Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (22 page)

“A car killed her.” Nettie says without looking up
from the bundle in her arms. She cradles Matty like a baby. She even sways
gently.

“Yeah, a car.”

“Are you looking for a new cat?” Hayden points to
Matty and then to the mom.

I look at Hayden quickly. He looks sorry. But he’s
right. I can’t keep the kitty, not with so many unknowns. It was lucky I didn’t
smash the thing a few hours ago. Who knows where I’ll be tonight.

“Someday.” The mom starts to stand.

“What about today?”

“Oh, you don’t have…” We all look at Nettie, she
is whispering some sort of lullaby while she rocks the cat. Tears stream from
each of her eyes.

“I don’t know if he’ll make it.” I want to
clarify. “We just found him a few hours ago.”

“Just a stray, under a car,” Hayden says.

“The best kind of pets,” says the mom. “They know somehow.”
She squats back down. “Nettie, these nice people…” She stops and looks at us.

Hayden doesn’t need a script. “Lynette, would you
like to keep this kitty?”

Her face explodes into a sunrise, fireworks and
smiles. I love Hayden at this moment.

Looks like the mom does too. “Do you two, um, need
a ride?”

Hayden nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

We ride in the back of her pickup truck to a rest
area two miles outside of Salt Creek. Hayden sleeps deeply with his mouth open
and his head on my shoulder during the one hour drive. She apologizes, just
like Matty did, for not taking us further. It’s weird to receive help from
someone who’s sorry it isn’t more—rather than the kind of begrudging help that
lets you know you’ll end up owing.

Hayden insists that this is better, though I don’t
know why. The mom, the cutest little girl I ever saw and Matt the Cat drive
away forever. We use the restrooms. I wash my hands and face and try to
finger-brush my hair. Outside, sparkles of sunlight glint from water droplets
still clinging to Hayden’s short blond hair. He must have washed in the sink
like I did.

We wait on cement and pebble benches as people
park, run into the rest stop and eventually leave. Some people water their
dogs, yell at their kids or smoke cigarettes. I don’t mind being invisible for
now. Hayden and I seem to be avoiding plans, at any rate, we don’t talk. The air
climbs the thermometer five degrees at a time.

The last minivan leaves the rest stop, and we are
completely alone. “Let’s get out of the sun.” Hayden turns and walks away. There’s
a cluster of pine trees and we head that way.

“Look at this.” The tallest tree’s branches hang
down to form a shelter of sorts, a little cove around the base. By the packed
dirt, it looks like it has been used before.

“So this is the problem.” Hayden stretches out on
the ground. “No money, no phone. All we know is: we need to go to the Humboldt
Indian Colony, past Salt Creek on 93.”

I sit down on the dirt, but tenderly. My ribs
still hurt. I need clean clothes and a toothbrush. Soon I’ll want lunch. Hayden
probably only needs sleep. “How long will it take us to walk two miles?”

“Thirty or so minutes if we keep up a pace.” He
yawns. “After a nap, I could run it in less than sixteen minutes.” He yawns
again.

“Sleep then.” A breeze blows through our tree
fort. He does, almost immediately. Everything in me says to stretch out and rest—but
I don’t listen. I walk to the vending machines and press coin return on each of
them, hoping for the clank of quarters dropping. It works. With two dollars in
quarters, I buy a bottle of water and take it back under the tree. I sip a tiny
amount and leave the rest for Hayden.

He has done so much for me, I have to take care of
this. I pull out a piece of paper and write a quick note that I’ll be back with
dinner. I use my backpack as a weight so the note doesn’t blow away. Hayden’ll
understand, he will see that I’m leaving everything important to me under this
tree. I have to get us a ride, a hotel, some money. I owe him so much right
now. It takes a bit of an internal pep talk to leave the shelter of these trees
into the midday summer sun, for a trek down a freeway in high mountain desert.

No, it isn’t the trees. It’s the other shelter I
leave—the spiritual shelter.

The town lives up to its name. It’s the worst of
Nevada freeway towns. You come to the water and find only the undrinkable kind.
Salt Creek: The depraved result of people consenting to dwell under the
provision of a brothel, a few bars, casinos and truck-stop gas stations.

Truck Stop & Go, a two story, newer hotel-like
building advertises a diner, showers, internet and laundry. That’s where Hayden
and I’ll stay the night. I’ll make it happen. Just beyond, is a sign that says
Shoshone Humboldt Colony. Tomorrow I’ll be free.

I have come to dance, may as well get started. I
walk to the first gentleman’s club. More than a dozen cars and
eighteen-wheelers are parked out front. The main door opens to a busy
restaurant, and a pretty hostess greets me.

“I’d like to talk to the manager, or owner.”

“Sure.” She waltzes away. In a moment, she returns
with an attractive older woman with hair as long as mine, but turning gray. The
woman’s face looks like rock formed by decades of weather. She is not Native
American, but I still see myself in twenty-five years.

 “Come on back…”

“Baby,” I answer instinctively.

“Excellent. My name is Joan.” She leads me through
the dining area into an office. The desk is covered in paper, not stacked in a
feint at organization, just smeared across the top like peanut butter.

Joan points to a chair. I don’t sit. “I need a
job.”

“Great. I’ll need ID and a birth certificate to
prove you’re over twenty-one. We’ll need to get you a medical exam and...”

“No, I just need a short term…just tonight.”

She laughs. “Not a real job? Just a one-time
thing?”

“I guess, I just need a little money.”

“Well, you won’t make a little money here.” She
crosses her arms and leans across the desk. “We make big money. Of course
you’ll have to prove your age. We’re a legal brothel.”

“I’m just a dancer.”

“And I’m sure you’re extraordinary.”

“I’m on a billboard in Reno.” It doesn’t deflect
her patronization like I hoped.

“Good for you.” She stands. “But if you don’t need
a job, I have other things to do.”

“I just need a one-time…”

“What kind of place do you think I run? My girls
are legal, clean, and well-paid.”

“I’m kinda stuck. I need money tonight.”

Joan smiles. “I have heard every excuse ever told,
honey.” She opens the door to her office.

“I’m not a beggar. I’m a good dancer. I just need
a little money to get a room tonight. Otherwise I’ll sleep at the rest stop.”

“Hrumph.”

“Please.” And I am a beggar after all.

Joan grips the door and looks at her toes. “Well,
actually…I might be able to help you.”

I leave Joan’s restaurant-coffee-shop-brothel with
a note and the name “George.” It seems the owner of Truck Stop & Go pays
for private dances in cash. I’m in control. I’m taking care of Hayden and
myself. Next, I’ll take care of my curse.

George waits for in me front of the gas station
part of the truck stop. He is about sixty-five years old and sits in an
electric wheel chair. Faded jeans cover legs so thin the kneecaps protrude.
After I give him the note, he silently leads me through the candy bar isle,
past a cove where truckers watch television and wait for showers. We walk down
a hallway where there is a sign that says “Women’s Showers” on one door and “Men’s
Showers” on another. Next, we pass a door that says “Emergency Exit.” I only
notice all of this because of Hayden and that makes me want to stop and run
back to the trees. The last door says “Office.”

There is very little air inside, and I
purposefully do not look around. I don’t want to remember this place. I feel
the presence.

George pours vodka into a disposable soda cup.
Glug, glug, glug. He zooms from his desk to a small refrigerator and adds
bottled orange juice. The acidic smell burns my throat, even from the six feet
that separate us.

George’s bony fingers are pale. He is no threat to
me. He pulls out five, twenty-dollar bills and lays them out like a card dealer
about to do a trick. “I don’t need a name. I don’t need a story.” He pushes the
stack toward me. “I only need a show.”

I dance. No talking, no music, nothing but the
sound of George sucking through a straw. Hayden will be wondering where I am by
now. I try not to think of him. This is just work. Better than work because I’m
in control.

“I’ll throw in a free night at the hotel if you
take it all off.” George’s voice vibrates with an unreserved lack of control. I
don’t make eye contact, even when he whines “please.” This is what I came for…I
focus on a dented, gray metal file cabinet behind his slight form. I give
myself for money, and it leaves me poorer than when I began.

Walking away from Salt Creek, I hear footsteps on
the gravel behind me. The spirit is with me again. The sun is lowering and I
avoid shadows. I need to get back to Hayden before dark.

Need.

I needed money and George needed a show.

I run.

I’m not in control.

I’m in need.

Hayden wears my backpack and paces on the side of
the freeway a hundred yards from the rest stop. I’m covered in sweat from
running, and particles of dust stirred by car drafts have turned to mud and
dried again. As soon as we see each other, he starts toward me. I’m not
surprised he’s awake. It’s almost seven o’clock. I spent more than five hours
in town.

“Sparrow.” He grabs me into his arms like the mom
grabbed little Nettie this morning. The water bottle in his hands is empty. I’m
thirsty, but glad I left it for him.

“Come on, back to town with me.” I turn
immediately.

“I’m so glad to see you.” He stops me and smiles.
But I can’t look him in the eye. “Are you okay? I woke up and you were gone, I
was afraid you hitchhiked alone.”

“No, I walked.” He tries to grab my hand. I can’t
flick it away, but I don’t want to be touched. I didn’t touch George, but I
won’t be settled until I wash his eyes off. I let my hand remain limp. This
makes him squeeze my hand even more.

“I got us a hotel room. Come on. I want a shower.”

Hayden stops and starts to say something, but a
big rig drives by. I can’t hear him. The truck leaves a wake of wind that
threatens my balance. We scoot farther from the asphalt.

“What?”

“How did you get a hotel room?” He stands like a
fortress, taller than I’ve ever seen him.

“Come on, they have computers so we can check out
the disk. Internet, showers…”

“Sparrow how did you get a room?”

“I have money, too.” I pull out the hundred
dollars in twenties and hold it out to him. He takes it and counts them twice.

“When did you get this?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Another truck is coming; I
hear the roar up the street.

“You stripped?” This time I hear his yell even
while the truck drives past us. Several cars follow the truck, and the gusts
whip my hair in all directions. Hayden’s eyes are wide and hard, his teeth
clenched, grinding.

I look toward town. I want to throw up.

“Ahhhh!” He throws the wad of money into the
traffic. One bill blows back toward us, one up, one under a car…I don’t see the
others.

“What are you doing?” I start toward the road, but
he grabs me.

“Don’t.” He holds me.

“That’s my money.”

“That’s Satan’s money.” He pushes me back from the
road. “You’re just like Sabine!"

I don’t ask him about her because the money is
floating away. “We need that.” I reach for it again even though more cars are
coming.

“We don’t need anything from him.”

I scream. He restrains.

“It means nothing. It’s just a dance.”

“It means everything to me. You are worth so much
more. Don’t you see?”

“See what? I’m not Sabine,” I say her name like it’s
sour. He recoils. I hold my arms out. “I have breasts, legs, a face.” I dance
in a way I didn’t intend to and car honks as it flies by. “I’m a girl, and that’s
all I’ve got.”

“No.” He pushes my arms down. “You are made in the
image of God.” Wind blows and he continues to yell. “A God who dances over you
because you are his creation, his delight. He gives dignity—he doesn’t take it
like the world does. He loves you.” A twenty spirals in the air near us and
lands. Hayden grabs it from the dirt. “I love you.”

“You love Sabine.”

His face becomes angry then wounded. “Sparrow, I
love you.” He rips the bill five or six times before flinging it. The bits join
the mini-cyclone of wind tossing my hair around and the wind carries the pieces
away.

Hayden turns and walks back to the rest stop. He
still wears my backpack. I don’t move, even when he ducks behind the building
into the treed area. A chill passes over and through me like a current of
water. I could go back to the hotel and stay the night. Forget Hayden. Brody’s
guys would probably never find me. I could start over.

Yeah, my curse and I could just start from
scratch.

I know what waits for me in Salt Creek. And it
isn’t a God who gives dignity instead of taking it, a glass slipper or a
returning prince who is willing to die for me.

And it isn’t Hayden.

When I return to the pine tree cove, Hayden only
shrugs. I lower down beside him. He rubs his hand across my back, and then
pulls me forward as his face draws near. Our deep kisses taste salty. The
moisture comes from his cheeks.

He stops and presses his forehead to mine. I can’t
look into his eyes this close. He wants too much from me. He wants everything.

I cannot give like he gives. The weight of this
realization oppresses me. Even though it’s summer—it’s dusk, and I’m already
starting to shiver. The sweat from my run cooled the surface of my skin, my
shell. The footsteps behind me chilled my heart.

“Who is Sabine?”

Hayden doesn’t answer.

“Who was she?”

“A girl I knew in Spain,” Hayden says.

“Don’t make me ask, just tell me.”

“She wanted to be a model, was always trying to
find the right opportunity. She answered an online ad for an American modeling
agency. I couldn’t take her to the interview.”

My deep breath interrupts the silence that
follows. If he doesn’t want to tell me, fine.

“I got a phone call.” He speaks so softly I have to
lean in. “It was her voice. She cried, said a street name in Amsterdam. Asked
me to come before she hung up.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I did. I walked up and down the street for
several days before I realized that I needed to go during the night. I didn’t
recognize her at first, she was so thin. I had to pay for a night with her to
talk to her.”

“She didn’t become a model?”

“No, she was kidnapped. Forced to work as a
prostitute. She was too scared to come with me.”

“Oh, Hayden, where is she now?”

“Dead.”

I’m a void. I lie on my left side against the hard
ground. Although I no longer think my rib is broken, I’m still sore. Hayden
matches the fold of my joints and buffets us. I face the tree trunks and he
backs the world. We sleep.

A crackle of pine needles wakes me. Someone
approaches. Hayden is near, but not touching. A band of weight slithers over
me, close to my neck. Another wraps around my arms. Heaviness presses, then
constricts. It will smother me. It tries to kill me.

I want to call out, but my voice stumbles, trapped
under the snake-vice on my throat. No. I gasp and suck, but cannot coax a noise
out of me. The curse will consume me in my bed, while help lays close beside
me. I feel his derision, spite and disgust. He squeezes.

I wake.

I thought I was already awake, but the sensation
of cold air and the prick of pine needles hold a greater sensation than the
last time I woke. Still, I feel a bruised soreness on my throat and arms. It
really happened. My watch reads 3:15 a.m.

“Come out and dance for me, Baby.” Clint sits
beyond the trees. He has been watching us sleep.

I rise to sit. My neck hurts, I attempt to massage
away the sensation and make the blood flow again.

“It won’t work. Come out here. Let’s go for a
walk.”

If I leave Hayden’s side, the evil will consume me.
I want to wake him, but again, no sound comes from me.

“Baby, you are only as valuable as you are
sensual.”

The gravity of Clint seems to pull me against my
will. Who can save me? Who has authority? Matty said I have authority, that I
could tread on snakes and scorpions.

I try to speak, but only cough over the sand in my
mouth. I point away. Leave me.

Clint chuckles like I’m a grade-schooler telling a
knock-knock joke.

I have authority to trample on snakes and
scorpions and overcome the enemy; nothing can harm me.

 “Yes.” Clint responds to me as though I spoke
aloud. “If your name is recorded in that vile book.”

Jesus.

“I know that name,” Clint answers my thoughts.

I look to Hayden’s sleeping form.

“I know that name too. But I do not know yours.”
He starts to rise. And by rise, I mean swell.

I fumble at my backpack, frantically dumping the
pictures and CD in the dirt. When I have my flute, I blow frantically. The
notes squeak out at first, but through the wood I’m able to breathe as though it’s
a diving mask. I sing through my flute.

An old man, a wizened version of my dad, stands in
my mind. No, he’s here. It’s not my father—my father hated long hair on men.
This man has streaked, black braids draped across his chest. He wears a beaded choker
with a turquoise cross positioned just under his Adam’s apple. He points to Clint.
Clint crouches like a shamed dog. My notes rise with ease now. The man lifts
large hands to the heavens and points again. Clint drifts away from us like
dandelion seeds: unwanted, carried by wind.