The Dragon's Playlist

by Laura Bickle

  “You think?”

  “Oh, they do lip service to miner safety. One of them even showed up on my front doorstep, trying to get me to go to a rally after your dad got hurt. Wanting names and details for their forms and petitions. But they think we’re a bunch of ignorant fools that can’t think for ourselves.” There was heat in his voice. “It’s not like some of us have a choice.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do with that heat. It was too much like anger, and I hadn’t known him to be an angry man. “You love the land. You’re actually the greenest guy I know.”

  He snorted. “Yeah. Well, I’m a pragmatist. A pragmatist who’s gotta eat.”

  “Why Sawtooth Mountain?”

  “It used to be state land, but the state’s letting us mine there. As long as it’s put back together the way we found it. I mean, that’s why it’s being shaft-mined and not strip-mined. Even though that’s more dangerous to us, and we’ve been trying to get a permit to blast-mine it.”

  I pivoted in the tire swing, listening, weighing what he said.

  “There’s got to be some middle road, some way that will serve both man and nature. And, to me, shaft mining that mountain is it. But that’s not the way the greenies see it. They’re all freaked out about iron in the water.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  He shrugged. “Probably not any more dangerous than anything else around here.”

  From overhead, a whoo-whoo-who-whooo sounded. I grinned, looked up. I couldn’t see the owl in the tree, but I heard him.

  “Looks like you’ve got a challenger,” I whispered.

  Jason called back, and the owl answered with a more elaborate canon. “He’s all annoyed that I’m in his territory.”

  Something fluttered in the darkness overhead. “There he is... Hey...your tree looks a bit crispy. Like lightning got it.”

  “I don’t think it was lightning. Some kind of meteor. It fell that way.” I jabbed a thumb due east.

  “Can you show me?” he asked, and there was a glimmer of excitement in his voice.

  We walked east, still calling the aggravated owl. A second owl joined in on the fun, and Jason fell silent to let the big birds work it out among themselves. He was always careful to let the real owl have the last word, not to drive a legitimate owl from his territory.

  As we crossed the creek bed and stepped out into the field, they were still chattering back and forth. I wished I’d brought a flashlight, since it took me a bit to find the site in the dark. I led him to the obsidian blistering in the glass, like bits of broken night. “Here.”

  “Weird.” He crouched down to pick up a piece. “I’d love to get the geologist at work to look at this...”

  I squatted beside him. “There’s sandstone here. Do you think it melted to become obsidian?”

  “I dunno. But I’ll ask.”

  Suddenly, the owls abandoned their conversation. As one, we turned toward the woods. A sudden wind stirred the treetops, stirring them in a circular pattern I’d only seen during tornado warnings. The crickets and cicadas fell silent. The only sound was the wind rushing through the trees. Dust and hair blew into my mouth.

  Jason’s arm fell over my shoulders, to protect me from this squall. I followed his lead and crouched close to the ground. A gust of wind flattened us to the dirt.

  When I squinted up, there were no clouds. Only a broad and terrible blackness that blotted out the stars.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE DUST BURNED MY EYES. I rolled over onto my back and shoved Jason in the shoulder. I pointed up.

  He shaded his eyes from the dust to watch the shadow move across the sky. It moved fluidly, like an ink spot in water. I couldn’t make out the edges, only see the stars as they were sucked in and spat out again. It swept across to the far horizon, taking the wind and silence with it.

  We lay in the dirt until a cricket chirped.

  “I think...that’s what I saw before,” I breathed. But this wasn’t a bright star flung to earth; it was a solid darkness.

  Jason crawled to his feet, then offered me a hand up. I rubbed bits of black glass from my palms before taking it.

  “C’mon. Let’s go.” He pulled me toward the forest.

  “What is it?” I dug my heels into the obsidian shards. “Is it Buzzard Bill?”

  His gaze fell on the distant treeline. “I don’t know. But it’s nothing good.”

  *

  On the way back, Jason had half managed to talk himself out of what we’d seen.

  “Maybe it’s some atmospheric anomaly,” he said. “A fast-moving storm. One of those derechos that the weathercasters talk about…”

  I was disappointed that he seemed unwilling to consider the idea that it could be a creature. Buzzard Bill. I didn’t want to believe he’d let go of magic so easily.

  But he had. In a lot of ways.

  I stood behind the screen door as the taillights of his truck receded down the driveway. After locking the door behind me, I took off my shoes and padded across the squeaky kitchen linoleum. A blue light flickered in the living room. The television.

  My father remained in his chair, but my mother had gone upstairs to bed. Since Dad couldn’t negotiate stairs anymore, his world had shrunk to the first floor. His chair was reclined, and his feet were at the level of his head, covered in slippers.

  He mumbled in his sleep. His feet twitched, as if he were running in his dreams. I bent to pick up the fallen slipper, stepping over a couple of beer cans. I frowned at them, at the pill bottles on the tray table beside him.

  His head tossed back and forth, and he mumbled, “Get out...it’s coming...”

  I knelt down beside him, shaking his shoulder gently to wake him from his nightmare. “Dad, it’s okay. You’re home.”

  His eyes snapped open. His pupils were dilated by some sleeping pill, and he slurred, “There’s something down here.”

  “Dad,” I said. I couldn’t be sure if he was still dreaming or hallucinating. Mom said he didn’t remember the accident, so it had to be a figment...or maybe something buried deep in his skull that he wouldn’t dredge up in the day.

  “Get out,” he hissed.

  I drew back reflexively, but I didn’t think he meant me. Though his eyes were open, he was still trapped in his dream.

  “Get out while you can. Before it gets you.”

  I sat back on my heels.

  Dad’s eyes fluttered shut.

  I shook his shoulder. “Dad?”

  He only emitted a moist, guttural snore.

  *

  I left early the next morning for the mine with more than a little trepidation. For one thing, I had mixed feelings about working there. They’d used up my father like he was nothing, and that knowledge burned in the back of my throat. But it was difficult to be angry at something nebulous, like an organization. Especially when it wore the face of those I was close to.

  For another, I was wearing my mother’s old clothes from when she’d been a secretary: a short-sleeved pink blouse that tied at the neck and a pair of black dress pants that made a funny swishing noise when my thighs brushed together. Polyester. They fit surprisingly well, and it felt as if I was stepping into her shell. I’d tucked the blue streaks in my hair behind a wide headband and fished a stale cherry-flavored lip gloss out of my dresser drawer. I took with me a school notebook, from which I’d torn two weeks of notes on music, and a pen.

  I wound through the curving roads as sunshine slanted through the trees. I knew how to get there. I’d gone with my mother to bring my father lunch when I was little, but that was the last time I’d been here.

  A yellow sign at edge of the road announced the entrance to a “Blasting Zone—Restricted Area.” Various hand-lettered signs sprouted around it, with slogans like: “POISONING OUR FUTURE,” “CANCER HURTS EVERYONE,” and “NO WATER, NO LIFE.”

  I set my jaw, turned off the road, drove for a quarter-mile, and stopped before a gate. This was new: there hadn’t been a guard there when I was a
kid. The security guard asked me to sign on a clipboard after I fished in my purse for my driver’s license.

  “You’re Dan’s girl?”

  “Yessir,” I said.

  He looked at me with a flicker of pity and waved me on. I followed a gravel road to a parking lot filled with dusty cars at the foot of a dusty hill. Jason’s truck was near the front of the lot, and I parked beside it. Earth-moving equipment was arranged like a collection of toys around a yawning hole in the ground, through which cables and a line of men wearing hardhats snaked. When I got out of the car, the air smelled like iron. It was thick with shouts and discordant noises—pops, and the grind of engines, and heavy things being dropped.

  Clutching my notebook, I walked to the trailer parked outside the mine entrance, knowing well enough to stay clear of the “HARDHAT AREA” signs. The gray single-wide trailer had electric cables strung to it, powering a humming air conditioner.

  I climbed the steps and rapped on the door.

  “Come in!” a voice from within growled.

  I opened the door and poked my head inside. The walls were covered with laminated safety regulations and schedule rotations. A wipe-off sign announced: “SAFETY FIRST!” and someone had scrawled a hasty 43 next to “DAYS SINCE LAST INCIDENT.”

  I put on my best game face and approached a bear of a man behind a desk. He was balding, mustached, wearing a red golf shirt stretched over his belly, and flipping through a stack of binders on a desk. I extended my hand. “Mr. Peters? I’m Di Hoffman.”

  His churlish expression softened. “Dan’s girl.”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath. “I spoke with Jason yesterday, and he mentioned you might have an opening for temporary office help.”

  “Sit down, hon.” He dragged a folding chair from the wall and set it up for me.

  I perched awkwardly on the edge, trying not to make it squeak. I placed my notebook across my knees and made my best attempt to look eager.

  Peters trundled behind his desk and sat down heavily. He folded his hands in front of him on his scribbled calendar desk blotter. “We’re so sorry about your dad, Di.”

  I nodded.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Okay. I guess.” I bit my lip. Don’t cry, I told myself. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I cried in a job interview. I pushed on. “I wanted to see if perhaps there was an application…?”

  “Of course.” Peters rummaged in his desk drawers. “Bear with me a minute... Things are a little disorganized lately.” He cast a dark look at the back of the trailer, which seemed to be divided up into more office space. “But let me tell you a little bit about the position. Gabby’s our office manager...and that means jack of all trades. She organizes the timesheets, gets them signed off, and submits them to corporate payroll. She answers the phones, takes messages, and sets up the rotating shift schedule.” He paused in riffling through a cabinet. “You’ve had high school math, right? And you can type?”

  “I type seventy-five words per minute. I had college prep math in high school and two semesters of college calculus.”

  Peters nodded. “You’ve got a good phone voice. Any references?”

  I handed him a piece of paper from my notebook. “These are numbers for two of my college professors, and the grocery store. I worked there in high school. Also my work supervisor at college.” I didn’t mention the internship I’d just left. I wasn’t sure what the orchestra director would say about me only working a handful of days.

  He glanced at the page. “What job did you do in college?”

  “I worked at the cafeteria.” My cheeks grew hot. It had been really embarrassing to be seen by my classmates in a hairnet and plastic gloves. But it covered my meal plan and most of my books.

  “Good work ethic. You’re hired.”

  I blinked.

  “Gabby’s gonna pop any minute. Whatever training she can give you will be a plus.” He shoved a yellow application across the desk to me. “Fill this out before you start tomorrow. Hours are eight to five, Monday through Friday. It pays thirteen dollars an hour.”

  I clutched the yellow piece of paper. “Thank you, Mr. Peters.”

  He waved the thanks away. I was clearly getting the job because of what had happened to my father.

  “The job’s temporary. Gabby can take six weeks of FMLA for the baby. She doesn’t know if she’s coming back. If she does, we gotta hold her job for her. If not, the job becomes permanent.”

  He turned and yelled in the back. “Gabby! Meet your replacement, hon.”

  A young woman waddled to the front of the trailer. Jason had been right. Gabby was huge. I remembered her as a lithe cheerleader-type, but now her hands were folded over her swollen belly, and she smiled beatifically. “Hi, Di.”

  “Hi.” I reached out to shake her hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  She grinned. “Well, you’re seeing more of me than you probably ever did.” She rubbed her belly.

  “Congrats,” I said. I didn’t want to blurt a dumb question like: Is the father the guy you went to prom with? A ring glinted on her left hand. Jeezus, she was my age and married. I’d only been gone a year, and she was already grown up.

  “C’mon back, and I’ll show you the files.” Gabby walked past the scowling Peters, who stopped scowling when she poured him a cup of coffee. “He likes his coffee black,” she whispered, loud enough for him to hear.

  “When are you due?” I asked.

  “Heh. Yesterday.” She made a face. “If this keeps going, I won’t be able to get behind the steering wheel to drive.”

  “Wow.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  But she seemed happy. She hummed to herself as she led me back to her office area. It was incredibly organized, with Post-It notes stuck to every filing cabinet drawer.

  “I didn’t think Peters would hire anyone in time,” she said, following my gaze. “I left him a lot of notes, just in case. He’s actually rejected ten applicants, so this is a huge help.” She leaned against the file cabinet with her hand on her hip. “I didn’t want to leave him in the lurch. He really is a nice man. All bark and no bite.”

  “That’s a relief. His interviewing process was...easy.”

  She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s been wary of people he doesn’t know trying to get a foot in the door. A couple of the tree huggers actually applied, probably wanting access to our files.” She pursed her lips. “Infiltrating.”

  “Wow.” That seemed awfully cloak-and-dagger for this tiny place.

  She grinned at me and clasped her hands over her belly. “You’ll fit right in, though. You’re one of us.”

  *

  I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or stunned as I cranked the Chevette’s engine. I had a job. Maybe for all the wrong reasons, but it was money, like Jason said.

  A thin layer of black dust had drifted over my car, and I squirted blue washer fluid onto the windshield as I left the parking lot and cruised through the guard gate. I could barely see through the grimy streaks, flashes of trees, and sunlight.

  I slammed on the brakes as something bright hurtled across my field of vision. Gravel spewed under my tires as I slewed and struggled to stop. Hands slammed down on the hood of the car. With shock, I thought I’d hit a person.

  But no. I hadn’t hit him. A young man in a red T-shirt and crewcut was screaming at me, yelling so hard that spittle flecks struck the windshield: “Leave the mountain alone!”

  Signs crowded around the car. I heard indistinct shouts, chanting. These were the protesters I’d heard about, and they were blocking the exit. I threw the car into reverse, but when I looked in the rearview mirror, they were a solid wall behind me. My heart pounded.

  Trapped.

  With trembling hands, I shoved the clutch in and jammed the car into first. Maybe if I crowded through them. The man in the red shirt slammed a rock against my windshield. I cried out as a crack spidered across the glass.

  �
�No!”

  A man in a white shirt hauled Red Shirt across my hood, both fists in the collar of his shirt. Long blond hair was caught up behind his neck in a ponytail, and, in that moment, he looked like an angel to me.

  “I said, no violence!” he roared at Red Shirt. He dragged him off the hood and shoved him down on the ground, beyond my fender.

  He gestured at the protestors. “Let her through.” His voice rang like a soldier’s, and they grudgingly moved to obey.

  His blue eyes met mine through the windshield. “I’m sorry,” he began to say.

  But the instant there was a clear hole in the crowd, I slammed my foot down on the gas, engulfing the mob in dust.

  CHAPTER 6

  Trouble always comes home.

  I drove back to my parents’ house clutching the steering wheel tightly. I don’t think I got out of third gear the whole way, expecting some threatening shape to pop out of every curve and turn.

  I sat in the driveway for a few minutes to compose myself. My heart had slowed to a dull thudding tempo behind my ribs. I waited until I could hold my hands out without them shaking before gathering my papers and heading into the house.

  My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, paying bills, when I came in. She swept the pile of papers to the side and slammed the checkbook shut. She plastered a smile onto her face.

  “How did it go, sweetheart?”

  “I got the job.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mom leaped up and threw her arms around me. I stiffly returned the hug. “I’m so proud of you.” My mother pulled away, beaming. Her smile faded when she saw my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to get into this now, wanted to let her enjoy something for a moment. “Nothing.”

  I turned away and rummaged in the fridge, crinkling bread wrappers and bits of aluminum foil.

  But my mother persisted. “Didn’t they offer you full time?”

  “They did.”

  “How much are they going to pay you?”