Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds)

by Hilarey Johnson

  The cab arrives, and I realize my sweatshirt and jeans have soaked in every drop. When I show up wet and shriveled, the photographer will probably send me away and tell Brody to send someone pretty—maybe Cori.

  I leave the fresh air for the musty car. When I close the door, it feels like I’ll suffocate in the driver’s sweat and the smell of a wet dog.

  “294 Horse Trot Drive.”

  “No problem.”

  I set my backpack on the seat beside me. Chills start at my toes and crawl up to my wet hair. I wish I had an extra sweatshirt.

  Rain pelts the front window. Why won’t he just leave the wipers on, instead of waiting until the last possible minute to clear his view? The address Brody scribbled has faded where my wet thumb gripped it, but I stared at it long enough. Too bad it didn’t occur to me to find shelter from the rain while I waited for the cab; although, if I had a choice, I would still be standing there.

  Don’t I always have a choice?

  The taxicab driver waits longer than I think is necessary at a stop sign, before turning into a residential area.

  “294 Horse Trot Drive?” I didn’t expect to take the pictures in someone’s house.

  “Yep.” The driver says without elaboration. He smoothes his red mustache. The rain beats the window, trying to get to me.

  I’m getting tired of paying taxicabs. I think I’ll look for a car, now that I have a steady income. Nothing like Cori’s. Something simple. Maybe an apartment should be first. Yes. Definitely an apartment is first.

  The house is on the corner. There is a huge tree with draping branches that hide the house and cover most of the yard. I pay the cab driver and head up the walkway. The neighborhood has wide streets and at least one large tree guards each yard. Most have a car, RV or a boat parked in the driveway. 294 Horse Trot Drive is a white house that could use a little paint, especially around the garage door, just above the brick.

  I trip. A huge crack presses up from the driveway, the tree’s roots escaping the cement. The tree—probably planted for the benefit of the house—now strains against the house and tears the foundation.

  Will today help me? Add to me? Or will it be like this tree? I’ve heard the jokes, “I was young,” or “I didn’t know what I was doing.” But I do know. I’m making good use of my figure while I have no other options. I’m still in control.

  The paper Brody gave me has SIDE DOOR scribbled below the address. At the end of the walkway on the right, a screen covers a red front door. There’s a “wipe your paws” mat in front of it.

  Budding bushes peek out on the left side of the garage. When I walk closer, I notice a cluster of four red bricks buried in the grass leading around to the side of the house. My whole foot fits in each step and I’m careful not to step in the grass.

  The white metal side door looks like it just accesses the garage. It hurts my cold fingers to knock. The door pulls open slowly to an attractive but pudgy man about 40 years old. He has tan skin and black eyes which are open wide—curious. His eyebrows are long and scraggly, not as manicured as his graying mustache. He holds a “Nevada Open” mug smelling strongly of artificial vanilla coffee. It makes me feel nauseous and hungry at the same time.

  It takes two breaths before I realize he is waiting for me to speak. “Brody sent—”

  “Great.” He steps back.

  The garage walls are painted pale green. A moveable rack filled with stringy and lacey lingerie blocks a water heater. A marbled-brown drape covers the garage door behind a stripped queen-sized bed flanked by industrial lights sitting on either side. The bed’s bluish floral pattern looks new and unused. To the left of the room sits a chaise lounge and a few different chairs covered with vibrant colored comforters and pillows. On my right, a rotating dish heater glances back and forth, surveying the room. Just behind the heater, several peacock feathers stare open-eyed at me. They are my feathers from the club.

  “I’m Rodrigo.” He offers his hand and a polite smile. I reach out, but his clasp solidifies before our hands actually grip. He shakes my fingers. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water? Wine cooler?”

  “It’s a little early.” I still don’t have a watch but I called the cab at nine.

  “Might help you relax.” He points with his mug at a little black refrigerator on a table. “Lots of stuff in there, I’m gonna get a refill and we’ll talk about what you envision.” Rodrigo walks to the lingerie rack and pulls out a plastic hanger with an emerald teddy. “This’ll match your feathers over there.” I cringe. How many people have worn it before?

  “Brody already had something in mind.” I set my backpack on the floor and pull out the shiny onesie he gave me, with the address and a sealed envelope, which he said was my payment. A note slides out, folded in the onesie.

  Don’t forget to bring me your birth certificate and social security card.

  --Brody

  The teddy has a black background, swirled with electric blue and teal dots, like a leopard print. There isn’t much on the backside. It pulls the colors of peacock feathers perfectly. Brody and his satin.

  “Good. Take your time getting changed. There’s robes.” He points next to the door I entered, where three pegs hold several robes. There are two full-length mirrors on either side of the robes. Rodrigo holds his mug in a toast and walks up the two steps into the house.

  I stand for a full ten minutes, shaking in a silk robe next to the disk heater. Rodrigo enters and walks slowly, balancing a full mug of the vanilla-perfumed, pale liquid.

  He pulls a velvety wing chair across the cement floor, lifting it over the edges of the geometric-designed area rug. He angles it toward the heater. “Have a seat.” Rodrigo pulls a water bottle from the fridge and it makes me think of Cori. Why didn’t I bring her with me? “Give your hands something to do even if you aren’t thirsty.” He smiles when he hands it to me.

  The part of my calf facing the heater feels a little burned. I shift in my seat.

  “Your makeup has run a little.” Rodrigo sits on the corner of the bed and sips his cup.

  I run my ring finger under my eye and glance at it. Black crumbles smudge the tip.

  “I have a box of odds and ends over there if you didn’t bring some.”

  I have some, so I shake my head. “That’s okay.”

  “What kind of activities do you like?”

  I shrug and smile, thankful I can twist the water bottle lid off and on.

  “All right.” Rodrigo takes a long drink and when he speaks again his voice is gentle, quiet. “Do you prefer skydiving or reading?”

  I feel a little shaky and agitated, but I don’t mind answering that question. “Reading.”

  “Summer or Winter?”

  “Summer,” I answer almost immediately.

  “Red wine or White wine?” He leans in, waiting patiently.

  “Grape soda?” I hear myself giggle with the answer.

  Rodrigo laughs with me. “I see.”

  The questions continue until I realize I no longer feel cold. He goes to the side of the backdrop and presses a cabled controller that looks like a large remote control. Different colored sheets move up and down while he decides.

  “I think old master canvas. White, no, beige…subdued…not distract.” While he mumbles to himself, I grab eyeliner and mascara from my bag. I go to the full-length and refresh what the rain damaged. Still wishing Cori was here, I draw in the eyeliner heavier than normal. It doesn’t really look like me. This is the dancer, Baby. When I wash it off, I’ll be Sparrow again.

  Rodrigo directs me to the chair. He has thrown a bluish drape over the bed and scattered pillows across. “I’m not going to ask you to look confident. Let’s try this: we’re gonna go with surprised. Like the camera has caught you off guard. Intruding. I want you to turn and look at me from over your shoulder.”

  I obey.

  “That’s it. Widen your eyes. You didn’t expect to see me.” He holds the camera ready, but doesn’t take any
pictures. “Are you ready to drop the robe?”

  This makes me feel dumb. But, as I start to lower it he says gently, “Hold it there, don’t lower it all the way yet. Perfect.”

  After an hour of taking pictures, nothing feels intimate at all. It’s just work. My ribs ache from holding my body arched and still. He spends more time adjusting lights and instructing me than clicking. We turned off the heater at least a half-hour ago. Now I wish for a fan to deflect some of the heat from the lights.

  I’m glad he didn’t lie and tell me I was beautiful the whole time. It was just work. Actually, easier than work in many ways.

  “You makin’ enough over there?”

  “At the TorchLight?” I just pull my jeans over the teddy while Rodrigo puts away his various lenses and camera equipment.

  “Yeah. Are you making enough money?”

  “Well, sure. Most comes from tips though.”

  “Most from tips? Brody pays you?” Rodrigo looks confused.

  “Mm hmm.” I nod. Although Brody pays me cash and he asked me not to tell the other girls. The other girls technically pay him to work there—like when a cosmetologist rents a booth—they tip the house. I only tip the bartender, the den mother and the bouncers.

  This makes me wonder why he wants my social security card since it’s all cash.

  At first Rodrigo looks sorry for me, then he huffs an “oh well” sound. “If you ever want to make extra money, I have an internet business.”

  I converse with him and act nonchalant. I try to ignore that he’s offering to pay me for pornography. As I close the door to the garage and walk away, I pretend the pictures I already took weren’t a breath away from full-blown porn. It’s not like there’s a difference in taking pictures in a negligee to sell clothes for Sears or taking pictures in a negligee to advertise a business. Right? I feel the same way when I look at a Sunday paper department store ad as I do when I look at the girls at work.

  In Rodrigo’s driveway, I tear open the envelope Brody gave me. The check is for one thousand dollars. I forgot to call a cab, but I’m not going back into Rodrigo’s studio. Fortunately, the rain has ceased. This time I step over the lump in the driveway and just start walking. I know now that if there is any God up there, his sole purpose is to watch us flail around in the muck. Thom might see those pictures. Everyone in Reno could see those pictures.

  “Sparrow.”

  I look up into Hayden’s face. Again, he shines down on me, summer—weeks early. One corner of his cleft lip angles up, but he looks sad. Does he know what I have done? Why does he follow me everywhere? I think I’m crying. My tears will wash away my makeup. Will they be enough to wash away all of Baby bird?

  Hayden puts his arms around me. His shoulder is at the perfect height for me to rest my head. We fit like a puzzle piece—my temple on his collarbone. Hayden strokes my hair but does not speak. I sob into him several minutes.

  “Did you steal my dress?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been following me and spying. You stole my dress.”

  “Well, yes.”

  I step back.

  “N…n…not about a dress. Yes about following you.”

  A burgundy sedan turns the corner and we have to move from the center of the street. I follow him to the driver’s side of his truck. Mascara smeared his white button-up shirt. It must be all over my face. I wipe at it with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

  “Why are you here?”

  He looks up and down the street before answering me. “Come on.” Hayden lifts my backpack from my shoulders. I grip the straps, unwilling to hand over the bag.

  “Let me take it.”

  How could I say no to him? “Be careful, my flute…”

  “You mean my flute?” He thinks he’s funny.

  “What?”

  “I paid a hundred and fifty dollars for it to keep Lenard from calling the cops on you.”

  Oh, the pawnshop. Hayden leads me around the front of his truck. I drag my fingers across the purple hood. The color is gorgeous. “Yeah, about that. You were at pawnshop, too. Everywhere I go lately, you show up.”

  He doesn’t answer, he just commands, “Get in,” and places my backpack on the seat. I climb up. Hayden presses down the lock, shuts my door and lifts the handle to check it the lock.

  He taps his right thumb and pinky against his thigh as we drive out of the subdivision.

  “Were you waiting the whole time?” I picture myself in front of the camera while he sat in the truck, wondering what I was doing.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?” My voice cracks when I ask it.

  Hayden stops at the stop sign edging the entrance to the subdivision. “I think you’re in danger.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do seem to have a stalker.” This time, I’m the only one who laughs. I sigh and look forward. “Why do you think that?”

  “I’m not sure how much to tell you.”

  I just wait.

  He takes a breath. “The detective investigating the incident at the Wild Lily told me it was arson.”

  “The incident. That’s what they call the murder of my friend?” Tears come again.

  “The cop was your friend?” Hayden is driving too fast and keeps looking at me.

  What is he talking about? “Brita wasn’t a cop.” It comes out too loud and I throw my hands up. “Are you trying to kill us?”

  “What do you mean ‘Brita’?” Hayden asks, still not focusing on the road.

  “Pull over.” I point to a park on the left. He’s driving like a maniac. Hayden whips the truck around and pulls into the parking lot. Someone from the oncoming traffic leans on their horn.

  “My friend, the dancer, her name was Brita. I watched her die.” I have never felt so much release until screaming this. All my fear, my shame, the stripping, the pictures: It tumbles from me. I continue to yell my confessions at him. How long has it been since I had anyone to confide in?

  “No llores, Meha.” He strokes my head.

  When he speaks in Spanish, I realize I’m in his arms again. We stretch over my backpack toward each other, my head pressed into his chest. I have told him everything. I thought he was the one to fear, the stalker, the dress-stealer. Why does something inside me rush to him, to trust him?

  His scar is clear this close. It runs from his nose to the middle of his top lip. It’s lovely. I reach up to feel it. He catches my wrist in his hand and pushes me backward, slowly. Controlled. It’s like he closes the door to all light. I’m cold.

  My hands rest in my lap.

  “A girl died?”

  “Yes. I told the detective all that.”

  “You talked with Detective Graves?”

  “I didn’t know his name. Huge man, like a rhinoceros. He recorded our conversation in the hospital.”

  “He isn’t very big. Black guy?” He looks frustrated.

  “No, the detective was white.”

  “Sparrow.” Hayden’s hand starts tapping again. “The detective, Malcolm Graves, he’s a friend of mine. He’s the detective investigating the Wild Lily.”

  My throat feels sore, dry.

  “The only detective.”

  Chapter 14

  I look past Hayden out the truck window because he wears the same expressionless cop face he always wears.

  “Take me home.”

  Hayden starts to speak a couple times, but in the end he just turns the key to the ignition and drives. We’re on the northwest side of Reno, and it will be a full thirty minutes back to the reservation. I lean back and close my eyes.

  Hayden may be the only man in the world where I could leave my flute on the seat between us and close my eyes. No, the only human in the world.

  The truck bounces. My head rocks to the side and taps the window.

  “You were tired.”

  I check my chin for drool. My face feels swollen and tight from the tears. Tired? My confession to Hayden left me exhausted. I glance over at him then ba
ck out the window. He knows I don’t like dancing, he knows everything. And I was concerned about being uncovered before the whole of Reno in Rodrigo’s pictures but this is way more intimate than that.

  We pull in front of Thom and Lorna’s trailer. Hayden turns off the car and presses the emergency brake. He looks at me intently like he is trying to find the right words.

  “You’re going to have to teach me how to drive.”

  He looks jolted and it takes a minute for him to switch from whatever it was he wanted to say.

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible,” I say and jump out of the car.

  My key doesn’t fit in the door handle. I have it right side up…

  The door opens and Lorna stands with her hand on her hip.

  “Oh good.” She opens the door, but not so much that I easily pass. “Come in.” She fiddles with the cord to her pendant and lifts the star to rest outside of her shirt.

  Like a guest, I step in awkwardly. She holds the door wider for Hayden. My clothes are in a pile on the living room floor. Bras and other sundries lay flat on top of the pile, on display. She riffled through everything I own. I hug my backpack to my front; it isn’t close enough on my back.

  “Lorna?”

  “Moving day.” She looks up at Hayden, then glances down quickly. It must be killing her to show her real self. Lorna looks at my feet before spinning and marching toward the kitchen. “Do you want a trash bag to carry your stuff?”

  “You took this out of my dresser?”

  “Sparrow.” She says my name as though I’m very small. “It wasn’t your dresser. Neither was it your bed.” She still looks at my feet. There will not be any negotiating.

  “Where’s Thom?”

  “He’s working.” She walks into the room and flings a black trash bag. “Hurry up, I leave for work in just a few.”

  Violence has never been my thing. But standing there, staring at Lorna, I wonder what it would be like to push her back; watch her fall against the wall, unable to catch herself.

  Hayden kneels and opens the bag. His hands shyly grasp my dancing underwear.