Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (12 page)

“Whose?”

“Leah Jones’ parents.” He waits until I nod then
locks the door, shuts it and double checks it.

When Hayden climbs in, I say, “I’m not going
there.” He waits a minute before he closes the door but doesn’t look at me.

“Okay.” The inflection he uses says he is waiting for
more.

“Please, just take me to get an apartment.”

Hayden grips the wheel and sighs. “You don’t want
to be at someone else’s mercy, do you?”

“How did...?” We look at each other and I realize I’m
just that, at his mercy.

“If I promise it will be easy, one night? They
want you. They’ll take care of you. If I promise?”

“Whatever, Hayden. I’ll stay there one night.”

“Anyway, I don’t think you can get an apartment
without a co-signer or credit check.”

If he smiles with satisfaction, I’ll know he was
just pressing to get his way. I watch him several minutes.

He doesn’t.

Leah’s parents’ neighborhood looks brand new. Each
yard has a budding tree or two, but they are only about my height. Every
enormous house, differing by a slight hue of color, looms over a tiny yard. I
feel exposed, like people are standing from their towers watching us. Hayden
parks his truck in front of a soft green two-story, but Leah stands across the
street talking with a man bent over a cane.

“Take care, Leland.” She looks left and right, and
then crosses the street like a kindergartener. Her long, denim skirt restricts
her steps to short paces. She moves fast, though, by swinging her arms as she
run-walks. Smooth, pale skin frames rosy cheeks. It makes her look as though
she is standing in snow, not the seventy-degree weather of mid-May in Reno. Her
brown eyes are alive and bright. Leah must really love Hayden.

“Welcome.” Leah calls as she approaches us. “My
parents are still riding their bikes.” She grabs hold of her skirt, lifts it
about a half-inch and prances up the front lawn, stepping on the grass. I
picture a sweet, old couple riding on a tandem bike. Sappy.

Hayden and I walk up the driveway and follow her through
a large door with decorative glass at the top. As soon as I step inside, a
disturbing picture directly ahead halts me. It’s an old-looking prison gate,
inset in crumbling stone. There’s a dull light emanating from inside and it
casts a depressing shadow in the foreground. A small woman crouches in the
corner, her shoulders are bare and they slope with burden.

“Don’t stand on the doorstep. Come in. Come in.”
Leah laughs and steps between me and the framed picture.

We step inside and crowd into a three-foot square
of tile. Hayden and Leah kick off their shoes immediately and he follows her up
a stairway to the left. His movements are so swift, he must have done the same
action a thousand times. Taking off my shoes feels too friendly; I’m not
family. But if I break the rules of the house, what kind of a guest will I be? I
fiddle with my backpack shoulder straps, tightening and releasing.

“Take your shoes off and come up.” Hayden reaches
and stretches from the top of the stairs and I hear a light popping sound from
his joints. He’s at home here.

I use the front of each foot to push down a heel.
The stair carpet is soft and squishy. I spread my toes as I place one foot in front
of the other and mount each step. Pictures cloak the warm yellow wall to my
left. Leah and others, with obvious family resemblances pose skiing, at the
beach, shooting guns or riding horses. There are a few traditional shots with a
large family. Most are of outdoor activities.

At the top of the stairs is a bright room with
sunny walls and large windows.

“It’s my night to make dinner.” Leah trots into
the kitchen. “I thought I’d make enchiladas,” she lowers her eyes, “Hayden.”

“Excellent.” He claps his hands and rubs them
eagerly.

Ah, she cooks, too. I want to leave. The walls and
ceiling laugh. It feels like an earthquake.

“Oh, my parents are home,” Leah says from around
the corner in the kitchen.

“Come on down, I’ll show you their Harleys.”
Hayden darts like a coyote down the stairs. Harleys?

At the bottom of the stairs, I’m not sure which
way to turn. Hayden’s voice comes from a door near the stairs. I turn the
handle slowly and peek out.

In the center of a perfectly swept and organized
garage stands the main singer guy from Hayden’s church. Smiling at me from just
behind him is the lady from the piano. She looks a little like Leah but with
short, wavy hair. She slips off a smallish black helmet with a swirly Celtic sticker,
and the top of her hair is more grey than dark brown. Her cheeks are as flushed
and rosy as Leah’s were when Leah looked at Hayden.

“Welcome, Sparrow.” The man switches his helmet
from under his right arm to his left and offers me his right hand. “I’m Bryan,
this is my wife, Janet.”

He lets me get a good grip before he shakes. His
hand is soft like a woman’s and warm. Then he and Hayden launch into a
conversation about gas mileage and torque.

“Come, Sparrow,” Janet says. She sets her helmet
down and links my arm into hers. I stumble a little at the doorway, but she
doesn’t let go. We walk up the stairs side by side while she asks things like my
age, school and whether or not I like enchiladas. I try to deflect her questions
vaguely, except the enchilada one—since I know Leah is making them.

“Yes. I like them.”

She doesn’t let me off. “So you didn’t finish high
school then?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do you have a job?”

Great, now where am I going to sleep tonight?
“Yeah. Does Leah need help there in the kitchen?” I start to make my way.

“Oh, no. I’ll go make a salad in a minute.” She
sits on the couch and points to a cushion near her. “Where do you work?”

I swallow and try to imagine that I hear Hayden
and Bryan coming inside. She waits expectantly.

“A bar?” When it finally comes out, I hear the
question as though I’m not sure where I work—or I’m not sure she’ll accept the
answer.

She doesn’t even blink. “Do you like it?”

That was not the next thing I expected her to say.
Maybe “harlot” or “soul stealer,” but certainly not “do you like it?”

“I guess.” I sit on the couch hoping I don’t
wrinkle it. “I mean, I don’t want to do it forever.”

“I waitressed for years.” Janet smiles and crosses
her leg.

I bet she never did it in a bar, though.

“It can be good money.” She points behind me. “Do
you want to put your backpack in our guest room?”

“No, thanks.” It feels good to hang on to the
straps rather than let my arms dangle at their sides. “I’m comfortable.”

“Well, Sparrow, I love your name.” She stands.
“Let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

We walk down a hallway on the opposite side of the
kitchen. “This is the bathroom.” She indicates the first door on the left.

At the end of the hall there are two opposing doors.
“Leah’s here.” She taps the door on her left with a long fingernail. “And
you’ll be in here.” She turns the handle and pushes the door in without
stepping inside.

It’s a beautiful room with a knotty pine bed frame
and a matching rocker. The queen-sized bed has a plaid comforter in navy and
red. There are pictures of mountains on the walls and a four-foot-high teddy
bear sits in the corner. I laugh when I see him.

“We wanted a big bed in this room for guests, but
unfortunately that means the dresser has to go in the closet. It’s crowded
enough without it.” She walks in after me and slides open the closet door.

Inside is a matching dresser. The wood is so
rugged and beautiful; I rub my hand up and down the bedpost.

“The Bible says,” Janet whispers and I stand
straight. “That whenever a sparrow falls to the ground, the Lord sees.”

It sounds a little rehearsed, like she has said it
a thousand times.

She smiles and reaches around me. I don’t return
her hug. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. Use the bathroom, freshen
up...”

Before she leaves the room, she turns and smiles
one more time. For all her effort, I finally return a smile I don’t feel.

Imagine thinking that “the Lord” sees anything.

The image of my flute flashes in my mind. All of a
sudden I’m just thinking about it—picturing it. Did “the Lord” know where my
flute was and take me there? Seriously, how random was that? It does seem like
the universe brought me back to it.

Hayden eats dinner with us and stays for a game
called Scattergories. I win. Leah’s parents seem to be waiting around
awkwardly. Hayden announces that he will be back for me in the morning with his
friend. I’m glad he doesn’t say “the detective.” But I get the feeling the
Jones family already knows. It feels like the first night when the social
workers dumped me at Thom and Lorna’s. Except tonight I got dinner.

I want to tell Hayden not to leave me, but it
becomes obvious that Leah’s parents are waiting for that very thing so they can
go to bed. Leah and I walk him to the door. I wish I could say good-bye to him
alone. Leah seems to want the same thing. I settle for standing behind her and
wonder: to which one of us is he waving?

When he climbs into his truck, Leah turns to me
and says, “His Asperger’s is really mild around you.”

“Oh?” I don’t know what she means, but I hate that
she knows more about him than I do.

“I’m going to put on pajamas.” She takes the
stairs two at a time.

At this point, I realize I never brought in my
clothes from the back of Hayden’s truck. I don’t have anything to sleep in, or
to wear tomorrow. I won’t even think about how my mouth will feel without
brushing. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a drink of water. It feels clean
and quiet, only lit by the numbers on the microwave. 9:13. It has been dark for
more than an hour. The perfect order in this room makes me linger.

Not sure if I can take water into my room, I drain
the glass and set it in the sink. I leave the kitchen and meet Leah back in the
living room. She wears a matching flannel pajama set with stars and clouds in a
pale blue background. In her hands is a pink and orange, paisley suitcase.

“I don’t need it anymore.” Leah lifts her arm. She
won’t meet my eyes, but her smile is sincere. “My parents got me a matched set
last Christmas.”

What is she talking about?

“Um, your clothes are just in a trash, er, bag…I
thought you might—Hayden brought your stuff in for you. It’s on your bed, in
your room.”

Leah said, “your bed.” My bed. I lived in the trailer
with Thom and Lorna more than eight years, and the last thing Lorna said to me
was that the room—the dresser weren’t mine.

I walk to the bedroom without answering her.
Hayden did bring my trash bag. It mars the middle of the beautiful comforter.

Hayden.

Leah’s soft voice sounds behind me. “Could you use
it?” She holds out the suitcase. It has a little silver circle on the front
with the letters “L” and “J” in script. I start to shake my head.

“I was just going to give it to the second hand
store, really, I don’t need it.” She pushes it into my hands. “Wanna stay up
and watch a movie?”

“Sure.” I test the zipper and trace one of the
paisley swirls. “Let me change out of these jeans, get ready for bed.” I try to
hurry when I repack all of my clothes in the lovely bag.

The room is so comfortable, not just because of
the nice furniture. Lorna probably spends more on decorating and knickknacks,
so it isn’t money. There’s something else, something ethereal. What would it
have been like to grow up in a place where you were protected? That isn’t the
right word. I was never hit again, once I moved in with Thom and Lorna. But
take this suitcase for example, it’s almost symbolic of how Leah’s parents provided
for her in every way.

I mean, you could conquer the world with that.

Just for a minute I pretend the room is mine and
that I never have to leave, that the initials on the suitcase were chosen for
me. Then I slip out of my jeans and see the ugly underneath. Brody’s teddy.
Billboards, signs on taxicab roofs, fliers. Soon everyone will see…

Halfway through a black and white movie called, “Father
of the Bride,” Leah falls asleep. I don’t mind, it was stupid. I return to my
room and close the door. The zipper on the paisley suitcase is taut. It won’t
last long if I stress it so I take all of my clothes out and repack them to fit
neater. The bag looks unused. I’ve never owned anything like it. It won’t
replace my Jansport backpack though, because I have had that since I lived in
Oklahoma with my dad. A few pieces of clothing end up in my backpack with my
flute and the book I borrowed from Cori.

I pull out Cori’s Steinbeck and rub my hand across
the cover. Life for poor Kino and Juana has only gotten worse since Kino pulled
up the enormous pearl—the one thing that should have made everything perfect.

The house is silent and my body aches from lying
on my side. Sleep would help, but I want to know what happens. And reclaim the
time the old movie took.

A pearl diver finds a pearl, so benign.

As I read, I start to fear the pearl—maybe it
really is an agent of evil. What else has brought the wickedness out of
everyone around them?

At the end, I want to cry when Kino throws it back
into the sea, but I’m not sure if it’s from loss or relief.

My dreams were not escape last night but jumbled, incomplete
images—I still danced, only not on a mountain. Feathers and bits of white music
did not rain on me like the good dreams lately. I danced dirty—in the cold—and
no amount of movement warmed me.

“She’s a mature girl.” Mrs. Jones’s muffled voice pleads
more than declares.

Where is it coming from?

 “What fellowship has darkness and light?” Leah’s dad’s
words are clearer.

I lay on my back with my hair fanned out and my
arms wide open, afraid to move. Their fears blow through the heater vent, hot
little puffs of insult.

“Bad influence.”

 “Freeload?”

“Stripper.”

“Worldly.”

“Drugs?”

“Protect our daughter.”

The pillow provides a nice block. I smash it into
the side of my face when I roll over. The radio alarm clock says 6:03 a.m. Is this
how early they get up to go to church?

Why am I surprised? Hayden promised they would
take me in; he didn’t promise it would last. All I agreed to was one night—now I’ll
talk to the detective friend of Hayden’s, and tonight I’ll be in my own place.

In a weird way, it pleases me. Leah is soft and
generous. She should be sheltered. Thom and Lorna never asked if I had friends.
Never asked where I found a job. Her parents love her.

It could be worse. My life isn’t like Kino’s. The
check that sits in my wallet will provide a home for me. Freedom.

It’s ten o’clock when I wake again, this time to
the doorbell. 

I slip on my clothes and race to the front door
before it rings a fourth time. Hayden stands on the doorstep with a cardboard
cup holder that balances two paper cups. In his right hand is a small bag.

His grin is crooked and questioning. “Espresso and
scones?”

“Coffee?”

His scarred lip lightens. “Don’t you like espresso?”

“You brought one for me?”

One of his eyebrows arches a little higher than
the other and his eyes widen. Hayden teases me.

“Come in.” I’ll learn to like espresso.

I close the door, and he locks it with the hand
that holds the scone bag.

“Everyone else is gone?”

I don’t think he looks afraid when he asks this,
but he is definitely uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I think they all went to church.”

“Of course.” He looks from side to side as if
considering where to go.

“That’s the garage,” I point to our left, then the
right. “And I believe that is Leah’s parents’ room.” He still acts
self-conscious, even though he knows the layout of the Jones’ house better than
me.

“Up is the only place we can go.” I lift my whole
hand to point to the stairs.

Hayden just says “Um.”

“What?”

“We’re alone.” He mumbles it. Those words, from
anyone else, would sound like an invitation or a prelude to fooling around. But
from Hayden, they sound like a warning.

“What time is your detective friend coming?”

“Between ten-thirty and eleven.”

“Well, unless you brought enough for him, we
should go eat.”

Hayden follows me up the stairs. When I get to the
top, he says, “Being alone together…your reputation.”

I block him from leaving the stairs and put my
hands on his shoulders. He smiles at first, but then stiffens. I lean forward
and kiss him gently on his scar. There, I have done it and I don’t have to
obsess about it forever. He doesn’t respond, except for a slight blush on his
neck and ears.

“Hayden, anyone who knows you would not make a
consideration about my reputation. It’s yours that you need to worry about.” I
smile. I may be in control. But right now I’m not sure that I always like it.

I walk to the kitchen and wait by the table.

Hayden sets down the cups and bag. “What do you
mean anyone who knows me?”

Tingles prick at my temples, but I don’t look
down. I challenge him with my gaze. “You don’t even know how to respond when
someone kisses you, so what makes you think I’m worried about my reputation?”

Hayden takes a deep breath. I can tell he’s
calculating his words carefully and will respond in the most appropriate, righteous…

His mouth presses mine and my lips part
involuntarily. I never imagined a kiss could feel like this. He trembles like
restraint is warring against power. My knees bend a little, but he holds me up
so that our lips don’t have to separate.

The doorbell rings and we part. I can hear my own
breath and I see his broad chest rise and fall in sync. His unblinking amber
eyes connect with something inside me and we stare at each other in mutual
surprise until the doorbell rings again. Hayden turns and leaps down the
stairs.

Detective Graves is only an inch or two taller
than me. He doesn’t look like someone who would be a friend to Hayden. His
nails are perfect, filed ovals; his frame is smallish but has an almost
distended gut, as if he has been naturally thin his whole life but recently
started gaining weight. His dress shirt has a crease from shoulder to wrist,
and there is another starched fold down the front of his slacks. I wonder how
he drove here without sitting down. There are no wrinkles on him.

“Sparrow, I’m Detective Graves.” His voice is
higher than I expected. He knows my name—what else does he know?

I realize I haven’t looked in his face yet and
when I do, I see the pockmarked cheeks first. Second, eyes like Hayden’s.
Different color, but still…assessing, sharp. I know he evaluated every
superficial thing about me while I was noticing him. Can he even tell my lips
were just kissed? I lick them on accident and glance at Hayden, then back to
the detective.

Detective Graves could pick me out of a lineup
now, just like Hayden could the waitress. I close my eyes and can’t remember a
detail about his face. What good is it to know he is fastidious and uptight? He
intimidates me and Hayden says to notice more rather than less when that
happens.

“I work with Reno P.D.” He holds out a badge with
a steady arm. I stare at the gold word, “DETECTIVE,” riding a tiny blue banner
at the top of a real looking sheriff’s star. Like in the old west. Only, it
doesn’t say sheriff. It says “Reno Police Department.”

“The other detective never showed me a badge.”

“Yes, Hayden said that you thought you were
interviewed.” The detective proceeds to scrutinize the room like he did to me.

Thought?

I ease onto the couch and arch my back. It takes
help from my hands to stop my knees from shaking but I indicate for him to take
the seat next to me. He flinches a little. But I sat first, before he could
make a decision. “I was interviewed.” The words weren’t meant to be
disrespectful—at least I didn’t mean to show it. “In the hospital.”

Detective Graves sits on the couch so close to the
edge that it looks like he is hovering.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Recounting the events becomes difficult because
they blur together like a bad dream. I hear the music. It strikes my eardrums
in time with my heartbeat, the song Lexi danced to—I can’t understand the
words. The truck driver, or undercover cop I guess, has blond, stringy hair and
wears a flannel shirt. He has a bloody wound which leaks where he lays.
Cassie’s face: horror. Even Buzz is afraid. His greasy, curly hair is short in
the front and long in the back. Brita needs help—she begs me for it with her
eyes. Huge hands, kind of fat. He reaches for me.

“Sparrow?” How does Hayden shine so? He is the sun’s
rays, a lighthouse—he always breaks through. My cheeks are wet. Hayden looks to
the detective. “Get her some water.”

Detective Graves leaves the room. I try to sit up,
away from the couch, but Hayden holds my shoulder. “Rest.” His warm hand cups
my face. Will he kiss me again? His thumb does in a way by erasing the tears on
my cheek. I need your light, Hayden.

Behind him, Graves grips a cup of water so tight
his dark fingers lighten. I want to block my vision of the detective, but it’s like
viewing an accident. His chest swells and I hear his breath escape through his
nose. Black, trimmed eyebrows arch, but then overcompensate his surprise by
lowering. I see only half of the black pearls of his eyes. His lip tightens on
one side, working together with his eyebrows to hide his nose. He has a very
round face, with almost no chin, but it curves into his chest. Now the white of
his eyes are gone.

“He is a thundercloud, Hayden.”

“Yes, well…” Hayden doesn’t turn to look at the
detective. Maybe he already knows.

Detective Graves looks for a place to set the
water. It takes a minute before he finds a coaster.

“Thank you for your time.” The detective dismisses
us both.

When Hayden stands to walk with him, I feel weak.
I want to rise and follow, but find myself staring at ripples in the glass of
water made by their retreating steps. The detective must be stomping.

When the door downstairs closes louder than
necessary, I’m finally able to stand. I walk to the window in the kitchen, over
the garage.

“You think your relationship is ethical?” I can’t
hear Hayden’s voice, but the detective flings his composure with his flailing
hands. “Sorry, not a credible witness, not even a stable mind.”

Hayden has one hand on his hip and the other wipes
from his forehead to his crown.

Detective Graves seems to relax and puts a hand on
Hayden’s shoulder. There is a familiarity of friendship. “As your brother in
Christ…”

Hayden shakes his head.

“You can’t save Sabine.” Detective Graves puts his
hand up like a traffic cop.

“That’s not what this is about,” Hayden says
something in Spanish and crosses his arms.

Detective Graves looks away and says, “Isn’t it?” I
can’t hear how he finishes, so I move the curtain. The detective’s dark eyes
shine in my direction. Again, I’m caught, unable to look away from his stare.

“Hayden.” He pretends his words are for Hayden
while he stares at me. “You’ll lose credibility, maybe even your job. And if
you continue to gallivant around with a stripper, you can remove my reference
and you’ll never get hired with Reno P.D. I won’t stick my neck out for a
professing Christian who dates hookers.”

My head spins and I can’t distinguish Hayden’s
reply. I have to use the kitchen counter for support as I step back. I thought
Hayden was my light, but the curse follows. It taints everything I touch, everyone
who touches me.

Adrenaline is a good thing, if you know how to use
it. I intend to master this strange body function. When my heart races and my
hands shake, I breathe. Slow and steady. Counting my steps helps, too. The
front door slams.

With my backpack slung over my shoulder and my new
bag in my other hand, I peek out the living room. There’s a beep in the kitchen;
maybe Hayden reheats the coffee we didn’t drink. There won’t be any breakfast
for us. Water rushes from the faucet in the kitchen.

I take the stairs two at a time.   

The sidewalk is bright under today’s sun. There
was a park on the way into the subdivision. Fortunately, I paid attention yesterday.
Two days ago, I wouldn’t have. Now I have Hayden to thank for that. At the park,
I rest on a green bench, sitting on my new bag. My face tingles from pleasure
as I face the sun. I would be content to live outside, in a park, if only it
would never turn dark. This is so rejuvenating from the Detective Graves
ordeal. Why do I have these panic attacks?

Would Thom be able to come and get me? Probably
not, even if I could find a way to call him. When I was a child, there were
still payphones at parks. Not anymore.

It only takes a few minutes—of course, I have no
idea what time it is—before I’m uncomfortably warm. Really, the mid-seventies
is an ideal temperature, but the weight of my luggage and backpack combined
with the sun makes me think about the last time I had water. It was before I
went to bed. Okay, so I’ll add to my list today: an apartment, a cell phone, a
watch and a water bottle. I’m not sure how far my money will go, since I have never
had this much to spend before. But I do have a little over sixteen-hundred,
counting the six-hundred and thirty-three dollars left from the two weekends I
actually danced.

A couple of Mexicans sit on the hood of a rusty El
Camino. They recline as they eat. The one with a buzz cut unlaces mud-caked
boots and slides them from his feet. The other stretches out and uses a bunched
sweatshirt for a pillow.

The homes surrounding this park have see-through, black
wrought iron fences. It gives the illusion of a communal yard. I can’t imagine living
in a place so grassy, where I could step out of my clean back yard into such a
wide-open, inviting place. Red and blue playground equipment is in the center
of an area filled with bark and a little pool of dirty water waits at the
bottom of the tallest tunnel slide. There are two baby swings and two regular ones;
one of them calls to me. I loved the swing set at my school in Oklahoma. Back
when all I had to worry about was staying out of my dad’s way if he was in a
mood.

Hayden’s truck. I don’t have time to swing today.

My first thought is that he’s come for me. Then I
wonder if he is just leaving the subdivision. I slide down next to my bag and
stretch across the bench. If he sees me, he might be obligated to stop.
Something about his religion makes him want to fix me, but the Joneses and that
detective are right. What possible fellowship can we have? I’m cursed and there
is nothing his church can do about that. I don’t want the detective to think of
me as a hooker, but I won’t give up the one chance I have to provide for my own
freedom. If I’m Kino and freedom is my pearl, then Hayden’s religion is the
villagers.

The unmistakable motor settles to a smooth rumble
as Hayden coasts through the parking lot. I’m afraid he’ll park and come look
for me, afraid he won’t. The motors growls away. I sit high enough to watch the
taillights, framed in purple, leave and turn left back into the subdivision.