Wabanaki Blues (27 page)

She clears her throat with determination. “No! You came here to try and persuade me not to testify for Cricket. But she is innocent and doesn't deserve to go to prison! You don't care about who you hurt. You're just like Mia—selfish.

Dibble traipses back up the stairs, humming “As The Years Go Passing By,” by Gary Moore, stopping occasionally to hack out a cough.

I whip out my cell phone. No service. I wish I'd left Mom a note telling her where I was going, even though our relationship lately has been more about me keeping an eye on her. So here I am, locked inside four mortuary gray cinderblock walls, moonbeams streaming through a lunchbox-sized window, illuminating a waterless sink. I miss the old dripping sound in here, that tortuous, life-saving sound of falling water. I sniff and find the scent of mouse is definitely stronger than the last time I was inside this closet. B.B. must have been a decent mouser. I also detect an underlying fruity aroma that's probably demolition dynamite.

I've got to get out of here.

I listen for someone else's step—a delivery person, a demolition expert, a nostalgic student or teacher who forgot something or wants one last stroll through their old haunt. What I want is anyone who might hear me scream. I'm saving my lungs to make that final scream count. Of course, Mia probably had these same thoughts.

I jangle my bracelet, hoping Bilki will hear it. Yet, she remains mum. I can't imagine why she would remain silent during this crisis, of all crises, unless of course she's only a figment of my delusionary mind.

A glimmer of light slides across my feet like the reflection of a shooting star. I look up and see a familiar silhouette. It's Mia. She's wearing her Rush band tee shirt with the rabbit coming out of the hat and one LOVE earring. Breaking the other one didn't release her spirit because her real killer remained free. I'm overcome with the urge to do something for Mia, to give her a gift, or do her a favor to make up for thinking I'd caught her killer when I hadn't. I've let her down by not setting the record straight about how she died. I search for paper and pen and see that Millicent Dibble has removed everything. I have only one option, the same option Mia had. I drag my arm across the jagged piece of broken cinderblock and cut open a gash. Blood trickles down, soaking the side of my Bonepile tee shirt. Normally this amount of blood would make me faint. Not now. I know it's my only ink. I use it to scribble a crucial message on the wall. My words are painfully neat and explicit.

Dibble did this to me and Mia.

Mia nods, gratefully. She dips a finger in my still-wet blood and draws a crimson bear on the wall. An icy chill runs down my spine. What does this mean? Am I some kind of sacrifice, like the bear Mom killed?

Day passes into frigid night. Thank God I have this zombie woman jacket. I keep my fingers warm by playing Rosalita. I try to stay upbeat by sticking to early Beatles songs. But eventually I slip into the melancholy section of the Lennon and McCartney songbook. Then I give up on the Fab Four, altogether, and nosedive into pitch-black 32-20 blues. I have to keep playing to distract myself from the cold. It's October, after all, and the building's heat is off. I dream about the warm bearskin on the cot in Black Racer Woman's cabin. I don't care if my PETA mom would hate me dreaming about bearskin. It would feel fantastic wrapped around me right now. She probably hasn't even noticed that my pickup truck is outside her apartment, or that I'm missing.

The sun rises and falls. Thirsty days blur into desert dry nightmares. I haven't heard Millicent Dibble's footsteps in a while. I hear every street vehicle as music. At night, the police cars and ambulances screech the evening's overture with a medley of piercing sirens. At dawn the trucks play the opening number, choking their diesel engines to life, until the steady hum of cars sounds like a swarm of killer bees. I wonder why vehicles are the only things I hear? Are they all I want to hear? Is it because they represent the hope of escape?

I play the title line to the Beatles' “When I Get Home,” over and over, emphasizing the “when.”

When?

Millicent Dibble must have left by now. I slam a fist into the wall and let loose an amp-blowing scream. Footsteps shuffle down the stairs.

“Help me!” I shout to my unknown liberator.

The pesticide canister outside the janitor's closet door clinks on the handle. This sounds ominous. I wrap my jacket around me and fail to suppress a dry-throated cough with my sandpaper tongue. It sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“Keep the noise down,” rasps Millicent Dibble, clanking the canister harder.

I know what's in that canister. She'll melt my lungs with that pesticide if I make any more noise.

Millicent Dibble sings B.B. King's “Why I Sing the Blues.” Even with her cigarette-scorched throat, she's got a good voice. Her raspiness works with the blues. She should have continued with vocals after her fingers failed. It might have saved her mental health. Her tune sticks in my head. But I won't play anything on Rosalita that's rolled off her filthy tongue. I think about my truck sitting outside Mom's apartment. She definitely won't come looking for me. She and Shankdaddy have something in common: expecting them to act responsibly is hopeless. I play a few lines from “Your Mother Should Know.” My fingers cramp and quit.

I survey the charms on my bracelet. The paintbrushes, palette, and easel. My mind enlarges them, growing them to full size. My mind paints a wall mural with a swirling portal on the wall. What's on the other side of that portal? Is it safe? I stare at my eagle charm and it grows into a full-size bird, my protector-companion. Rosalita and I step through the portal, trailed by our winged friend. We emerge on the other side to find a blue bear playing a guitar under a maple tree that's literally on fire. In the sky overhead, the stars are shaped like musical notes. The bear hands me a skeleton key, also shaped like a musical note, and tells me to unlock the stars. I ask him which star fits the key, and he says, “All of them. You hold the key to the universe.” I reach up and turn the key in a random star and a powwow drum falls from the sky. The blue bear grabs it and beats an ancient drum song. I sing along, my heart pounding, pounding, pounding, the eagle thwomping its wings to the beat.

I squeeze my head, trying to make the pounding stop. My lips feel crunchy. My throat burns. I blink at the sight of the shriveled mottled purple and orange skin on my hands. What I wouldn't give for a cup of water. I could drink the entire Connecticut River. It was different for Mia when she was trapped here, because she had water. I want to cry but my dry eyes can't manufacture anything but hard salt crystals; they lack the moisture to flow. My eyelids are as crusty as my lips. They're sore and raw. I have to pry them open or they stick shut, ripping off eyelashes each and every time I try.

This is it. I can't sing anymore. Neither can I recall exactly where I am. I know I'm not in Indian Stream. I stumble madly into a hard wall, with something smeared on it. Perhaps these are words. Did I write them? Yes, of course I did. But I can't read them now because my vision is blurred. The memory of my strange reality returns. I remember I'm locked in the janitor's closet. Hallucination and vision impairment must be symptoms of dehydration. Forgetfulness could be another. Outside, I hear a car engine start and tires squeal away. I'm wild with elation. Millicent Dibble has departed.

But my voice is nearly gone. I need to scream for help one last time before I have no voice left. Someone on the street might hear. Before considering the consequences, I let loose a jagged scream like crushed ice. Instantly, furious feet scurry my way.

What have I done? I've committed suicide! Millicent Dibble will gas me with that pesticide canister. I'm done. All I can do now is rage
. Rage to survive
. That's what Etta James said. I can do that. I hear her footsteps, and I don't care anymore. I won't give up. I rasp the words to Etta's song “At Last,” as the canister bangs against the door. I've become Millicent Dibble, desperate, lovelorn, suffering, wailing the blues. I want this to be over. I want to hear the hissing of the open canister, to see the hose slide under the door, to taste the burning chemicals and feel myself melt away.

The canister bangs harder, as if it's smashing the door lock. “What, not enough room for a hose under the door?” I ask, nearly voiceless. “Did the executioner forget her key?” I think of B.B. King's song “Somebody done changed the lock on my door,” and I start playing it, squeaking out the lyrics like a mouse.
‘Cause I done changed, I done changed that lock on my door
. With what little voice and time I have left, I sing the blues. It's my last protest against Millicent Dibble before she sprays her deadly pesticide. I'm glad she'll hear me singing about jealousy because I know it will hurt her. It will conjure the pain of her unrequited love and send her weltering in the blues.

A weary voice says, “Mona Lisa? Is that you?”

This isn't Millicent Dibble. It almost sounds like Del. I'm hallucinating.

The voice calls again, “Are you in there, Mona Lisa?”

It is Del. “Yes. Help me. Dibble did this to me.” I speak quickly, in case I lose consciousness.

I hear the canister clank again; this time it smashes off the door lock. There's a whirl of motion. Del swoops me and Rosalita up the dark basement stairs, holding a flashlight ahead of us like it's my final tunnel of white light. I shouldn't have sung that last song because now I'm having trouble swallowing. My throat is so dry I can barely breathe. How stupid is it for me to die, here and now, in Del's arms? He rushes me down the main school hallway. I know I'm leaving Colt High for the last time. I feel the wind, the deliciously moist New England wind. I never realized how wonderful dampness could feel. There are patches of light overhead, giant nighttime starbursts. No, they're streetlamps. I've been in a dark place for too long to see light correctly. Del leans me against one of the lamp poles and presses a water bottle to my lips. The water splatters and sputters down the dry insides of my throat like rain on Death Valley. I cherish this elixir of life. I can feel things start to work again inside me, like oiled gears, repairing themselves. For the first time in days, I think I might survive.

Something green gleams beneath one of the streetlights. It's Del's dad's bike. He sets me gently on that Harley with the green flames, jabbering that I need to hold on because he won't wait for the police. It's too risky to stay put another minute in case Dibble should return.

“I can hold on,” I assure him, barely audibly.

While we ride, I feel someone holding my back, supporting me. I look down and see deathly blue fingernails gripping my waist.

Del careens into my apartment driveway where Mom and Celine are pacing, shaking their cell phones at the sky. They shout relief as we pull in. Del relays my story and carries me inside. Mom phones the police. I lay on the couch while Celine feeds me sips of water. She offers me a small piece of a Jamaican beef patty. In my delirium, I see the dead cattle from my slaughterhouse apartment circle me, hanging their droopy heads, blinking their bloodshot eyes. I push away the beef patty and accept a cracker. I drink a gallon of water and pass out.

I wake to the smell of rubbing alcohol, the glare of fluorescent lights, the feel of tubes pulling on my arms, and the sound of Mom raging at a baby-faced police officer, saying, “That monstrous woman must not make bail.”

A woman with a stethoscope around her neck hovers over me. Mom and Celine sit at the foot of my bed. Del's arm is wrapped around my shoulder. I don't feel fire ants this time, just the warmth of a million stars.

“How'd you know I was in danger?” I ask him, feebly.

Celine overhears my question. She puts a hand on her hip, and cocks her head. “Yes, Nephew, how did you know?”

The doctor folds her arms, also awaiting his reply.

Del's eyes shift down and to the left, surreptitiously. “It was the weirdest thing. When I went to Mona's cabin and found it empty, I was afraid she'd gone back to Beetle. I went to bed early, depressed, and I had a dream about my mom. I don't know why but I decided to ride that old Harley to Hartford., as if I was rescuing my mother from high school. As I pulled in, I heard Mona Lisa scream.”

Del keeps rattling his head back and forth as if he's shuffling and reshuffling the images inside it. “I know this sounds ridiculous but when I saw Mom in that dream, she looked so real.” His eyes won't meet mine.

The doctor rolls her eyes and leaves the room.

Celine clucks her tongue. “Is that so?”

Twenty-three

The Hunter

I prod the fire, hoping to see a powerful vision in the bursting flames, a vision that will tell me what my future holds. The embers gleam like celestial nebulae, erupting into molten crimson and gold—the very colors that remain missing from this autumn landscape. Yet no extraordinary image appears. There will be no visions for me today.

I lean back and return to Del's arms. Firelight flickers against the shadowy dusk. He hands me half a peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwich and munches his half, eagerly. I barely nibble mine. He pulls the pot of coffee from the cooking rack he's set over the fire and fills my blue speckled cup. It tastes smoky wonderful. But two sips is more than enough. My stomach gets full on next to nothing, these days. The doctors say it should feel normal again by Halloween. They also say I'm suffering from post-traumatic stress and shouldn't make any big decisions for a while. Del insists that this fire and the fresh New Hampshire air will heal me. Lying together beside this campfire feels a little too comfortable, like when we were lying together on the floor of that white floral room at the back of his garage. I'm torn between the allure of this deep coziness and my future career in Stadt and St. Louis and all of the other musical places I want to be.

The sun drops below the mountains, turning the sky a grizzly gray. I lay back on the soft moss, tucking the scratchy blueberry wool blanket I brought outside up to my chin, staring into the darkening sky, considering the endless possibilities overhead. The Great Bear, Ursa Major, has yet to rise. That constellation always reminds me of the old bear I saw when I was confused in the woods behind Del's house, that bear in the mural in my bedroom, that bear who appeared with Del and Marilynn a few weeks ago. The Great Bear. Real or imagined, I'm tired of bears. I picture the red bear Mia painted in blood on the wall of the janitor's closet. What did it mean? I hope she wasn't suggesting I carry out some weird bear sacrifice, like my great aunt was trying to do when Del stopped her. Del would hate it if I killed a bear. He cares so deeply for them; he's practically one of them.

Del's eyes continue to gleam in the firelight. He misunderstands my riveted gaze for distance and pulls me to him, filling my mouth with fiery kisses that taste like newborn stars.

I stop him. “I don't know where I'm going anymore.” The words fall from my lips, like blues' notes fall from my fingertips—light, bent, and slightly dissonant.

He pulls me close. “You're not yourself.”

“We all had roles to play,” I say, letting more careless words tumble.

Del leaps to his feet. “Why did you just recite John Lennon's quote from when the Beatles broke up? Are you breaking up with me?”

He circles the fire. I get up and wrap my arms around his waist from behind, warming him and myself, remembering how it felt when I almost lost him. “What I meant is that we all had a part to play in solving your mom's murder.”

“Ah, my mother. Now that I feel like I finally know her, I don't think I know you.”

He turns and kisses me again, this time until it hurts. I break away, babbling concerns about what will happen to Cricket Dill, now that she is free. Del asks me if I have lingering feelings for Beetle. I scoff and do not mention that I returned Beetle's locket in the mail only this morning. If I tell him that, he'll ask why I kept it so long. The truth is, I don't know.

Del picks up Angel and plays the tune we wrote the first time I visited his house. He tries adding a new verse:

No longer young, no longer free

We've both seen more than we should see

Past ghostly shadows, and endless lies…

He tilts his guitar handle my way, prompting me to add the concluding line. But I shrug, at a loss for lyrics. What can follow
endless lies
?

A line jumps into my head:
Now grown so loveless, we break all our ties.
But I don't dare utter that. It sounds as bad as it feels.

How about, “
Into the bluest October skies
?” he asks.

“Nice,” I say, not meaning it. “That lyric is definitely you, Del—forever hopeful. You see beyond darkness into light, just like Bilki. I'm more like my Great Aunt Black Racer Woman, murky and dangerous.”

I can't tell him what I really think of his lyrics: that they lack magic. Something has changed. I hear John Lennon repeat in my head,
We all had roles to play
. I squeeze my head with my hands.

Del pulls me back to him by my belt, which is loose from all the weight I've lost since getting trapped in the janitor's closet. I don't resist. “You're right about your aunt being dark and dangerous,” he says. “Just hearing her name creeps me out. How does somebody get a name like that?” He lifts his furry teepee eyebrows, as if something strange just occurred to him. “You know, I never asked, do you have a traditional Indian name?”

Something clicks inside of me. I consider my Indian name and its peculiar connotations. “It's
Nadialwinno
,” I say. “Bilki gave it to me. It means ‘Hunter.'”

“You, a hunter?” he stifles a nervous laugh. “You're a vegetarian.”

My eyes twinkle. “Not exactly, I eat fried fish. I'm Abenaki, after all. But, yeah, essentially I don't eat things people hunt. I always figured it was a sarcastic zinger. Mom got into a fight with Bilki over the name. But Bilki insisted it was the only proper name for me.”

There is an awkward pause in the conversation, as we both remember Bilki, and stare up into the uncertain night, where The Great Bear sits newly in the northern sky.

Earth and sky are connected, you know.
I remember that's what Black Racer Woman said. She also talked about balance and how all bears have their hunters. I scan the sky. The Hunter constellation has not appeared yet.

Headlights glare through the woods and a van grumbles toward us, bumping along the rocky dirt all the way up to our fire. I'm grateful for the distraction until I realize it's Will.

He hops out and kicks the edge of our blanket. “Well look who's here. If it isn't sonny boy and Little Lila all cozied up together by the fire. Son, I don't know why you had to wait till the last minute to call off that wedding. The whole planet knew lemonhead had to go.”

“You're hysterical, Pops.” Del eyes him, suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

Will raises a finger to indicate he is about to reveal his motive. He opens the back of the van and hauls out a four-foot high, three-foot wide rectangular brown paper package, shuffling his feet as he pulls it, trying to keep it from hitting the ground.

“Is that what I think it is?” asks Del.

Will's bile-green eyes catch the firelight. They are bulging more than usual. Del limps over to help him with the cumbersome package. Will yanks it away like he's a little kid with a new toy he refuses to share.

“This ain't for you, Delaney Pyne. It's something I promised your friend, Little Lila —though I kind of figured you'd be here at her cabin when I arrived.” Will clears his throat suggestively. “Celine predicted I'd find you two together when I saw her and Big Lila at my new gallery yesterday.” He licks his gray teeth. “Ten points for the pretty psychic with the sapphire braids!”

I clench my own teeth at his mention of Celine. “You met Mom and Celine in Hartford?”

Will examines his watch. “Sure, they stopped by my gallery. Lots of people visit me now. I'm a local hero.
The Hartford News
calls me “Mia Delaney's faithful lover and avenger.' Women adore me. As soon as Del helps me move the rest of my paintings to Hartford, I'm out of Indian Stream for good.” He rubs his hands together, “Good riddance to this hick town. I'm looking forward to spending time with your mom and Celine.” He pinches up his eyes, tenderly. “Celine is a wise woman. She says these dull leaves are a dark sign. I believe her. I could listen to that woman talk for hours. Damn, she's great. I had one hell of a time with her and your mom, and I didn't drink a single drop.”

He leans a dreamy elbow on Del's shoulder. “Son, I've been clean and sober for a month now. When you sent Cricket Dill to jail for your mom's murder, I gave up drinking, as my thank you to the universe.” He leans another elbow on me. “Then after what happened with Mona and Millicent Dibble, I gave up even thinking about drinking. I hope the judge throws away the key on that monster principal bitch.”

He shakes a cocktail napkin that has a telephone number written on it in hibiscus-colored ink and grins like a wildcat. “Guess whose number this is?”

A hot acid rush infuses my chest. So much for Celine and her “I hate moldy bologna and hot sauce” routine. I ask Will, “You think it's okay to date Mia's sister?” I fold my arms protectively.

“Yes I do. She's the first woman who has made me laugh since Mia died.” He lowers his pitch. “By the way, Big Lila said to tell you that Beetle is asking for you, now that his crazy mother is free.” He shoots Del a worried glance.

I struggle to maintain a blank expression.

Del breaks the tension by reaching for his father's brown paper package again. Will pushes him away.

Del's bad leg gives out, and I reach for him before he topples over.

“Whoa,” he says, catching himself before I do.

“Sorry, Son, this present is for Little Lila and only Little Lila.” Will shoves the package, face front, in my direction. “Let ‘er rip m'lady.”

Something makes me hesitate to tear off the brown paper wrapping.

Will shakes his gift at me eagerly. “C'mon! Open it! It won't bite!”

I give in and rip the paper. Anything is better than listening to him say another word about Beetle or his new obsession with Celine. Will holds the package to his chest from behind, so it faces the firelight and me. I step back a few yards to examine what Will brought me. It's a huge painted photo of my loathsome face. My imperfections are blown up several feet high, enhanced by Will's incisive slashes of paint, creating a swirling vortex around my fingers. He's made them my portal, my means of escape from here and Hartford and this entire planet; they can take me anywhere I want to go. I love that. Each element of this work is perfectly executed: the muddy eyes, the shaggy tree bark hair. Except, my hair and eyes aren't their usual colorless selves. Thanks to Will's artistry, they're streaked with red, blue and yellow, like the flames in the fire. At first I don't understand. I think he's gone overboard with color. Then I realize he's used the hues that naturally make up brown. There is so much more color in this world than most people see. All painters know that. All humans should.

Still, I'm slightly miffed over how Will has altered my mouth, painting it with a wry, strawberry, Mona Lisa smile, just like Bilki's. A log slips in the fire, making the flames blossom into a plume that stretches toward the stars, lighting Will's portrait like a glowing
chiaroscuro
, momentarily transforming it into the style of Leonardo da Vinci's
Mona Lisa
masterpiece.

“Not bad, eh, Little Lila?” Will nervously reaches for the hip pocket on his pants that used to hold his flask and slaps his pants leg. “I hope you don't mind me adding that smile. Since you never smile, I wanted to see what you looked like with one.” He jingles the change in his pockets and shifts his hips back and forth, anticipating my verdict.

I consider the surprising details of the portrait: the iconic smile, the eye-glint of a blues musician's tortured soul. Will nailed that; he knows torture. The hair shows texture, reflecting its bark-like quality. Yes, this is a true likeness and artfully done. I have to admit, Will is a virtuoso.

“I love it, Will,” I tell him.

“May the colors of your world be many,” he says, evoking Bilki's favorite saying. “May the colors of your world be many,” I repeat, somewhat melancholy, thinking of the dull autumn leaves. I give the world's scariest man a hug to make sure he hasn't been lying to me about being sober. Tropical men's cologne with a hint of hibiscus has replaced his whiskey scent, and he appears to have showered. Will continues to hold the painting in front of him while I admire it.

Del sneers at my portrait, his lichen-green eyes bulging enough to be mistaken for his dad's. He hasn't said a word since viewing the painting. He clearly hates it. At least he hasn't voiced that opinion. I don't think it's wise of him to be overly critical, due to his dad's fragile state of early recovery from alcohol addiction.

Will sags over his son's negative reaction. “What's wrong, Son? You liked it well enough when you saw it before.”

I don't want Del to respond. I try and keep things upbeat, pointing out what I perceive to be the painting's true element of genius. “Will, I love your decision to blend colorful fall leaves into the background. Those leaves pick up the colors in my hair, and they seem so hopeful right now.” I tug at the maple leaf charm on my bracelet.

“What leaves?” mumbles Will. His monster gumball eyes widen like never before. He swings the canvas around to face him, so he can inspect it. He has not actually viewed the uncovered painting, till now. After examining the front of his work, he teeter-totters. Del rushes over to steady him.

I hear a rustle in the beige woods and quickly turn my head. I've learned to be wary of bears. But it's not a bear. Out of the dreary trees steps a woman made of stars with a strawberry smile, carrying a paintbrush and palette in her twinkling hand. I can't believe it. This is the first time I've actually seen Bilki.

“I put those leaves in Will's painting to remind you that you can save these dreary woods,” she says. “The Hunter and The Bear must both make sacrifices to make that happen.”

Del calls out, “Mona Lisa, I can't believe it.”