Devil and the Bluebird

by Jennifer Mason-Black

  If she ever met Steve’s parents, she’d be sure to tell them her name, too.

  You have me. I you.

  And if he had her, did she have him, too? Was there a future in which they would talk about the time they’d ridden a ghost bus into Chicago, only to be captured by human traffickers?

  Crap. She jerked away.

  “What?”

  You heard my name!

  “Yeah. Blue. It’s pretty.”

  He didn’t understand.

  I told it to Rat because I want her to get him—the woman in the red dress. But now you know.

  “So?”

  Still he didn’t see it.

  So she’ll get you too, unless—like being swept over a giant waterfall, no way to turn back—I leave you.

  “Leave?” As if getting up and walking out of the room were an option, Blue simply leaving him behind.

  We have to get out of here together, but . . .

  She’d done it for nothing. If she and Steve got away from Rat, the woman in the red dress would still come for Steve.

  She examined the room around her. A bucket in the corner with a garbage bag laid over it. A gallon jug three quarters filled with water. And, coiled on the floor, a pair of chains with a manacle on one end, and a hook attached to the wall on the other.

  They had to get out.

  At some point the TV changed from sports to entertainment. “This year’s Major Chord has a lot of surprises in store.” Blue leaned forward to peer through the hole in the wall. The smiling face of the man in the blue shirt was stretched across the screen. “We’ve brought together talent from the heart of America, places your viewers will recognize as their own neighborhoods.” His smile broadened, revealing his teeth. “Remember, anyone can rise to the top. Hard work is all it takes.”

  If that were true, Blue thought, Mama and Tish would have been superstars.

  The interviewer, her ribs visible where her dress plunged down from her bony shoulders, gave a plastic smile. “That’s good news for all of us excited for the new season. Of course, the band Forgotten Highway is stirring real interest. Who can resist true love? Jed and Jill are just made for each other, aren’t they?”

  They switched to a shot of Jed emerging from a limo, Jill just behind him. His hair had been streaked and it gave him a surfer look. Different band name, different hair, fake romance—what remained of Mr. Chicken? Was that part of what they were giving up?

  No, Blue knew the real answer. She scanned the sidewalk for Bet. It took a minute to find her, but there she was, in a long skirt and a long-sleeved shirt, looking overdressed in the glaring sunshine. She smiled awkwardly as she was pushed to the side.

  “So that wraps up our coverage of Major Chord for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll be back to recap the opening show, plus take an in-depth look at mystery girl C. R. Smith. We’ll also reveal the final judge for this season, and boy, it’s a big one! Next up, a taste of country cooking with country music sensation Twylee Mathers.”

  When Blue moved back, she bumped into her pack. The things Florida had pulled out and shoved back in spilled out over the floor.

  Steve fingered the worn training bra, looked at her. She took it away, rubbed it between her fingers.

  It was

  Blue paused, scratched out the words.

  My mom died of cancer. Before she did, I think she tried to do all the things she thought she’d miss out on with us. My big sister Cass needed a bra. I was 9 . . . well, I still don’t really need much of one. Anyway, Mama said we’d buy me one too, just in case.

  Only it had been much more than that. The three of them had gone to Sears on a Sunday. Mama’d brushed aside the salesclerk and led them through the lingerie as if it were her natural habitat, as if beneath her clothes she wore exotic things, not cotton underwear with worn elastic and a sports bra.

  Mama and Cass had tried on padded bras, and leopard-print bras, and, accidentally, a nursing bra that made them all laugh until they cried. After Cass had made her choice, they went to the girls’ section. In among the bags of neatly rolled underwear and paired socks, they found three different training bras. “Go on, Bluebird. Pick the one you like the most,” Mama said.

  She’d picked this one. Plain white cotton, with a narrow strip of trim around the band. She liked the feel of that trim under her fingers, and she liked the smile Mama gave her when she chose it. And now it lived in her bag of treasures, because sometimes a bit of cloth could feel like love.

  Steve cleared his throat while she brushed at her eyes. “And these?”

  The letters. It made her a little sick to look at them.

  They’re for my sister. They were from her father to our mother.

  “You mean, your sister’s father wasn’t yours?” Steve stammered a little.

  My mom got pregnant on the road. She was a musician. The guy was too, only a big name. They didn’t stay together. She decided she didn’t want Cass to be alone, so along came Donor 707. I don’t know anything abt him, other than he was good at science.

  “What do you know about your sister’s father?”

  More than she wanted to. More than she should have. If only she hadn’t gone looking. Sometimes you do stupid things for stupid reasons, like wanting to get someone’s attention, only in getting their attention you rip the kite that is your life right off its frame so it collapses on the ground.

  Not much.

  Not long after, Rat took a call. Once he’d finished, he spoke to the others. “We’re gonna have to drop them off for Val. Florida, go out and get your smokes. The boys can get the van ready to go. We get this done and I can get home to my old lady.”

  Blue tapped Steve on the shoulder as everyone but Rat left. This was it. If they didn’t get out now, they never would.

  In the dim light, she could see Steve nod, face pale. No way to write everything out. She had to trust that he’d follow her lead. First step: she dropped to the floor and, hands gripping her stomach, began to roll.

  Steve grunted as she banged against him. Rat leaned back, trying to see them. “What the hell’s going on in there?”

  “Nothing,” Steve said, just enough fear in his voice. Blue kicked the plastic bucket, the handle clanging against the wall.

  “Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Rat came to the hole in the wall, a floor lamp in his hand. “What’s she doing?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been having this pain off and on for a couple days.” From the corner of her eye she could see them both staring at her. She rolled farther, mouth open in a moan that couldn’t come. Farther in. He had to come farther in.

  “She been screwing around? Knocked up?”

  “No. I thought it was getting better, but this is even worse.”

  Another roll, almost all the way to the wall. She arched her back, waited, the chain along the curve of her waist.

  Rat walked toward her. “What’s going on with you, Blue Riley?” He bent down.

  She had one goal, every muscle in her body moving toward it. She took the chain in her hands and rolled to the other side, her arms rising to loop it over his head. He jumped too fast, the chain sliding down his body and tightening near his knees, not his neck. She jerked. He fell.

  In her mind, it was smooth and quick, and ended with Rat tied up and her and Steve running away. He fell on top of her, though, one knee driving into the underside of her forearm, one hand on her hair.

  “Fucking bitch,” he hissed. Before she could move, he sat up on her, hands around her neck. “I don’t care if I leave marks.” His hands tightened.

  She pressed her feet on the floor and pushed up, trying to unseat him. He didn’t budge, too much weight for her to move. Her hands rose of their own accord, scrabbling at his arms to no avail. As the pressure built in her head, her vision filled with flashes of light.

  Then there was a dull thud, like a down pillow swung hard. Rat’s hands loosened and she drew an agonized breath. Another thud, and he rolled off. Blue looked up and saw o
ne of her boots swing past to catch Rat in the ribs. Her boot on Steve’s foot.

  It hurt to breathe, but she sucked in great lungfuls of air anyway. Another thud sounded, only this time it was mixed with the splintery crack of green wood. Rat gave a gasp, as much pain as air in it.

  She looked over. Rat lay curled on the floor. Steve stood next to him, staring down in disgust. Not at Rat. At his own feet in her boots, and at the dark spots that spattered them. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Rat shifted slightly. The blood on his face distracted her from what she should have seen: his hand curling around the chain beside him. By the time she noticed, it was already too late.

  She yelled. Nothing came, of course. Instead, she heard the chain sliding through the air and hitting Steve’s legs.

  Steve dropped to his knees, surprised. Rat was up, his hand swinging again. This time the chain caught Steve across the cheek. His hand went up to where the blood ran down, the drops falling from his chin.

  Rat tightened both hands around a length of chain. “Stupid fucking idiots. You really think the two of you are going somewhere? Not the way you want. I think one of you’s headed to Val looking ugly”—he bent down beside Steve, as if to help him—“and one’s headed in a box.”

  He dropped the chain over Steve’s head, drew his hands together behind Steve’s neck.

  Blue jumped. Up, forward, straight into Rat. She grabbed the little fingers on his hands and tried to pull them back. Steve’s hands scratched at the floor, his mouth open in a silent gasp. Blue let go of Rat’s hands, ripped back the collar of his T-shirt, and sank her teeth into his shoulder.

  He dropped the chain and spun. She jumped away, spitting out his blood as she went. Get up, Steve! she wanted to yell, but could do nothing more than stomp her foot before Rat came at her again.

  She ran into the other room. Her foot snagged in the extension cords and she grabbed the stem of a lamp to catch herself. Then Rat was there, and she was swinging the lamp with both hands. His nose gave under the impact with a crunch. Everything was the color of blood now. She froze, but Steve was suddenly beside her.

  “Come on!” he yelled. She obeyed, pausing only to grab what she’d been watching for the whole time. The guitar case in hand, she ran after Steve. Behind them Rat was giving gurgling cries, but they kept going down the hall, through the dark, to the door. Into the night, into the alley, and beyond.

  It wasn’t until they had left the alley far behind that Blue realized how many things she didn’t have. A coat. Her pack. Her boots. No, Steve had her boots, but that left her in socks. She was shaking, not just from the cold. She looked behind them, saw no one, stopped. The adrenaline came up as a wave of bile from her stomach, and she spat it out on the street.

  “Keep moving,” Steve said. “They’ll find us.”

  She followed him. Her keepsake bag, all her things: she’d left them back there. Along with what it was like to never have been hit and to never have hit someone back.

  They kept going. The streetlights were on, and above the sky glowed orange. Every so often, water splashed her face. Snowflakes. Just a few, but it wouldn’t take many when you had no shoes, no coat.

  No notebook. She couldn’t even talk. There was nothing to do but keep moving forward.

  Even her ability to do that was fading, fast. Her neck hurt, and her feet were numb, and she would have done anything to be warm, only she was sure she would never be warm again.

  Looking at Steve didn’t help. Scarlet marks ringed his neck, the outline of the chain links clear on the white skin. Scarlet on his face, too, and on the collar of his shirt. Blood dripped from his cheek.

  “It’s okay,” he chanted. She bumped against him, and he didn’t even look at her, just continued on, walking, repeating. Shock, she thought, the word floating through her mind and out again, to be replaced by Cold, and Tired, and Are they behind us?

  Dark and noise—cars driving by, people shouting to one another, music coming from somewhere. Music. Lou had said that musicians look after one another. Blue took Steve’s hand, headed toward the sound.

  The cheerful bounce of ragtime on a piano rang out from somewhere above them. From somewhere behind came the slap of running feet. Blue grabbed Steve’s hand and yanked him toward her, pressing them both against a door.

  The footsteps died away. Above her the piano continued to play. She tried the doorknob. Locked. A little brass plaque on the wooden frame read NELL BROADHURST CENTER. Blue banged on the door, hard. Nothing. There was a buzzer set to the side. She hit it.

  “We’re closing up,” came a lush voice, the piano in the background.

  Please hovered on her lips, could go no further. She began to cry, silently, leaning against the frame. Please.

  Steve stirred beside her. She looked at him. “Please,” he said. “We’re hurt and we need help. Please let us in.”

  Silence. Blue clenched her fist to her mouth, as if her screams might come out, as if the world would hear them if they did. Then, from somewhere inside, came the tap of high heels on the floor, the click of the door opening. A brown-skinned woman in a green dress stood there, her red lips opening, speaking.

  “Babies, you better come in. Let me see what’s happened to you.”

  Inside, the world stuttered along like snapshots instead of film. Someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and put an ice pack on her neck. Someone else was talking about Steve and stitches, about ERs and sympathetic doctors. Steve talking, too, his voice raspy, whispery, saying “She can’t talk,” saying “Please no,” not saying her name, not to them. Saying something else instead—“Interstate”—and she absorbed it all, the warmth, the quiet, the gentleness.

  “I don’t want to leave her.” Steve, close by.

  The woman again. “Baby, you gotta get that cheek taken care of. She’ll be safe here. Javier’ll look after her.”

  She looked at Steve. Suddenly a little cloth-bound notebook with a unicorn on the front and a silver pen were pressed into her hands. “You need it more than I do,” said the woman, smelling of clove and roses as she held her warm hand against Blue’s cheek.

  Blue took the notebook.

  Will you be OK? Who are they?

  “It’s okay. They understand,” Steve said.

  “He doesn’t want to leave that cheek open, hon. Scars are butch and all, but he doesn’t need them to be handsome, does he?”

  Blue nodded. She wanted to say something more—anything, really, anything made with her mouth and her tongue and her throat. Not flat words on a page. She took his hand instead, squeezed it, hard, looked at his battered face, and saw . . . lightness. It made no sense, but there it was.

  Steve leaned in closer, his lips to her ear. “Blue, I saved your bag for you. Just the little one with your mom’s stuff in it.” A motion, his hands in his pants, and he pulled the bag free.

  That quick, he was gone, shepherded away by the woman.

  She curled up tight under the blanket and cried. The tears were made of that night, and Rat’s hands on her throat, his mouth on hers, the sound of the chain against Steve’s face, the swinging of the lamp. All of it and more still—Mama, and Cass, and the cold, the endless cold, and not knowing where she was going. And she cried for her voice, her name.

  Her name. She looked up for a clock, found a grandfather one on the far wall. 10:25.

  Next to it sat a man. He was dressed in jeans and a loose denim shirt, with short brown hair and gold hoops in his ears. Javier, she guessed.

  “Hey, don’t be scared.” He had an accent, a soft one that hid between his vowels, swallowed his “h.” “It’s okay. I’m not getting any closer unless you ask me to.”

  She pulled her blanket tighter. The room had faded gold wallpaper, and that grandfather clock, and a fireplace with a bouquet of flowers where the fire should have been. In the middle stood a plain table—the kind you’d find in a classroom—surrounded by chairs, and an upright piano.

  Piano. She looke
d at the man again and mimed hands on a keyboard. He nodded.

  “I was playing. Do you?”

  She shook her head. The guitar—she reached for the handle, her heart slowing as she found it.

  “Take it you’re more of a strings kind of girl?”

  She nodded.

  “How’d you two know to come here? Right place, but we’re hard to find at night.”

  She pointed to the piano.

  “You followed the music? That’s an unusual path to Nellie’s Place.”

  This needed more than she could provide with gestures.

  What’s Nellie’s Place? We needed someplace safe. I heard the music +.

  She paused, feeling very young.

  I thought that since I played guitar you would help us.

  The man gave her a curious look. “You weren’t trying to come here? Tonight—the meeting and all?”

  Meeting?

  “The Transgender Alliance. Liza and I run it.”

  She gave him another look. A man, stubble on his face, a shirt that draped smoothly down his chest. The kind of man Steve might grow up to be.

  “You’re not trans,” he stated.

  Blue shook her head. He leaned forward, resting forearms on his knees. “But your friend is. Can we maybe start from the beginning, so I can see what’s going on?”

  So she wrote it out. Not all of it, of course. Enough that he could understand. It took a couple of pages in the notebook, but he was patient. She sat while he read, letting the blanket droop from her shoulders as she warmed up.

  “Bad news, huh?” He held a hand out to her. She took it tentatively. “I’m Javier. That was Liza who took your friend”—he glanced at the paper—“Steve, to get his face looked at.” He paused, rubbing his jaw as he studied her. “Listen, you maybe should think about talking to the cops. The two of you got worked over pretty good.”

  She shook her head and retrieved the notebook from his grasp.

  We can’t! I can’t.