All of Us with Wings

by Michelle Ruiz Keil

  After the revolution of last night’s perfect kiss, Xochi expected some equal and opposite aftermath, but the kitchen was the same as ever, with newspaper strewn across the long yellow table and coffee bubbling in the pot.

  Pallas banged in through the back door. “Good morning, mole rat,” she said, pulling Xochi out to the patio. “You look tired. Did you drink?”

  “No.” Xochi blinked in the innocent sunshine. “Of course not.” Pallas passed Xochi her heart-shaped sunglasses. Ah. Xochi rubbed her temples. Much better. All night, her thoughts had spun round and round, replaying the scene on the balcony. By sunrise, the bed was spinning, too.

  “Last time you were this squinty, Bubbles had you out drinking all night,” Pallas said, collapsing into the wicker chair next to Xochi’s.

  “Who was drinking all night?” Leviticus emerged from somewhere in the garden. Xochi’s mind bloomed with pornographic images.

  “Xochi.” Pallas threw her legs over the side of the chair, admiring her newly pastel toenails.

  “I wasn’t!” Xochi said.

  “She has days off, you know,” Pallas said. “They corrupted her while you were away.”

  “Did they?” Leviticus rested his hands on the back of Xochi’s chair. She longed to move her head against his hand like an attention-seeking cat. Inappropriate, her inner governess snapped. This had to stop. Pallas was right here.

  “Did you have coffee?” His voice was low, just for her. She shook her head. When he went inside it was easier to think.

  Last night on the balcony, a philosophy formed around desire had made perfect sense. In the moment, kissing Leviticus felt a hundred percent right. Now, in the too-bright morning, Xochi could see she was a hundred percent fucked. Even so, she had to smile. I kissed him, she thought. There was an undeniable satisfaction in taking charge.

  “Here you go,” he said, like it was any normal day. He managed to pass the cup without touching her, but his hands were shaking. He was nervous, too, then. How did people live like this? How did anyone manage to work, go to school, bathe? Xochi’d spent half an hour in the shower and hadn’t managed to wash her hair before the water went cold, distracted by the showerhead’s other powers. Not that it helped.

  And there was Pallas, so happy that her dad was home.

  Xochi was a traitor. Selfish. Just like Gina after all.

  “What are you thinking about?” Pallas asked. Xochi’d read somewhere that pubescent girls were unusually intuitive. Hopefully that was a bunch of new-age crap.

  “World peace,” Xochi said. “Pizza.” Pallas rolled her eyes.

  Peasblossom appeared from somewhere in the yard and rubbed against Xochi’s ankles. “You’re here again?” She ran her hand along the cat’s back.

  “He showed up a little bit ago,” Pallas said. “Meowing for cream. My dad is such a pushover.”

  “He was hungry!” Leviticus said. Pallas snorted.

  “Hey,” Kylen shouted from the lawn. “Lev! Come over here, man.”

  “Duty calls,” Leviticus said, standing up.

  What was going on in the garden? Kylen was not only outside in the sunlight, he was dressed for martial arts with loose pants and a kimono-style shirt. Pad was beside him in plaid pajama bottoms, a hoodie half zipped over his bare chest. Leviticus was wearing sweats and a faded Cocteau Twins shirt. They were all barefoot, which on Leviticus was somehow unbearably sexy.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Ass-kicking practice,” Pallas said. “They think I need to learn self-defense. Because I’m, like, turning thirteen soon and becoming a woman.” Her eye roll was epic. “According to my dad and Ky, every woman should know at least ten ways to incapacitate an enemy.” Pallas adjusted the strap of the leotard she wore under a loose Indian print tunic. “Hence: ass-kicking practice. Kylen is a black belt.”

  “Of course he is,” Xochi said.

  “Come on, kid,” Kylen called. “Right here by your dad.”

  Your dad. Side by side, Pallas and Leviticus looked so much alike with their strong brows and high cheekbones. She kept her eyes on Pallas as Ky led the group through some warm-up exercises and basic holds.

  “You need to get in tune with your fierceness,” Leviticus told Pallas. “I know it’s there, kid. I have the scars to prove it.”

  “I was three,” Pallas said. “Completely uncivilized, thanks to you people and your lax parenting.”

  “Maybe you’ve gone too far in the other direction.” Leviticus tugged on her ponytail. “Ever think of that?”

  Seeing them together helped. Leviticus was Pallas’s father. Her father. Xochi’s boss. Fuck free love. This was a bad idea. The very worst.

  The screen door slammed. Kiki and Io came out to the patio to recline on twin chaises in the sun. Peasblossom leaped up to curl at Io’s feet. If Xochi could paint, she’d want to paint Io, lying there with the cat in the sun.

  Xochi sat on the sidelines as Pallas drilled with her dad, but every time she was supposed to escape from a hold, she giggled and went limp. Kylen put a hand on Pallas’s shoulder and told her to stop. “Yo, Xochi,” he called, “how hungover are you?”

  “I’m not,” Xochi said. Kylen squinted at her from across the yard. “I’m not!”

  “Fine,” he said. “C’mere.” No politeness, no “please.” She was too tired to argue. She drained her coffee and did as she was told.

  “Were you watching the hold I taught her?” Xochi nodded. Ky leaned closer. “Model focus,” he whispered. “And don’t take any shit.”

  “Okay.” Xochi handed Pallas her sunglasses.

  “Shoes, too,” Kylen said. “You could hurt somebody with those things. What size are they, anyway?”

  Xochi rolled her eyes. Yes, her feet were big. His tone was teasing, at least. She took off her sneakers and socks. The grass was springy and sun warmed under her feet.

  Xochi stood with one foot forward, one planted behind her. In the move Kylen had been teaching Leviticus and Pallas, the attacker grabbed the victim’s wrist. Xochi held out her arm for Ky.

  “What are you doing?” Kylen said. “Make me earn it.”

  Xochi started again, arms at her sides. Kylen grabbed her wrist and Xochi pivoted, the move he’d shown Pallas, but instead of moving in, Ky just stood there with a weird look on his face, her wrist trapped in his surprisingly strong hand.

  Kylen knows things, she remembered Pallas saying. All he has to do is touch you.

  Xochi faltered. She willed herself to think of anything but Leviticus’s mouth, his hands, the balcony, moonlight. “What?” she asked snatching her wrist back.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” Kylen’s voice was normal, but his eyes told a different story. Xochi stepped back a foot, hopefully out of laser range.

  Leviticus sprang up from his spot on the lawn. “Anyone want more coffee?” The look on his face confirmed it: Kylen knew.

  “Xochi?” Kylen said, with a scary raise of his perfectly sculpted brows. “Can Leviticus get you something from the kitchen?”

  She made herself meet his eyes. “No, thanks,” she said. “We’re doing this now, right? To show Pallas.”

  “Sure we are,” Kylen said. “Get in position.” His voice was cold. He gripped her wrist again, harder this time. They went through the hold till she got it right.

  The moves got more complicated. Several times, Xochi landed on her ass, but she got better with each repetition. In the end, they both were panting.

  Kylen turned away to drink some water. Xochi sat on the lawn, putting her shoes back on. She was hungry. Pizza. Two huge cheese slices and a large Cherry Coke. In a neighborhood far, far away from here. She would eat and think. She’d figure this out.

  “If you’re done, you have to bow to her,” Pallas said. “You told me that’s the rule.”

  Kylen turned and extended
a hand to help Xochi rise. Xochi ignored it and got up on her own. Facing her formally, Kylen bowed, all politeness. Xochi mirrored him. “I’m done,” he said to Pallas, “but she’s not. We have to give her a test.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Xochi hated the squeak in her voice.

  “It’s one thing to know the forms,” he said. “It’s another to use them when you’re not expecting it. So . . . how about this. Xochi, bend down to tie your shoe. Lev, you come up behind her and let her have it.” Kylen looked slowly from Xochi to Leviticus with a mean, toothy smile. “We’ll watch her, Pal, and see if she makes any mistakes.”

  Mistakes? Xochi’d already made a colossal one, and Kylen wasn’t about to let her forget it. She turned to Leviticus. His eyes were wide. She glanced at Kiki and Io. They were reading magazines, seemingly oblivious.

  “Can’t we do this another time?” Xochi said.

  “No time like the present,” Kylen said. “Right, Pal?”

  “If Xochi’s tired . . .” Pallas said. “Not that she can’t take my dad, because I bet she can.”

  Pallas was so sweet. This was about her, no one else. And Leviticus and Kylen were right—Pallas needed to learn to stick up for herself. Especially if she ever went back to school.

  “No,” Xochi said. “Let’s do it.” She bent down to tie her shoe, waiting for Leviticus to grab her. She both dreaded it and longed for it. Shit.

  Where was he, anyway? Xochi tied and retied her shoelace.

  “Lev, wake up!” Kylen said in an irritating singsong. At least in this position, no one could see Xochi’s face. Her mind wandered. No—not to last night. She replayed scenes from Wings of Desire. Trapeze flights, library angels.

  Hard hands gripped her arms, and just like that, Xochi was gone.

  Sister runs the forest

  Pacing a five-point buck.

  Man-shaped, a horror looms

  Grasping hands trap her

  Black-beaked fury rises

  Swan-crowned Medusa

  Bite! Beat! Fight!

  Buck legs falter, antlers fall to loam.

  Skin slips, pelt to Brother

  Calls his sister home

  The forest breathes, in and out

  Wingless, Sister shakes

  Feathers fly to down

  Moth-pale, she greens

  succulent to fern

  Fern to clover, as green as

  The grass beneath

  Xochi’s feet.

  Xochi blinked, silent in the acid light of the open yard, unclenching her balled fists.

  Pad was on his knees at her feet, doubled over in pain.

  Pad, not Leviticus.

  It took her a moment to understand what happened.

  “Oh my god! Pad, I’m so sorry!”

  “Just a flesh wound,” Pad said, giving his best Monty Python impression. “Who knew you were such a badass?”

  “Me,” Pallas said.

  “And me,” Kiki called.

  “I knew,” Leviticus said. “Why do you think I choked?”

  Kylen stared at Xochi. She found it easy to meet his eyes now. There was a new expression there. Not respect. Was it fear? “Where’d you learn to fight like that?” His voice was quiet, finding Xochi’s ear alone.

  “You tell me,” Xochi said. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be psychic.” Did her voice have an underwater quality, or was it just her hearing?

  “Have some water,” Pallas said. “Are you all right?”

  “Just hungry,” Xochi said. “Okay if I take a walk and get some food?” Asking Pallas for permission seemed suddenly strange.

  “Duh. My dad brought presents from LA,” Pallas said. “See you later?”

  “Have fun,” Xochi said.

  “Xochi . . .” It was Leviticus again, his hand on her arm, but Xochi shrugged him off and kept on walking out of the yard and down the driveway and into the street.

  29

  The Hanging Garden

  Wind rattled the needles of the sentinel pines as the gate clanged shut behind Xochi. The scents of cedar and sulfur blew into the garden, a sudden gust. Peasblossom leaped to the top of the picnic table, scanning the treetops in the neighboring yards. As he suspected, only Pallas’s garden was affected.

  The cat reviewed the past five minutes: Xochi’s sudden familiarity with the fighting ballet of a Siamese cat, Pallas’s family seemingly unaware of the charge in the air and the unlikeliness of Xochi’s sudden mastery, the circling crows cawing overhead, now two dozen or more.

  Peasblossom dropped to the lawn. Sinking his claws into the ground, he felt the tension of the trees, anticipation in their thick-sapped veins—the hawthorn waking from its century’s drowse, the lilacs tittering behind their buds, the palms hissing for heat and blood.

  Xochi’s newfound capacity for violence hinted at the Waterbabies’ strength and reach. The cat ran to Pallas’s side, but she appeared to be unaffected. Her scent was normal. No forest perfume, no feral mark. Only excitement at her governess’s triumph.

  Peasblossom twitched, his pelt suddenly tight. Xochi’s performance had been deeply strange, as was the family’s reaction. He recalled the narcotic mist the morning of the Waterbabies’ arrival. The Hag had been right. These were powerful beings from a younger world with motives the cat couldn’t guess at.

  A crow landed beside a faded garden gnome—an elder, judging by her feathers—with a great glossy beak. Head cocked toward the garden gate, she gave the cat a meaningful look before taking flight in that direction. Her fellows followed, midnight silk in the pale blue sky.

  Peasblossom meowed his frustration. After today’s performance, it seemed clear that Xochi was the sole focus of the Waterbabies’ attention. Even so, Pallas was involved and possibly in danger. Xochi had not been in control of herself during her exhibition. Her eyes had been closed, her breathing slow, as if she were at rest instead of moving with swift and deadly precision. Pad was lucky he hadn’t been seriously hurt.

  No, there was no getting around this. The image from the koi pond of the drowning man and the crying woman made no more sense than they had before, but Peasblossom was sure they were connected to Xochi. The wind was wailing, the crows were involved, the trees were interested. A breeze blew in from the sea, salted with anticipation. Something was happening. Something was coming.

  Peasblossom slipped out of the garden. He was a cat, after all. Curiosity always won.

  30

  Tangled up in Blue

  Xochi walked, her vision tunneled. She remembered it now—Pad and the garden—but in a removed, omniscient way, like watching TV through a wavy glass window in a dream.

  It was crazy, the way she’d lost control. She’d never hit anyone in her life. Not when playground kids chanted that horrible racist rhyme: Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these—pulling their shirts away from their flat chests in a parody of breasts. Not when a girl pushed her down in middle school for some imagined infraction or when a gang of boys chased her with a Screw magazine and forced her to look at the centerfold. And when things were at their worst in Badger Creek, when she’d really needed some superhero moves, Xochi had been as lifeless as a wax dummy in the museum at Fisherman’s Wharf.

  Then there was the green girl and her brother. Your dreams are a treasure map, Loretta always said. When you learn that internal alphabet, you can finally steer your own ship.

  What was Xochi’s internal alphabet? There were the two children now, always connected, never alone. That was pretty obvious. Eris Gardens was webbed with the wordless bonds between people, a history Xochi would never share. The little siblings were company, a fairy-tale family that was hers alone. The forest was a symbol of lost memory, spirituality, childhood. Once upon a time, two children walked hand in hand into a dark wood . . .

  But what about th
e fighting? That hadn’t been a dream, especially if you asked poor Pad. For the first time, the dream-reality boundary felt breached. Every day, Xochi saw people on the street who lived between two worlds, talking to people no one else could see. Before today, those dreams had seemed harmless. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  She felt for the rectangle of the cigarette box in her pocket. She knew the contents without looking: empty except for two butts. One hers, one his. And no lighter. Was it lying there on the balcony? Or had it ended up in Leviticus’s pocket? Xochi imagined herself in the small dark space beside the lighter, a sleeping Thumbelina waiting for the brush of his hand.

  She sighed. She was a mess. There was a word for this, a Xochi and Gina word she hadn’t thought of in months. Regressed—a term her mom picked up from her childhood bouts with social workers and used when she and Xochi played hooky and stayed in their pajamas all day watching cartoons together like a pair of six-year-old truants. Oppositional defiant was another, reserved for the few times Xochi took a stand and refused to do something Gina wanted. Mostly, they’d been a team. Right up until they weren’t.

  Xochi stopped to get her bearings. She was crossing Van Ness, heading toward the Tenderloin. It didn’t matter where she went, walking always did her good. She would find a corner store and buy cloves and a lighter. Then she would find a coffee shop, order herself a double espresso. She would knock the sludge from her brain with caffeine and nicotine. She would figure this out. She unzipped her jacket and walked faster, slitting her eyes against the wind.

  Peasblossom hadn’t visited the Tenderloin in years. Now, trotting along after Xochi, he found its smoggy piss-rich scent instantly familiar. His first memories post-milk and post-mother had been made just a few blocks away in a shabby art deco building on the corner of Eddy and Taylor.

  Peasblossom had no memory of his cat family. He’d been taken away too soon. At first he was all pelt and stomach, longing for touch as much as nourishment.

  He knew the men by their heartbeats first. Ron’s was loud and steady as he bustled around the apartment in predictable patterns of morning, noon, and night, while Eugene’s rippled songs of lost keys and late auditions at all hours, filling the house with excitement.