Dream Country (12 page)

Some little kids were at the bowling alley for an after-school birthday party. The mothers were standing around, helping them tie their shoes, showing them how to hold the balls. Sage felt a lump in her throat, remembering the bowling party her mother had thrown for her ninth birthday. But she swallowed it away. Her eyes were on thick slices of birthday cake with fluffy white frosting.

The children were circled around, watching a little girl—about seven—open her presents. They had already eaten lunch but not yet gotten to the cake, and the tray of half-eaten hot dogs and french fries sat off to one side. Sage inched toward the tray. Her stomach growled with anticipation. The french fries were golden brown, crispy on the crinkled edges—just the way Sage liked them. Her mother always cooked frozen fries longer than the package said, to get them exactly like this.

Staring at the girls’ half-finished lunches, Sage was just about to grab a fry when someone spoke to her.

“Well, hello,” one of the mothers said. Not many years older than Sage, she held an infant in her arms.

“Hi,” Sage said.

“Which one’s yours?”

“Mine?” Sage thought the mother meant which hot dog, and her heart raced because she realized she’d just gotten caught.

“Which child. Aren’t you here for Jenny’s party?”

“No,” Sage said, pointing at some boys in another alley. “I’m with them. With . . .” She thought for three seconds flat. “Jake.”

“So, that’s your second?”

Sage just stood there. The woman was talking a language Sage didn’t understand. But she saw her smiling down at her stomach, jutting her chin out at the pregnancy. Sage blushed; the woman was the first person to have noticed her showing. “Oh,” she said, strangely thrilled and proud, “yes.” Once again, she glanced over at the french fries.

“Hardly even touched,” the woman said, taking a handful. “My Megan’s over there, next to the birthday girl. She eats six fries at a sitting, it’s all she can handle, and she’ll take half an hour to do it. She’s a little bird. Go on, have some. You’re eating for two.”

“Okay.” Sage ate a french fry, then another. She gobbled two nearly whole hot dogs, even though they both had ketchup on them. Sage had never liked ketchup before, but right now it tasted so delicious, she saw stars. A feeling of fullness came over her for the first time since leaving home.

“I’m Deenie,” the woman said.

“I’m Sage.”

They gave each other wide smiles. Deenie was very pretty, with big brown eyes and flower-pink lipstick. She was heavy, even bigger than Sage, and she wore embroidered jeans and a bright purple sweater patterned with suns and moons.

“You from around here?” Deenie asked.

“Not really,” Sage said, hoping that didn’t sound too weird. But it must have, because Deenie just stared at her. What would she be doing at a bowling alley in the middle of nowhere if she wasn’t
from
there? If this was a small town like Silver Bay, everyone knew everyone. The kids played together, the parents took turns carpooling . . . there were no strangers, only neighbors. Sage felt her face get red.

“What’re you doing, visiting in-laws?”

“Um, sort of,” Sage said.

“Oh, in-laws!” Deenie laughed. “Mine live all the way in Des Moines, thank God. It’s just me and Harley most of the time. Who’s your husband?”

“Ben Davis,” Sage said, thinking of how happy Deenie sounded saying “just me and Harley.” Saying Ben’s name pierced her like a lance. She felt her shoulders curl over, and tears popped into her eyes. Deenie shifted the baby onto her other hip, leaned closer to Sage.

“You okay?” Deenie asked.

Sage tried to nod, but she couldn’t. Bowling pins clattered; children screamed with joyful abandon. Sage gulped, the sobs caught in her throat. Knowing she was going to be sick, not sure of where to find the ladies’ room, she ran full-tilt toward the front door. There in the parking lot, she threw up between two pickup trucks.

Deenie had followed her out. “Morning sickness all day long?”

Sage nodded, holding back the sobs, missing Ben and her mother so much she thought she might die.

“Is Ben understanding?” Deenie asked.

“The best,” Sage whispered, staring at Deenie’s feet. Her boots were old. Sage could see a line of glue-pearls where Deenie had tried to glue the old sole back on.

“Megan’s probably wondering where I am,” Deenie said.

Sage nodded.

“Jake’s probably looking for you—ready to come in?”

Sage lowered her eyes. She had noticed a bread truck pulling into the parking lot: bright blue, with the words “Cinderella Baked Goods. Serving Western Iowa” stenciled in yellow. Sage heard the driver call hello to the alley’s cook, say he was running late on his trip back to Nebraska. Her heart started beating faster.

“I think I’ll stay out for one more minute,” she said.

“Breathe that fresh air,” Deenie said, standing up. “You’ll feel better.”

“I know,” Sage said.

“Come sit with me when you get inside. I’m kind of new around here myself—I’m from Macksburg, and Harley had a little run-in up there . . . oh, never mind. Anyway, we’re living behind my aunt’s farm up the road here, and the other mothers have known each other forever, so come sit with me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sage said, feeling sad.

Because she knew she wouldn’t: The minute Deenie walked into the bowling alley, Sage went for her bicycle. She retrieved the pack she’d hidden under a bush. The deliveryman had left the back of the bread truck open, a little silver ramp tilting up from the pavement. Sage pushed her bike straight in. Nebraska was one state closer to Wyoming.

The truck was filled with shelves of bread. They were wide and deep, and right away she saw a good hiding place: under the bottom shelf. It was low to the floor, and Sage had to take the front wheel off to shove her bike underneath. By twisting and pushing, she got it well hidden. Standing back, she made sure.

Now she scanned the shelves. She saw cookies, muffins, doughnuts, bread, and rolls. Craving sugar, she saw a raspberry coffee cake and held herself back. She didn’t know how long she would be riding, whether she’d be able to keep anything down. But she knew the baby needed nourishment. Carefully taking a snowflake roll from one box, she held her breath and rolled under the low shelf opposite her bike.

The truck door clanged shut a few minutes later. The engine started up. The floor was hard and cold: Sage lay on her back, enclosed by metal shelves and the truck’s wall and floor, holding the roll. Her heart ached, and she told herself to stop. She missed Deenie already, and she’d only just met her. She thought of the loneliness in Deenie’s eyes, and she wondered if it was always there—for everyone. On the floor, nibbling her snowflake roll, Sage pictured her mother’s face and missed her with all her heart.

David tried to stay warm. The night was so cold, frost had formed on the pinecones that hung from the tips of the trees. His breath was white, and his eyelids were heavy. The dots on his cheek had faded, but they were still there. His tattoos kept him company. The dogs slept beside him, all crowded into the front seat. He knew he should stop to get some rest, but the terrible thing was pulling him onward.

Terrible:
That was the word that kept filling his mind. Something brutal, a creature who needed him being hurt, violated, possibly killed unless he got there. He had never felt this way before, this sense of urgency, so he didn’t dare stop the car. He knew he wasn’t there yet.

Nebraska was a lot flatter than Wyoming. It seemed like a lot of farmland, a lot of barns and houses. He had a list of puppy farms he’d taken from his parents’ office, and at certain times he thought maybe he should be heading to one of them. But nature seemed to be telling him otherwise. He headed southeast, the car windows open to keep him awake, hoping he’d know whatever it was when he saw it.

Petal stayed awake beside him. She gnawed her toy, feeling it in her mouth. He knew she needed something to bite on, to hold, to take the place of all the puppies she had lost.

He had been passing farm after farm, but suddenly his headlights caught a long flash of white along the road. White dots, one after the other, low to the ground: a speckled snake, a huge white caterpillar. Slamming on the brakes, he steered onto the shoulder, trying not to hit the bizarre creature.

The dogs sensed danger, and they all dove onto the car floor. Through the open windows came the beating of wings.
Maybe this is it,
he thought.
Whatever it is I’m here to save.

Leaping out of the car, he ran after the slinky white creature into the field. It twisted through broken-off cornstalks, hiding in the ruts and furrows of bare earth. Overhead, he heard wings beating, and he saw yellow eyes: an owl on the hunt. He saw that the owl had prey in its sights, watched it swooping down again and again.

As his own eyes became accustomed to the total darkness, he saw that the white dots were in fact paws: He was chasing a family of black cats. The mother was leading a pack of six white-footed black kittens, trying to hide them from the owl.

“Yah!” he yelled, waving his arms to chase the bird away. “Yee-hah!”

The owl flew so low, it brushed his head with its wings. The eyes were golden fire, blazing in the black night. He knew owls—he loved them for reasons he couldn’t explain—but he knew they were brutal, that they meant death to small animals.

“Get away!” David screamed, chasing the owl. He ran in a big circle, keeping the cats safely inside. He heard the owl calling as it flew, and for a minute, he thought he had been successful, that he had saved this big family of small creatures. The mother poked her head out to check. The kittens mewed, and she batted them with one big paw—to keep them quiet and hidden.

But the owl came back. It appeared out of nowhere, diving down with feet extended. Grabbing the mother cat, it lifted her into the sky. She twisted and snarled, and as the owl flew her into the treetops, the last sound he heard was pure grief, washing through the branches.

He remembered the cave. Owls had filled the dark space—burrowing owls, scores of yellow eyes watching over him when he was all alone. They had called, low and wise, telling him that soon he would be found. He had tattooed himself for a reminder.

David was crying now. The sob welled up from deep down inside his chest, and it spilled all over everything. Crouching down, he buried his head in his hands. He cried so hard, his tears washed off the last of the marks on his cheeks. Seeing the mother ripped apart from her babies had reminded him of himself: Right now, most of the time, he felt yanked in half. The mother’s screams filled his ears.

Something scratched his leg through his jeans, and he felt claws on his skin. Then he felt fur on his face, and he realized that the kittens had climbed up his pants and wanted to slide down the neck of his shirt. Fuzzy black balls with white paws, scrambling down his chest.

More wings beat overhead. He heard them, and then he felt the cold wind. A pair of owls were here, circling the field, searching for the kittens. He felt the furry bodies snuggling into his body, trying to hide, looking for food. They started trying to nurse on his skin, searching everywhere for their mother’s milk.

“Okay,” David said, wiping his eyes. “I’ll find you guys a bottle somewhere.” A drugstore, he thought. A doll’s bottle and a can of baby formula. He’d keep the newborn kittens alive. He wouldn’t let the mother down.

He couldn’t hate the owls for being owls, but his heart ached and he felt a long and raw scar of sorrow. He couldn’t stop thinking of that mother—hearing her cry, knowing she’d tried so hard to protect these babies.

Maybe this was why he’d come to Nebraska.

These kittens had needed him, and he had been here to save them. Drying his eyes, lighting a cigarette as he started the car, he told himself that was it. He had come east to rescue this litter. Petal stuck her head out from under the seat: Leaping up beside him, she sniffed his shirt, wondering what was inside.

She held the toy in her mouth. It was torn and chewed, soaked with her saliva. Her toy now, no longer his.

David Crane had dragged it with him everywhere he went, long ago. Sometimes he thought that was what he really wanted to find: the way this old stuffed animal had once made him feel. His home had been unhappy and violent; this toy had been his only comfort. Well, nothing could be softer and more comforting than a litter of tiny kittens inside his shirt, purring against the beating of his heart.

So why the hell did he keep driving east? If this was his big moment, why didn’t the feeling of terror stop? He had it still—that awful pounding in his head, the slamming of his pulse, telling him to drive faster, get there or else.

There: where?

He didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. Trying not to think of the mother cat, what the owl was doing to her right now, he smoked harder and planned to stop at the first store he found: The map said he could be in Twin Lakes by dawn. They’d have baby supplies—from growing up on a puppy farm, he knew what it took to keep motherless baby animals alive.

He knew very well how to do that. Meanwhile, the compulsion raged inside him, and he knew he had to keep moving. That time was getting short.