Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds)

by Hilarey Johnson

  My heart flies to the back of my throat, gagging me. The hose-box lid is ajar. I run, knowing already that the dress is gone. My hand slides along the cold plastic, feeling every corner in blindness. I pull back, hand empty except for condensation.

  Maybe the stars were not alone the other night when they watched me. I look up, betrayed. They might not be alone in watching me now. My hand reaches out until I feel the trailer’s cold, aluminum skin. I press my body into the shadow of it and inch my way back to the front door. I’m not dreaming, but now I know how it feels to have unresponsive, laden legs.

  Chapter 11

  A sleek Corvette races by. Cori might pick something like that. I ignore the older, rusty vehicles; somehow she doesn’t strike me as economy model, either. There isn’t a bench or anywhere to sit in front of the TorchLight, but meeting her here means she won’t have to drive all the way out to the reservation—or see where I live.

  The TorchLight’s new front looks great with landscaping and a sign. The entire remodel is cleaned up and forgotten. Even evidence of last night’s party has disappeared except some discarded cigarette butts. Funny how much the place doesn’t sparkle now that I’ve seen it in the daytime, the night, filled, empty and even under construction.

  A white convertible Mazda Miata hugs the corner, and I watch Cori lean into the turn. Her hair lacks the cactus shaped spikes, but still shows spunk as is juts out from a hot pink bandana tied like a gang banger. She has large black hoop earrings that swing from her ears when she brakes in front of me. The morning glow glints off her shimmery lips when she smiles.

  “Are you ready for the ride of your life?”

  I have my hands crammed into the back pockets of my jeans, my backpack looped over my right wrist. I swing my hips to show her the bag.

  “You didn’t bring much.” She opens the door and kicks her legs out dramatically. “Trixie only seats two, but there’s a decent trunk.”

  “You named your car?” And she gave the car a stripper name, too.

  After I toss in my bag, Cori shuts the trunk and gives me a saucy grin.

  “My grandma held to the firm belief that if you give your car an identity, she’ll drive for ya longer.” Cori traces a finger along the bumper. “Of course, first sign of a repair needed—I’m upgrading.” She giggles and we climb in. The soft leather seats hug my hips and back.

  “A name’s important, don’t you think?” Cori has her hand on the stick-thing by the wheel. “Mine is actually Coribella.”

  She folds down the visor to look at her teeth and lip-gloss. “I’m not calling you Baby all day. Tell me yours and I’ll let you drive.”

  I have no interest in telling her that I was named for a small, plain brown bird. “I don’t have a license. Besides, there’s no way I’d drive something this nice.”

  “What?”

  “I never had a need to drive.”

  “You don’t drive just for need.” She pulls away from the TorchLight so fast my head folds into the seat as snugly as the rest of me. Cori—or Coribella, I guess—squeals and turns round a corner, driving like a maniac. We turn right and almost get hit by a guy in a huge painter’s truck. He honks and swerves, but Cori and I just laugh. The equipment, ladders and stuff slide around in his truck bed. My fingers tingle. I feel alive.

  We pull onto the freeway, and the angry painter follows. Cori blows him a kiss in her rearview mirror, and the car lurches forward in such a way that I again feel the superiority of the seats.

  I settle back and let the wind whip my hair like kite tails around my face. After a minute I reconsider, I don’t want to detangle it later and I grab hold to pull it into the car with me. With the top off, we won’t be able to say much, so I sit back and enjoy the bite of the cool April morning.

  “If you get too cold, we’ll put the top back on.” Cori yells.

  I turn and shake my shoulders ‘whatever,’ but I hope she doesn’t. I close my eyes—if only we could just race away forever.

  We don’t. The car slows and I sense we pull off the freeway. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and sit forward. We’re on a street similar to where the Wild Lilly once stood. Signs like “cash for guns” and “no credit/bad credit okay” decorate windows and billboards. Cori parks. She looks at me expectantly, so I get out of the car and stretch. The hum of the freeway reverberates nearby. She opens the trunk and pulls out a white rectangle box with a pink “D” dangling from it. I follow her into a store simply labeled “Pawn.”

  The harsh clang of a bell rings just above my head when I cross the threshold.

  “Hey, Lenard?” Cori calls out to the disorder. Discarded treasures loom above, below and beside me—like bats in a cave. Saxophones and drums mount the walls. Bikes dangle from the ceiling. Racks and shelves with tarnished silver and other antiqued metals squat, lying in wait.

  “Back already?” A toilet flushes and a stooped, wizened man enters. He fumbles at his zipper in our presence. His black suspenders lay crooked because of a lump on his right shoulder. They clamp onto creased, navy, polyester slacks. His lips pull back from his teeth so far I see as much gum as I do stained enamel. His smile is predatory, an aged version of one I’ve seen a million times.

  “More schmucks—giving you jewelry and such?” He reaches his hand out to Cori’s box.

  “Perfume this time.” She answers.

  “Ah. Dior. J’Adore. Mmm.” Black dirt lines his ridiculously long nails and I can’t bear to watch him handle the smooth white box.

  Cori leans over the glass counter containing guns and plays with a string of beads dangling from a pink flamingo. I turn and walk down the aisle. Age is a funny thing. It doesn’t matter if you are kind or dirty, you will get old. Not all old people are Raenah. Some weak, crooked bodies could house monsters inside; they just no longer have the strength to hurt. I wonder if my grandfather is stooped. Thinking of him this way feels like that first second you drive over a hill too fast.

  Someday, I’ll stand over him. I’ll laugh at his curse.

  My ankle smacks against an ornate clock. It slides off the bottom shelf and lands on the floor. Kneeling, I pick it up and try to place it back carefully.

  The clock is a herald to my missing piece. If not for this beautiful trash, I would not have seen it…My friend, my flute. It waits expectantly; it stares, knowing I would come. The worn wood is silk to my fingers, it will be mousse to my tongue. Every pattern, swirl and line in the grain is familiar. Quivering fingers turn it, searching. Yes! The burnt profile of a mallard verifies that it is mine. My dad held my hand as I burned that shape into the flute.

  “Okay, Baby. Ready?” Cori sounds pleased. I guess her flirting got the price she wanted. “Find anything you can’t live without?” The bell clangs as she opens the front door.

  I slide my flute into the sleeve of my sweatshirt and stand. It’s longer than my forearm so it protrudes. I try to shield the mouthpiece with my palm. The ground fades beneath my feet, but I command them to move anyway. Cori stands just beyond the door. I’ll make it; I’m so close.

  A Shoshone-Paiute badge stands before me. I look up into Hayden’s face. How did he? He blocks me.

  “Hey,” the owner yells.

  Hayden’s brows rise as though he’s surprised to see me. He will stalk me, and lie?

  “Are you going to pay for that?” The dirty old man.

  Tears come. I look up into Hayden’s face. A guilty plea: “It’s mine.”

  My Hayden steps aside.

  I stand in shock that he would let me steal. Mr. “It’s not right.” My feet stay sealed to the pawn shop floor.

  “What are you doing?” Cori’s voice is the rope, tossed just in time to keep me from sinking.

  Without looking back at Hayden, I move toward her. I slide the flute from my sleeve and hold it up. “It’s mine.” Tears rain down. Cori won’t understand why.

  She looks behind me, then at me.

  “My name is Sparrow.”

  Cori leaps into the d
river’s seat. “Hurry.”

  Wings must have taken me to the car, because suddenly we race down the freeway as I hold my flute to my chest.

  Cori sings out, “That’s how we waste the day away in the merry old Land of Oz.”

  My flute shakes in my hands.

  We pull up to a gated apartment complex. I assume she has another errand until she punches in a code. Her shoulder strategically blocks the numbers she presses.

  I lean against the black wrought-iron railing while Cori digs around in an enormous hot pink bag. My flute is shoved up my sleeve again, the end grasped in my hand. She never said anything. Does she care that she helped me rob her favorite pawnshop? The courtyard below has a kidney bean-shaped pool and an abundance of landscaping, though most is dormant. A man sings opera music from the level below. I wish it were louder.

  “That’s Mark.” Cori bobs her head toward the sound. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

  I nod.

  The pungent smoke of a cigar floats on the strains of Mark’s song. I’m intrigued by the smoldering spiced scent. Apparently Mark isn’t, because the singing stops and a window slams.

  There’s nothing in Cori’s house that doesn’t look like it was purchased for that exact spot. She must have grown up with money. There is nothing haphazard or eclectic, actually, nothing that looks like her.

  “This is my place.” She holds her hands out to her side. I didn’t notice her clothes in the pawn shop but here they scream at me. She wears a brown corduroy skirt, and a gauzy tee-shirt which says “Dansons.” The glittery letters arc over the Eiffel tower and a pink ballerina. Under her see-through tee-shirt is a black lacy bodice. Her legs are covered in hot pink fishnets, which actually match the bandana perfectly. Brown suede knee-high boots complete her.

  “No. This isn’t your place. You belong in a London flat, with thrift store furniture.”

  “You’ll never get me to leave the US again.” She crinkles her nose. “Hungry?”

  I drop my backpack on the leather couch and follow her to the kitchen.

  “That’s actually where you’ll sleep since I just have one bedroom.” She opens the stainless steel refrigerator. The inside contains about two dozen individual servings of light yogurt, a mega bottle of maraschino cherries, a jar of green olives and beer. “Dairy, fruit, grain?” She laughs.

  “Yogurt sounds great.” I choose lemon, and Cori hands me a spoon.

  “I need to sleep. We’ll go out about nine, but I have a few friends coming over first. Get your rest.” She lifts the lid from a leather ottoman and pulls out the softest blanket I’ve ever felt.

  “Cashmere, of course.” Does she ever speak without laughing?

  I’m thrilled she’s going to sleep. Not just because it’s my routine, and I wondered how I was going to manage a night on the town, but because I didn’t want to become reacquainted with my flute in front of her.

  Once I’m alone, I move my pack to the floor and walk around the great room, eating. The first bite of lemon zings pain into my jaw and I wish I’d chosen a different flavor. There aren’t any pictures of people, only abstract art in muted colors. I search for anything that says Cori to me. I walk slowly, taking my time, saving the bookshelf I noticed for last.

  After I throw away the empty yogurt container and wash the spoon, I head over to the eight-foot cherry shelf. It looks like a library collection, but duller. The book-jackets are faded and lack the hues I see in the grocery store best-sellers. I lift East of Eden. The paper feels thin and brittle, like an old person’s skin. I replace the book between Tortilla Flat and The Grapes of Wrath. I’ve read all of those. There are a few Steinbeck that I haven’t read. I lift “The Pearl.” The white letters of the title are surrounded by an unsightly shade of blue with dark blue half-moons. Maybe it’s supposed to look like water. The blue is framed in black and surrounded by what was once a mostly red border, but now seems sun-bleached.

  The repulsive cover calls to me.

  I lay it on the couch. Cori should be settled by now, but I need more privacy. There are French doors by the kitchen. I let myself out to a swept balcony with a glass patio table for two. A dead plant and dried dirt sit to one side in an exquisite three-foot-high, jade-like vase. No Navaho pottery here.

  I sink into a white metal chair with pastel cushions. April 27. Two months, to the day, since I last saw my flute. It’s almost cosmic—or divine. The shaft feels foreign until I slide my fingers over the holes. A breeze lifts the pine branches nearby and I close my eyes, waiting for it to lift me. I want the spirits of the wind or animals or trees, whichever are strongest, to take me away. If only something spiritual would touch me, carry me.

  When I wondered if Hayden’s God could find my flute last night, I didn’t believe—I never thought—why would his God help me?

  With my eyes still closed, I lift the flute to my lips. Just a few notes at first, I need to breathe music before I let it consume me. After the sounds have become familiar again, I sing through the wood my father carved.

  When I’m finished, the silence is release. I’m thankful the mournful reconciliation is complete. Just as I rise to leave the balcony, Mark’s voice lifts in resonance and echo. There are no words at first. He explores the cadence I just played. His sounds become words in a language I don’t understand. His meaning is clear though, no one has ever felt more heartbreak. I’ll weep from the sound of it. I lean over the railing to see if I can catch a glimpse. I don’t know what I’ll say to him, “I’m sorry you hurt,” or something; but I cannot let someone cry out like that.

  My legs carry me through Cori’s earth-toned apartment and out the front door. As I navigate toward Mark’s front door, a wholly different sound emanates through the closed window, an upbeat-joke-of-a-song. He starts again. He sings a scale. It was only practice. Who knew opera could express such passion?

  I try not to feel betrayed as I creep back into Cori’s place. Am I the only one who hurts?

  I take a sweater from my backpack and roll up my flute. From now on, it travels with me. To work, home, wherever.

  I stretch across the couch with The Pearl in my hands. The pages are smooth, almost cottony. It smells better than library books, but I knew it would. A small white envelope lands on my lap. The envelope is unopened, the hasty script faded, the postmark 2005. Five years old?

  Coribella Reese, with a Reno address. She must have misplaced this message from … Lehi Brower, Utah. I turn it over several times. She will be glad I found it.

  Now, about this pearl.

  When I wake, the room has darkened. The open book is a shield on my chest, I don’t remember laying it down. I look out the French doors and try to orient myself. The sun has begun to dip behind the Sierra Nevadas; the earth slipping into her nightgown.

  The kitchen lights burst on.

  “Oh, hey.” Cori wears snug black pants that flare out over gold high-heeled sandals. Her emerald and gold halter-top shimmers against equally iridescent skin. The green in her top highlights the green hues in her dragon tattoo. But the most catching part of her is still her eyes. The heavy black eyeliner is doubly dramatic with her hair slicked. “Go get ready.”

  I smooth my hair down and pull half in front of each shoulder, gripping the ends. I look down at my jeans then at my backpack, trying to remember what I packed.

  Cori bites her lip. “Want to borrow something?”

  “Oh, no. Well, if you…”

  She grabs my hand and pulls me to her bedroom. Her laughter is our music. In just a few minutes, I’m wearing a mini-dress made of something like crushed velvet and knee-high black boots.

  Cori has three beers before I finish mine, and it takes me nearly to the end before I remember the letter.

  “I love your bookshelf.”

  “Oh?” She gives her bookshelf the kind of glance you give a stranger who looks benign, but seems to be following you.

  “I fell asleep reading one of your John Steinbecks.” This is when I remember. “I fou
nd an envelope inside.”

  She makes no move to touch the letter. “I forgot that was in there.” Cori lifts her bottle and drains the liquid.

  I feel silly with my arm extended, balancing a faded white rectangle between two fingers. It slips and falls to the floor. Cori doesn’t move toward it. I bend, awkwardly in my mini-dress, and retrieve it. Picking it up takes two tries since my fingernails are so short. I set it on the counter.

  “Do you like John Steinbeck?”

  “No. Not really. Too depressing. I don’t really get him,” she answers. I turn the book over and smooth the cover. “You should keep that one.”

  I look up at her quickly.

  “No, really, you can have it,” she insists.

  I try to judge why she would give me a book from her collection so flippantly. There will be a hole in the row now. I look back to the shelf. When I start making enough, books will be at the top of my necessities list.

  “Naw, I’ll just borrow it.”

  “Whatever.” Cori starts to talk about the clubs we’ll visit tonight, but I don’t really listen. She casually approaches the letter, opens a drawer and uses her empty beer bottle to slide the letter inside. She closes the drawer with her hip and looks at me as though nothing unusual happened—and she didn’t just avoid touching an envelope.

  Chapter 12

  Cori tosses her fourth empty bottle and opens a cupboard. It looks like the shelves behind the TorchLight’s bar where rows of assorted glass sparkle.

  “When are your friends coming?” I’m content, but she seems agitated. The waiting bugs her.

  “One hour ago.” She walks to the wall clock and moves the hands from the current time, 8:57, back to eight o’clock. She turns and looks at me. “Any minute.”