inside and disappear. I never imagined past that. Never imagined coming out again.

Most days, this farm felt like a good hiding place. Most days it felt safe. It was less easy to feel that way at night. After the supper dishes were washed and everyone settled in, I'd sit in a wicker chair on the porch and leave the light off. It was a good vantage point. Now and then headlights traveled up the road or down, but they never stopped.

I sat and wondered about Bernadette—by now long gone with Sam to Reno or whatever town had appeal for a woman
with spirit. And about Terri, who was a true wild card. The Terri I used to know would be ballsy enough to catch a flight from Boston to Albuquerque to find out why her friend hadn't arrived. Especially if she hadn't bought whatever story Jim had fed her.
That
Terri was no fool.

But that Terri was fixed more than—what, ten years in the past? I didn't know her anymore and she didn't know me. Terri today might decide I'd flaked out on her one more time, and adios.

And that thought gave me comfort. I didn't want to be tracked down—not by anybody.

I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear, once and for all.

A few nights ago, I asked Olin if he kept guns in the house. He told me he had a vintage carbine, two long-range Winchester rifles for hunting—one lightweight and one heavy—and a 12-gauge double-barrel shotgun. He showed me the cabinet where he kept the cartridges. He didn't ask questions.

If
it seemed Jessie and her husband had removed themselves from the world, it wasn't entirely so. After some weeks, they said there'd be company for Saturday supper—Simon Greenwood, the short-order cook who'd found Laurel and me wandering in the desert. He used to come every week before they took us in, they said. And after that, they thought it best to wait till I was up to it. Apparently they thought that time had come.

I knew this just meant another plate at the table. I should be able to manage that for an hour or so—if Jim had taught me anything, it was how to shut down and fake it on many levels.

But when Saturday came, I could barely function. Back home, for those rare evenings with Jim's friends, everything
was decided for me—what to wear, what to say, how to behave. I was groomed to be insignificant. To ask no questions, but to answer them like a Good Wife. To lie if need be.

That evening, I couldn't so much as decide what to wear. I simply couldn't
make a choice.
Any choice. I felt like I couldn't bear to make the wrong one.

I gathered the clothes Jessie and I had sewn together and laid them out. Laurel came in, stroking each piece. She had no trouble dressing herself—a green skirt with white daisies, a blue-and-black blouse, red socks.

“Let me pick for you, Mommy,” she said.

At least I knew better than that. I chose something close at hand and buttoned myself into it—a subdued sleeveless column dress of soft cotton. But as I turned to head downstairs, I caught myself in the standing mirror in the corner of the bedroom. I don't have much to do with mirrors anymore, but this time I straightened and drew close for a better look.

What my reflection told me was that Jessie was a fine seamstress and knew how to cut and sew fabric to fit. I was still too pale, my eyes too guarded. But I wasn't as bony as I remembered. And the dress, though simple, skimmed my figure in an elegant line. Its bronze hue tempered my complexion from sallow to cream and brought out the color of my eyes, which are the same quartz green as Laurel's.

I ran a finger along the scar bisecting my left eyebrow. I looked at myself so rarely anymore, it startled me to see it.

My hair was still a lank, neutral brown, without the body or auburn hues it once had. There was a time when women would stop me on the street to ask what brand of color I used. They wouldn't believe me when I told them it didn't come from a bottle.

Those days were gone.

I pulled it back from my face, twisting it behind in a swift, practiced movement, fastened it with clips and headed downstairs.

Laurel sat in a wicker chair on the porch, keeping an eye out for the dinner guest. It was the same chair I used every evening to keep a lookout for her father.

The table was laid with bone china, old polished silver and fresh linen. There were tall beeswax candles in silver candlesticks. Olin made a last sweep of the kitchen, dipping his finger in the pear glaze for the chicken before Jessie smacked his hand away. I filled the water pitcher and set it on the table.

Finally Laurel called out from the porch: “Here he comes!”

I peered through the screen door at a man heading toward the arching footbridge, a big tan dog at his heels.

He was taller than most, slim, his hair springing up in short, woolly waves—light brown, with streaks of sun-bleached blond. He was wearing a butcher-style apron, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a fistful of flowers in the other. I could hear him talking to the dog as they neared.

He noticed Laurel, now chafing at the porch railing, and smiled and waved to her.

“Laurel,” I murmured. “Come inside.”

“But, Mommy, I want to say hi.”

“Now.”

She grumbled, but obeyed. I pulled her close.

Olin stepped outside to greet Simon like an old friend. “Go on in,” Olin told him. “The ol' woman's waitin'.”

I retreated with Laurel to the far side of the room.

The man stepped through the door, where Jessie was waiting to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“'Bout time,” she said, and there was rare affection in her voice. “That your apple wine?”

He handed her the bottle. “Yours now.”

With a word he sent his big dog to lie on a hook rug by the fireplace. Then he looked up. Something flickered in his eyes when he saw me—recognition? I certainly didn't recognize him.

But he did surprise me. He was younger than I'd expected—mid-thirties, maybe. I imagined he'd be closer in age to Olin and Jessie.

His face was tanned, his eyes a gray-blue, heavily hooded in a sleepy sort of way, with creases that deepened when he smiled.

Laurel twisted her hand from mine and rushed to him.

“I'm Laurel,” she said.

He crouched to one knee. “Simon. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Those flowers are pretty,” she said. “Are they for Miz Jessie?”

“Matter of fact, they're for you. Picked them in a meadow behind my cabin this morning. You look like a field of wildflowers yourself, so I figure they'll feel right at home.”

“Come on, honey,” Jessie said as Laurel took the bouquet. “Let's go put those in a vase. Won't they look nice on the table?”

Simon straightened and turned to me.

“This here's Joanna,” said Olin. “But I reckon you two already met, after a fashion.”

“How're you feeling?” Simon asked.

He sounded too earnest to be making small talk, and it unsettled me. “Good,” I said. “I'm good. And you?”

He smiled. “Just fine, thanks.” He looked quizzically at Olin. “Mind?”

“Go on up,” Olin said.

Simon nodded as he passed, heading for the stairway. I turned in confusion to Olin.

“He needs to wash up before supper, workin' a grill all day,” Olin explained. “This way, he don't have to drive out to his place, turn around and drive all the way back.”

I could hear the shower start upstairs.

Laurel and Jessie returned with the flower vase and set it between the candlesticks. Then Laurel ran to the dog, still lying on the rug. As she stroked his neck, his tale thumped the floor. “What's his name?”

“Pal,” said Olin, settling into a chair beside her. “Golden retriever mostly, but collie and shepherd in there, too.”

“We had a dog once,” Laurel said thoughtfully, running her fingers through the fur. “She ran away.”

“Now, that's a pity,” Olin said. “Pal here—he must've strayed from his people, too. Simon gives him a good home, though. No dog could have a better.”

Jessie returned with the wine bottle, uncorked now, and two glasses. She handed me one and poured. “Just taste,” she said.

“Simon makes this?” I asked.

“With apples from his own orchard,” Jessie said. “Doesn't lay in many bottles every year, but that just makes them worth the wait.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Why, I met that boy when he first entered this world, bare beamed and buck nekkid.”

Laurel whooped.

“Helped deliver him,” Jessie said with a smile. “Women did, in those days. Doctors were scarce.”

Upstairs, the shower shut off.

“Has he worked for you long?” I asked.

Jessie pursed her lips in thought.

“After the war, he drifted a bit,” she said. “Had to find his way again. Happens sometimes to men who see too much. When he came back, he built that little cabin of his and took a job at the café. Been there ever since.”

I wasn't sure which war she meant—the Gulf War? Iraq? Afghanistan?

Before I could sort it out, Simon came bounding down the stairs, dressed now in jeans and a blue plaid shirt open at the collar. His hair was damp, the waves combed back from his face. He was freshly shaven, trailing a light scent of something warm and spicy.

“You smell nice,” Laurel told him.

“Not me,” he said with a smile. “That's bay rum.”

Olin stood and stretched, his joints cracking. “Let's dig in!”

Laurel claimed the seat beside Simon, stealing sidelong glances. He took the chair across from me. Soon he, Olin and Jessie began rattling on about who was traveling where, building what, spending time with so-and-so.

If I'd been uneasy before, it was all the worse now. Family dinners back home were strained, even on good days. Small talk only irritated Jim, and for me it carried risk. I never knew from one day to the next which word or comment, however innocent, might set him off. Silence became my sanctuary.

Suddenly I was picturing that table again—wondering if Jim was sitting there, a single plate in front of him, a single glass, a knife, a fork, a spoon. Did he even bother with such
things anymore? Or did he just root through the fridge, then stand at the counter eating over the sink like a bachelor? Was he thinking of us, wondering where we might be, biding his time, stoking his rage?

I glanced furtively around Jessie and Olin's table, only vaguely aware that Olin was regaling them with a story about a horse he'd had as a young boy—a big, feisty Appaloosa that first taught him to swear. The others were laughing—even Laurel, her eyes bright. I took the cue and forced a smile.

A faint ringing started in my ears, growing louder.

More words then, more banter, but coming as if from a distance—disconnected, like static buzzing on that old radio in the front room, the needle casting back and forth for a clear signal to lock onto.

I wiped cold sweat from my upper lip and sipped at my water, willing my hand not to shake, fighting the rising panic.

I'd dreaded—even resented—the thought of company tonight, as if it were an intrusion on me. But now it was clear that I was the intruder. I was the outsider, a stranger in every sense, not this man sitting so easy, so appreciated, at their table.

I took up my knife and fork and began to saw pieces of chicken—sweet with the pear glaze but tasteless on my tongue. I cut the bits smaller and smaller and smaller . . .

Finally I stopped and stared at my plate, now sliding out of focus. My chest was tightening, squeezing the air from my lungs. I could feel myself surrendering to the growing static, drifting with it, the voices fusing together, receding to a rushing noise not unlike that creek outside . . .

“How about you, Joanna?”

The sound of my own name cut through the panic—through the rattle and noise filling my head to bursting. It
seemed to come from a far place, but it was coming only from across the table, where Simon was watching me, holding the wine bottle, waiting. I blinked at him stupidly.

“Sorry?”

“More wine?” he asked.

I drew a steadying breath. “Yes, please. A little.”

He poured a small glass. “I understand you like to write. You must like books, then.”

“Yes.”

He waited, apparently expecting I had more to say on the subject. I struggled to oblige him.

“I don't read much anymore,” I said. “Not since . . . not for a long time.”

“What did you like to read, when you did?”

His expression was open, friendly. He was only trying to engage me.

“Poetry,” I said at last.

“Anyone in particular?”

At least that question was easy. “I always liked Yeats.”

Simon paused, then began to recite: “‘Where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glen-Car . . .'”

I gave him a thin smile. This poem I knew—as familiar as Laurel's favorite bedtime books, read and reread a thousand times.

I finished the line for him: “‘In pools among the rushes that scarce could bathe a star.' That's from ‘The Stolen Child.'”

Laurel looked startled. “Somebody stole a child?”

“It's a poem, sweetie,” I said. “About a fairy that tries to tempt a mortal child away from the troubles of the world.”

“Did she go?”

“Well, yes. The last stanza goes like this:

‘He'll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal chest.'”

I surprised myself, recalling those lines. I hadn't thought of that poem in years. And the book was long gone.

“That's sad,” said Laurel. “Not seeing the mice anymore. Or the calves.”

“That would be sad,” I said. “But think of the wonderful life with the fairies. And no reason to be unhappy again, ever. That's a good thing, don't you think?”

“Maybe. But if you didn't come, too, I wouldn't go.”

“That's right, honey,” Jessie said, patting her hand. “You stick with your mama. And if those fairies come round, you tell 'em to scat.”

*   *   *

Later, as Jessie passed around the dessert plates, I felt Simon's eyes on me. I forced myself to glance up. His gaze was steady, speculative.

Olin cleared his throat, then spoke: “Simon, how you holdin' up down at the café? We sure did leave you shorthanded of late.”

“I understand—you've been busy.”

Jessie was shaking her head. “Still, a shame you don't have some help. Even for a day or so a week.”

I took their meaning then. It wasn't that I was unwilling to help out in their café, but I'd never done restaurant work
before. Or held any real job. After we were married, Jim wouldn't allow it.

But it wasn't only lack of experience that unnerved me. It was imagining Jim pulling up at that café one day—stepping out of his unit with his spit-shined shoes, his Sam Browne and .40-caliber pistol, unsnapping his holster. Working there, I'd be sticking my head out of my hiding place.

On the other hand, I realized he could just as easily pull up at Olin and Jessie's door.

So what I really had to decide was when I would stop letting Jim make my decisions for me—control me, even in absentia. Again I was staring at my plate, this time wrestling down my own survival instinct. I took a deep breath.