Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds)

by Hilarey Johnson

  Short, shaky breaths burst out of me as we sit in Hayden’s truck. I didn’t consciously participate in loading the bag, leaving the trailer, or getting into the truck. It just happened. Hayden drives and I press a hand to the pain in my chest. I’m going to die.

  He stops and parks the truck in middle of the road. His steady hand opens the glove box and removes a brown paper bag. A napkin and a plastic fork fall into the glove box.

  “Breathe into this.”

  His warm fingers take mine and press them to the edge of the bag making me seal it to my mouth. The bag expands and collapses. I listen to the rhythmic crinkle as I breathe my own air.

  If there is any celestial guidance in this world, it’s how I came to carry my flute and all my money in my backpack.

  After I stand over my grandfather and renounce his curse—I’ll visit Lorna.

  The panting slows, and I feel oxygen reach my lungs. Fatigue tingles like a sinus infection from my headache down to the tips of my fingernails. I put my elbow on the window and rest my heavy head. The truck jerks forward. I don’t ask him where he’s taking me. Crying is no longer an option: even if that means I cannot speak for awhile.

  We pull into Western Village Inn and Casino. If I pay to stay the night here it will be that much longer before I can get an apartment. Who cares? I’m too weak to argue. Hayden does not speak to me, but he holds the door open. I look up into his face, the pyrite brows crease over his serious eyes. He understands.

  Hayden reaches for my backpack and I pull it close. He doesn’t ask for it again. He takes my hand; our fingers are not interlaced but clasped childlike. Maybe it’s appropriate, since I follow without question. Seagulls cry overhead. Dozens swirl above us. I stop and watch them, careful to not breathe too deep of the grimy fish smell in the air.

  “The Sparks Marina is right over there.” Hayden points past a parking lot filled with eighteen-wheel trucks. I don’t want to stay the night at a hotel filled with truckers.

  Hayden walks, still grasping my hand. Inside we walk through disorienting swirls and lines and I can’t tell the ceiling from the floor. Pain knots behind my right eye from the electric trills, whistles and chink-chink-chinking.

  “Why are we here? I hate cigarette smell.”

  Hayden points with our held hands to a café. “Breakfast,” he says this like I should have known. Oh, Hayden.

  Scanning the walls for a clock, it occurs to me that the casino doesn’t really want people to know what time it is. Hayden’s hand is a little sweaty. I turn it over and read his watch. 1:45 p.m.

  A petite pregnant girl, close to my age, maneuvers her way toward us. “Two?”

  Hayden asks for a booth and we follow behind the poor thing as she waddles through the tables. The booth is large enough for six people. I sit on the edge, assuming Hayden will sit across from me. He pushes a little on my shoulder, so I scoot deeper into the curve of the booth. He takes my seat, closing me in.

  Hayden accepts the menu from the girl, puts his arm around me and pulls me close. His hand closes over my upper arm. My father put his arm around me just like this, the first time he said he was sorry he lost his temper. There is still a residual cigarette smell in the restaurant, but I release a pent up breath and suck deep. Breathing out takes forever, and I feel myself shrinking into the curve of Hayden’s side.

  “Where will I sleep tonight?”

  “Do you have a friend’s house I can take you to?” I hear his voice more from his chest against my shoulder than his mouth. I could go to Cori’s again.

  “Yours?” I don’t look at him when I ask.

  “If a woman ever sleeps at my place, it’ll be because she’s my wife.”

  What would that even mean? “Then you would own her. Make her dance for only you.” I sit straighter and his arm retreats to his side. Of course it would come back to this.

  “No, Sparrow.” His right hand slips under the table. He keeps beat with his fingers the same way he always does, like he is telling himself to hang loose. “My wife wouldn’t have to dance for me.” He’d make a lousy poker player.

  A gravelly voice asks if we are ready to order. The waitress’ orange lipstick leaks out of the borders of her lip lines into the tracks around her mouth. Even relaxed, she looks like she holds an imaginary cigarette in her lips.

  “Western Skillet.” Hayden never glanced at his menu. “Or do you need another minute?” He looks at me.

  I flip open the menu and the word “wrap” catches my eyes. Something in a tortilla will be easy to save and transport for my next meal…wherever I end up eating it. “Breakfast...” My voice trips over my tongue so I hold up the menu and point to “Breakfast Wrap.” The waitress smiles at me; it makes her look like Raenah. She leaves without writing anything down.

  “Sparrow.” I know something is coming, from the compassionate way he says my name. I don’t look at him; I clean my fingernails with my thumbnail. His warm hand touches my knee and presses down. He wants my foot to stop tapping. I didn’t realize it was.

  “Yes?” I try to relax.

  “The Detective investigating the Wild Lily, he’s a friend of mine.”

  I wouldn’t have met Hayden if it weren’t for the Wild Lily. I don’t know what I fear more, the image of Brita looking at me for help, or the thought of not knowing Hayden. I hate my selfishness.

  “The only death was, well his name isn’t the issue. He was an undercover cop.” Hayden leans in to whisper. The deep murmur of conversation, periodic childish squeals and the consistent clank of flatware obscures his words. “There wasn’t a female body found.” His eyes scan the restaurant while he talks. He does this often, always attentive to everything in the room. I’m not sure if I feel safe because he is vigilant in his awareness or afraid because there’s the possibility he will see something.

  “I watched her die.” I look up into his amber eyes. His pupils flick to the top of my face, my mouth, then back to my eyes. It makes me think of the way Lorna described my grandfather, looking inside her.

  There is a tiny change in Hayden’s jaw. The scar on his lip lightens as he presses his mouth tighter. “I need you to talk to Malcolm.” His body is stone.

  “Okay.” When I agree, the arch in his back softens and he leans against the booth. “You think I’m in danger?”

  “Well, something’s not…upright.” He takes his napkin and polishes his spoon. After a moment, he reaches for his fork. “What I want to know is—” His eyes scan the room again. “Who interviewed you?”

  “He was a detective, I don’t remember his name. He recorded it.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Literally like a rhinoceros. Really big and white. More than six foot. I felt like I was in trouble, the way he interrogated me.”

  “All you can remember is that he was a large Caucasian.”

  I feel peeved at Hayden, until I realize he is smiling at me. “Well, I don’t always notice details about people.” I know this isn’t true. I do notice people, especially Hayden. I could draw his face from memory if I had any skill.

  “What did our server look like?”

  So he wants to play a game. “She is about forty-years-old, brownish hair, orange lipstick, she smiled.”

  “You noticed irrelevant things. Lipstick wears off, or you could change the color. No one smiles for their mug shot.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Unless they’re on something.” When Hayden grins, his nose flares because the skin is stretched taut by his scar. I can’t look at his scar without imagining kissing it.

  “Why are you blushing?”

  “I’m not.” I look for the waitress. Now would be a good time for her to bring the food. “So what did you notice?”

  “She was Latina, shoulder-length brown hair, five-foot-four inches, one hundred-thirty pounds. Early thirties but looks older because of her heavy smoking, four earrings in her right ear, two in her left, a small blue star tattoo near the thumb on her right hand…
”

  “Show off.” When I giggle, he leans forward and I say, “I’ll try to notice more…relevant details.”

  “Not just about people, but location.” He continues. “Where are we?”

  I could tell him that the clinking, lights and cigarette smell make it obvious: a casino. But I think I’ll impress him instead. “Western Village Inn.”

  Nonplussed, he answers, “What street? City?”

  “Street? Come on, who would notice something like that? Reno.”

  “Nope, we’re in Sparks.”

  “Whatever, we’re minutes from Reno. It’s not like there is a sign on the street to let you know the zip code is going to change.” The funny thing is, he doesn’t seem to be teasing. I think he really wants me to know this stuff.

  “The guy who came in and talked to you probably disarmed you by intimidation.”

  “You could say that.”

  “When someone is aggressive like that—take more notice of them, not less.”

  “I will.”

  “And pay attention to where people take you.”

  When your main form of transportation is a taxicab, I guess you do get lazy about your location. “Okay, Hayden. I will.”

  A young man approaches us with a pitcher of water. I smile and nod when he grabs my glass.

  “Practice,” Hayden points with his chin at a kid. We spend the whole meal profiling everyone in the restaurant. I have no idea if he is accurate about height and weight until he tells me I’m five-foot-eight inches and weigh one-hundred, twenty pounds. He is nearly exact. My sides are tired from the giggling.

  Hayden eats his whole plate of food and eyes the other half of my burrito. He pays for our meal and carries my leftovers to his truck. It isn’t until he holds open the door for me that I remember I have nowhere to sleep tonight. The meal and the rest accomplished what I’m sure he intended.

  I don’t have a cell phone or Cori’s number, but I could get it if Hayden would drive me to the TorchLight. Or I could just call there. I hop in and he hands me my leftovers. He puts one hand at the top of the truck door and the other on the roof. While he scrutinizes the parking lot, I scan the shape of his shoulders, chest and biceps. He is beautifully proportioned, as though his physique came from playing sports rather than steroids and lifting.

  “I’m going to take you to Leah’s parents’ house. They have a nice guest room, they’re always letting missionaries and people like that stay. They would love to have you.”

  He says this with authority. But if we show up and they are busy, where will I go? To his house? I shrug like, “Sure, who cares?”

  “They do want you to come. I called while you were in the bathroom.”

  “You know, I was planning on getting my own apartment. I have enough right now to do it.”

  He looks at his watch. “It’s already after three. You don’t want to make a rush decision. We’ll drive past several apartments, and you can call about them from the Jones’ house.”

  “Whose?”

  “Leah Jones’ parents.” He waits until I nod then locks the door, shuts it and double checks it.

  When Hayden climbs in, I say, “I’m not going there.” He waits a minute before he closes the door but doesn’t look at me.

  “Okay.” The inflection he uses says he is waiting for more.

  “Please, just take me to get an apartment.”

  Hayden grips the wheel and sighs. “You don’t want to be at someone else’s mercy, do you?”

  “How did...?” We look at each other and I realize I’m just that, at his mercy.

  “If I promise it will be easy, one night? They want you. They’ll take care of you. If I promise?”

  “Whatever, Hayden. I’ll stay there one night.”

  “Anyway, I don’t think you can get an apartment without a co-signer or credit check.”

  If he smiles with satisfaction, I’ll know he was just pressing to get his way. I watch him several minutes.

  He doesn’t.

  Chapter 15

  Leah’s parents’ neighborhood looks brand new. Each yard has a budding tree or two, but they are only about my height. Every enormous house, differing by a slight hue of color, looms over a tiny yard. I feel exposed, like people are standing from their towers watching us. Hayden parks his truck in front of a soft green two-story, but Leah stands across the street talking with a man bent over a cane.

  “Take care, Leland.” She looks left and right, and then crosses the street like a kindergartener. Her long, denim skirt restricts her steps to short paces. She moves fast, though, by swinging her arms as she run-walks. Smooth, pale skin frames rosy cheeks. It makes her look as though she is standing in snow, not the seventy-degree weather of mid-May in Reno. Her brown eyes are alive and bright. Leah must really love Hayden.

  “Welcome.” Leah calls as she approaches us. “My parents are still riding their bikes.” She grabs hold of her skirt, lifts it about a half-inch and prances up the front lawn, stepping on the grass. I picture a sweet, old couple riding on a tandem bike. Sappy.

  Hayden and I walk up the driveway and follow her through a large door with decorative glass at the top. As soon as I step inside, a disturbing picture directly ahead halts me. It’s an old-looking prison gate, inset in crumbling stone. There’s a dull light emanating from inside and it casts a depressing shadow in the foreground. A small woman crouches in the corner, her shoulders are bare and they slope with burden.

  “Don’t stand on the doorstep. Come in. Come in.” Leah laughs and steps between me and the framed picture.

  We step inside and crowd into a three-foot square of tile. Hayden and Leah kick off their shoes immediately and he follows her up a stairway to the left. His movements are so swift, he must have done the same action a thousand times. Taking off my shoes feels too friendly; I’m not family. But if I break the rules of the house, what kind of a guest will I be? I fiddle with my backpack shoulder straps, tightening and releasing.

  “Take your shoes off and come up.” Hayden reaches and stretches from the top of the stairs and I hear a light popping sound from his joints. He’s at home here.

  I use the front of each foot to push down a heel. The stair carpet is soft and squishy. I spread my toes as I place one foot in front of the other and mount each step. Pictures cloak the warm yellow wall to my left. Leah and others, with obvious family resemblances pose skiing, at the beach, shooting guns or riding horses. There are a few traditional shots with a large family. Most are of outdoor activities.

  At the top of the stairs is a bright room with sunny walls and large windows.

  “It’s my night to make dinner.” Leah trots into the kitchen. “I thought I’d make enchiladas,” she lowers her eyes, “Hayden.”

  “Excellent.” He claps his hands and rubs them eagerly.

  Ah, she cooks, too. I want to leave. The walls and ceiling laugh. It feels like an earthquake.

  “Oh, my parents are home,” Leah says from around the corner in the kitchen.

  “Come on down, I’ll show you their Harleys.” Hayden darts like a coyote down the stairs. Harleys?

  At the bottom of the stairs, I’m not sure which way to turn. Hayden’s voice comes from a door near the stairs. I turn the handle slowly and peek out.

  In the center of a perfectly swept and organized garage stands the main singer guy from Hayden’s church. Smiling at me from just behind him is the lady from the piano. She looks a little like Leah but with short, wavy hair. She slips off a smallish black helmet with a swirly Celtic sticker, and the top of her hair is more grey than dark brown. Her cheeks are as flushed and rosy as Leah’s were when Leah looked at Hayden.

  “Welcome, Sparrow.” The man switches his helmet from under his right arm to his left and offers me his right hand. “I’m Bryan, this is my wife, Janet.”

  He lets me get a good grip before he shakes. His hand is soft like a woman’s and warm. Then he and Hayden launch into a conversation about gas mileage and torque.
/>   “Come, Sparrow,” Janet says. She sets her helmet down and links my arm into hers. I stumble a little at the doorway, but she doesn’t let go. We walk up the stairs side by side while she asks things like my age, school and whether or not I like enchiladas. I try to deflect her questions vaguely, except the enchilada one—since I know Leah is making them.

  “Yes. I like them.”

  She doesn’t let me off. “So you didn’t finish high school then?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Do you have a job?”

  Great, now where am I going to sleep tonight? “Yeah. Does Leah need help there in the kitchen?” I start to make my way.

  “Oh, no. I’ll go make a salad in a minute.” She sits on the couch and points to a cushion near her. “Where do you work?”

  I swallow and try to imagine that I hear Hayden and Bryan coming inside. She waits expectantly.

  “A bar?” When it finally comes out, I hear the question as though I’m not sure where I work—or I’m not sure she’ll accept the answer.

  She doesn’t even blink. “Do you like it?”

  That was not the next thing I expected her to say. Maybe “harlot” or “soul stealer,” but certainly not “do you like it?”

  “I guess.” I sit on the couch hoping I don’t wrinkle it. “I mean, I don’t want to do it forever.”

  “I waitressed for years.” Janet smiles and crosses her leg.

  I bet she never did it in a bar, though.

  “It can be good money.” She points behind me. “Do you want to put your backpack in our guest room?”

  “No, thanks.” It feels good to hang on to the straps rather than let my arms dangle at their sides. “I’m comfortable.”

  “Well, Sparrow, I love your name.” She stands. “Let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

  We walk down a hallway on the opposite side of the kitchen. “This is the bathroom.” She indicates the first door on the left.

  At the end of the hall there are two opposing doors. “Leah’s here.” She taps the door on her left with a long fingernail. “And you’ll be in here.” She turns the handle and pushes the door in without stepping inside.