Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  I can feel him smiling at me.

  “Haven’t we had this conversation before?” He caps his pen and sets it and the legal pad on the table beside him. “Whether he did it or not, my job is to defend him to the best of my ability and see that he gets a fair trial. But in this case, I will tell you that I believe he is a young man who has been falsely accused. At this point, we have to trust that the jury will see it that way, too.”

  My dad. Defender of some of the worst criminals on the planet. His commitment to justice and due process is something I’ve admired all my life. It’s corny, but I’ve always thought of him as a modern-day Atticus Finch.

  But tonight I’m tired, and the old, familiar grief comes at me like a runaway train. The way my father reads people is kind of scary. He told me once that he could hear what people were thinking in the silent spaces between their spoken words. That he could tell what someone was feeling just by looking into their eyes.

  So I wonder, as I have so many times since I was small, why he couldn’t see the terror in my eyes. Why he couldn’t defend me, the way he defends his bad guys now. But it doesn’t bear thinking about for long. It’s too late. What’s done is done.

  We’re quiet for a while, waiting for the fireflies to light their way into the darkness. Even after so many nights with my father on this porch, I still think fireflies are beautiful. They never get old.

  “Here,” I say. “I came out to give you these.” I stand up and tuck a spare pair of reading glasses into the neck of his shirt. “For when you lose the ones you’re wearing.”

  “Thanks, pumpkin. You are a prince among daughters.”

  “Yes, I am. And now I’m going to bed. I’m wiped out.”

  “It’s exhausting work, being Queen of the Swans.”

  I bend down to hug my father good night, breathing in the familiar smell of bay rum and freshly mown grass and the red wine he had with dinner. “I love you to pieces, sweet girl.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  Pausing with my hand on the screen door, I say softly, “You know, Daddy, you don’t have to work all the time. I know you’re in the middle of a trial and everything, but it’s nice when you’re home. I miss having you around.”

  “I know, sweetheart, and I’m trying. I don’t want to work so much, but I always end up, you know, working so much. Keep calling me out on it, would you please? I’d appreciate the reminders. You know how we old farts are. Can’t remember a damn thing.”

  “That will never happen to you. Good night, Daddy.”

  “Good night, pumpkin. Angels all around you.”

  * * *

  I wake at three twenty, twisted in sweaty sheets, shaking so hard my teeth are chattering. I stuff my pillow in my mouth so I won’t scream, so Sophie won’t hear me crying. Another nightmare. I try to forget, but all I can do is remember.

  I am in the White Swan costume—white tutu, feathered headdress, jeweled tiara—dancing on the rock at the Honeysuckle Pond. My mother is near the waterfall, standing in front of an easel. Her sleeveless white shirt sparkles with rubies. She is painting Aubrey, whose pale face is just barely above the water, her skirts billowed around her. Her eyes are wide and frightened, her lips blue with cold. Instead of arms, my mother has given Aubrey great white wings.

  As I watch, unable to move, my mother turns slowly to me and smiles, her dark red lips stretching across her face, wide, wide, too wide. She blows me a kiss, and the rubies on her shirt rise into the air and turn into drops of blood. They land on my white tutu and run in rivulets down my arms and face.

  When I look up, horrified, black feathers drift from my mother’s raven hair, floating gently over the water and swirling in the pool beneath the waterfall until they disappear.

  I pull the sheets from around my legs and slip out of bed, lighting the candle I keep on my nightstand. I focus on breathing deeply, watch the candle flickering in the dark. The flame calms and centers me. In my bare feet, I do my fouettés, the fiendishly difficult whiplash turns I’ve been trying to perfect for months, propelling myself around and around with a raised leg that never touches the ground. I focus on not traveling, staying in one spot, but because I’m barefoot and not en pointe, the foot on the floor begins to burn. I manage twenty-six before I stop, breathless and sweating. But it worked. The nightmare is starting to fade. I dry my face with my pajama sleeve and crawl back into bed.

  Just before I fall asleep, I hear Sophie’s voice in my head.

  It’s okay to walk away just because you want to. You don’t have to have a reason.

  Oh God, I can’t leave him. I love him, for a million reasons. The way he’s so tender with me, draping his coat over my shoulders when I’m cold, pulling out my chair when we go out to dinner, opening my car door like some courtly, old-school gentleman. The way he holds me so gently in his arms when he knows I’ve had a bad day, the way he makes me feel safe and beloved and precious to him. I love him for how sorry he is when we fight, when he hurts me, the way he cries and cries and tells me he doesn’t deserve me. How fiercely he promises never to hurt me again.

  Oh God, I can’t leave him. Can I?

  8

  Last Saturday in August

  “Tristan, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh-oh. Never a good thing.”

  I force a laugh. “No, seriously, I need to talk to you about something.”

  My voice is shaky, and I almost tell him to turn the car around, that I don’t want to go to Vittorio’s for pizza or the jazz concert on the town square. I almost tell him that I don’t feel well, that I have a miserable headache. Anything to get me back to the warmth and safety of my house, where my father is busy losing his glasses and staining his shirts with fountain pen ink, and Sophie is in her attic studio, working on the stained-glass seascape she started last week.

  I hold my hands tightly together and take a deep breath. Fear not. He’s my boyfriend. He loves me. He hates fighting. He’s ashamed of his temper. He promised he would never, ever hurt me again.

  “I know what it is. You want my smokin’ body, right? Tell the truth.” He smiles at me, almost too gorgeous to look at in his white T-shirt and gray Hollister shorts. He’s in such a good mood, and that sweet crooked smile always makes me a little weak in the knees, even with his chipped bottom tooth. Maybe especially because of that tiny imperfection. I know the story, how his father made him play catch in the front yard when all Tristan wanted to do was go swimming with his friends, how the baseball caught him in the mouth, splitting his lip and chipping that tooth. He told everybody he got it playing football, but when I asked why he never got it fixed, he told me the truth. He kept it to remind himself never to defy his dad. It broke my heart.

  He smiles again, and I almost lose my nerve.

  “Well, no. I mean, yes, but it’s something else.”

  He turns to me, a puzzled look on his face. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “I was thinking maybe we need to take a break.”

  He punches on the stereo, finds Chemical Autopsy on his phone, and the air fills with the sound of death metal. We turn onto Main Street, where the traffic is heavy. People are jockeying to find parking spaces and walking the six blocks toward the gazebo, armed with picnic baskets and blankets, strollers and lawn chairs. Tristan leans on the horn and guns the engine.

  “A break? What are you talking about, Savannah?”

  “I think it might be good if we took a breather. From each other. Just for a little while. School is starting soon, and I’m taking four AP classes. Ballet is getting more intense every day, and you’ve already started training for track. You have all those college essays to write. We’re both so busy right now, and it’s only going to get worse.”

  I’m talking too fast. I try to slow myself down. Count the streetlights. Count the mailboxes. Count the seconds until he speaks again. I look at him out of the corner of my eye and see the muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. He’s so handsome, beautiful, really, but now he
’s gone cold. He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, harder and harder, in time to the music. When he turns to look at me, there’s nothing but anger in his eyes.

  “What you’re really saying is you want to be with someone else, am I right? Who is it, Savannah? Your ballerina boyfriend? I’ve seen the way you love to crawl all over him. Twice now, actually. What is it with him? Is there something you’re trying to tell me here?”

  “Tristan,” I say, my voice high and thin. “It’s nothing like that. I keep telling you there’s no one else. I just need more time to focus on dancing and school. And I want you to be able to focus on your life, too. We’ve been so intense for the last five months, and I think it would be good for us to just, you know, cool things down for a while.”

  “You want to cool things down?”

  “Yes, I do. Just for a while, not forever.”

  “You’re breaking up with me, you lying little tramp.”

  “No!” I cry, gripping the armrest. The tires squeal as he makes a sharp turn down an alley, away from all the traffic. Away from all the people. “I’m not breaking up with you, Tristan, I swear!”

  He grabs my phone, opens his window, and throws it hard. I hear it bang against a metal trash can. Then he floors the gas.

  “Tristan! Stop! I need my phone!”

  “No, you don’t.”

  We turn onto Jefferson Drive, flying past Vittorio’s and a row of tiny shops with blue twinkle lights in their windows. “Wait! Aren’t we going to dinner?”

  “Shut up. I’m sick of the sound of your voice.”

  I feel the rage boiling out of his pores, incandescent and dangerous.

  “Savannah,” he says quietly. “You want a break?”

  I don’t answer.

  “That is never going to happen. Ever.”

  He turns the music up so loud that I feel the percussion in my stomach, the growling vocals at the back of my throat.

  My phone is gone. I’m all alone. My breaths are coming too fast, ragged and shallow. I can’t get enough air, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. Count the houses. Count the streetlights. Count the minutes until Tristan turns back into the boy I love.

  He’s grinding his teeth now, fuming as he races down the quiet streets faster and faster, until we’re squealing around the curves, running red lights and stop signs. I look out the window at the pavement rushing by and wonder how messed up I’d get if I jumped out.

  We tear through another red light. Cars skid to avoid us. Drivers lean on their horns.

  The muscle in his jaw is clenched, like stone beneath his skin. Sweat is beading at his temple, and he’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I can’t believe it hasn’t broken into pieces.

  He reaches to turn down the music and says incredulously, “Did you really think I’d let you walk away from me? That I would ever let you be with someone else?”

  “Oh God, Tristan, please, please look at the road. I don’t want to be with anyone else. I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you’d get so upset. Please turn around, and we can talk!”

  He reaches out and grabs my hair. Twisting it around his fist, he jerks my head back. “It’s too late for talking, Savannah. Way too late.” My eyes fill with tears, but I don’t dare let them spill.

  When he speaks, his voice is tight and controlled, all coiled up on itself like a rattlesnake. “I am so sick of you putting me last in your pathetic little life. Who do you think you are, telling me how things are going to be?”

  I focus on blinking the tears back into my eyes. I try to calm myself with thoughts of Sophie, her long red curls and dangly earrings, the smile that lights her up from the inside. I think of my father, his legal pads, his lame jokes, his wavy dark hair threaded with silver. They’re waiting for me at home, probably having a glass of wine together before dinner.

  “Look, Tristan, I’m sorry. I was stupid. I thought maybe we were getting too intense, but I made a mistake. I was wrong, okay? I don’t want anyone but you. Forget I said anything. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “Liar,” he says. He pulls my hair harder, banging my head back against the seat, over and over again, sounding another ominous drumbeat inside the speeding car.

  The streets are deserted. Where are all the old couples out walking their dogs, the cranky ones who would recognize Tristan’s car and call the police to rat him out for speeding? Where are the actual police, who are always everywhere on summer nights, hoping for a little mischief to relieve the boredom?

  “It’s not over until I say it’s over, Savannah. I’m the one who makes that decision, not you.”

  “Tristan, please let go of me! I’m not breaking up with you, I promise!”

  We’re going at least seventy-five now, flying away from everything that’s safe, headed toward the outskirts of town. All the warm, golden porch lights disappear behind us. When we jounce across the railroad tracks, I bite my tongue and taste blood. The engine roars and roars, like some huge and starving beast.

  Past the feed store and the lumberyard, past the Methodist church, where the cheesy sign for the last two weeks has been God Always Answers Knee-Mail. Tristan veers sharply onto Sweetbriar Road, tires shrieking, then fishtails crazily onto the ramp that leads to the Blue Ridge Parkway.

  He hasn’t let go of my hair, and I put my hands on the sides of my head, trying to ease the pain. I start praying softly, under my breath, something I haven’t done since I was little.

  In you, O Lord, I have taken refuge,

  Let me never be put to shame.

  In your righteousness deliver me.

  Incline your ear to me;

  Rescue me quickly.

  Be a rock of refuge for me,

  A strong fortress to save me.

  But there’s no answer, nothing but the dusky night closing all around us, the cold moon and indifferent stars, the lights of Hollins Creek far below us, growing fainter as we climb, until everything goes dark.

  “Tristan,” I sob. “Please, please don’t be like this. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have upset you, I know that. I take it all back. Please let’s go home. We can sit on the porch swing and talk, like we used to. Please turn around. I love you. I’ll do whatever you want me to do, whatever it will take for you to stop being mad at me.”

  “You don’t love me,” he snarls. “You don’t love anyone but yourself.”

  He swerves sharply onto the shoulder of the road and slams the brakes. Gravel sprays into the grass. Even in the dark, I know where we are. A few feet beyond my door is the head of the trail that leads to the Honeysuckle Pond.

  Tristan finally lets me go. Long strands of hair are stuck to his fingers. In small, quiet movements, I rub my temples and the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, Tristan,” I say softly, not looking at him. “I’m sorry I’ve made you so angry. Tell me what I can do to make it right. I’ll do anything. Just, please, let’s go home.”

  He’s silent, staring out the windshield, breathing hard through his nose, the blue vein in his temple throbbing, as though there’s something alive crawling under his skin. He cuts the engine, and we’re plunged into thick, suffocating darkness. Suddenly he grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze, squeezing so hard there are bound to be bruises.

  “Did you honestly believe I’d let you break up with me? If you won’t be with me, Savannah, then I’ll make damn sure you won’t be with anyone.”

  He hauls himself out of the car, wrenches my door open, and pulls me into the night. I try to breathe deeply, forcing the sweet mountain air into my lungs. I try to gather my strength. I hear the raspy song of cicadas, the soft whisper of the wind high in the trees, the sharp snap of twigs beneath my stumbling feet. Tristan’s hand on my arm is like a vise. I trip and fall to my knees, but he doesn’t let me get up, dragging me over roots and sharp rocks until I cry out. Finally he jerks me roughly to my feet. I struggle to keep up with his long, angry strides.

  “Tristan, please. Please!” I cry. “We can work thi
s out. Just talk to me!”

  “Walk. Shut up and walk.”

  There is a desert in his voice, parched and empty.

  I smell honeysuckle and cold creek water. I hear the waterfall, see the white birch trees shimmering in the pale moonlight, the flat rock in the middle of the creek, where I told him about Aubrey. The place where he first kissed me, where he told me we belonged to each other.

  It’s almost a relief when he hits me.

  Everything comes back to me, all of it. I remember to tighten my body so I won’t fall, how to pull up, just like in ballet, every muscle taut and prepared. I know how to protect my face, where to hold my arms to keep the first, the strongest blows from reaching the softest parts of my body.

  But I’m weak and out of practice. I’ve forgotten how much it hurts, how the pain takes me out of my head until I can’t think at all, every muscle, every bone, eyes and mouth, blood, brain and sinew bracing for the next blow, which always, always comes. His fists, his curses raining down on me. How much he loved me. How I’ve betrayed and disappointed him, over and over again. He is only giving me what I’ve asked for. I don’t deserve it, but he is willing to teach me one last lesson, one I’ll never forget. I have no one to blame but myself. I’ve forced him to do this. I shouldn’t have made him angry. It’s all my fault. The old prayer slips into my mind, and I try to speak the words. So he will hear. So he will stop.

  Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

  Half a moon, silver bright, diamond stars glittering on a black velvet sky, cool wet leaves like a pillow under my cheek.

  The earth tilts beneath me.

  My hand falls into the rushing water, blood spooling out from my fingers, dark ribbons in the moonlit stream. The stars flare and disappear.

  I float away on a sea of mercies.

  Paper snow falling on my upturned face, slow pirouettes in white chiffon. Lucas lifting me soaring above the stage, my arms arched like a cathedral window.

  I love you, Daddy.

  I love you, Sophie.