Devil and the Bluebird

by Jennifer Mason-Black

  “Music. Dancing. Light.” He pointed at the lantern, at the many lanterns hung from rafters. “Food. Company. Magic.”

  Not long after, the emcee took the floor. It was the same woman who’d marked out the dance floor. She had a deep voice, rich as a cup of melted butter, dark skin, topaz eyes.

  “Welcome to Barn Magic,” she said, glancing around the crowd that had gathered. “I could say a whole lotta things here, but this isn’t the time, is it?”

  A chorus of “Hell, no!” and “We’re here to play!” greeted her. She grinned, widely enough to show she was missing teeth, too, a few along one side.

  “Didn’t think so, beauties, didn’t think so at all. Just gonna run down the rules, though, case anyone’s forgotten them. This is a squeaky clean event, my friends. What that means is, if y’all feel a need to do something to drown this here experience, you gotta go. No drink, no drugs, no disrespect to anyone you see here. Understand?”

  More shouting, an ocean of good-natured joshing that the emcee smiled through. “Chili’s here on the stove. You got something to share, something to add to the pot, you come right up here and add it. You been hungry, you come and take some. No one here gonna begrudge you any of it. We all been hungry, every single one of us.” Her eyes lit on Blue for a moment, held her steady in their gaze. “We all know what it’s like to need. And as for the rest,” she said, turning a full 360 to look at her congregation, “those rules are simple. Play like this is the end, and like it’s the beginning. Play your story, and don’t leave out none of the pieces. Remember that the devil is the one who tells you to play a tune that’s not your own, and you can drive him right on out into the cold by playing what’s in your soul. Begin.”

  Blue felt as though someone had wrapped her in the warmest coat she’d ever worn, raised her right up into the summer sun. It didn’t matter that she was a stranger here; she knew she belonged.

  At first, the music was a little of everything, as individuals stood up and did short solos. Voice, fiddle, guitar, rhythm played on legs, on buckets, on spoons. Instruments—there were far fewer of them than of players—were passed freely through the crowd. Some players were more skilled than others, but everyone was applauded.

  After a while, there were hands on Blue’s back, urging her forward. She’d never played in front of a real crowd, especially not in front of musicians, and she hesitated, right up until the emcee crooked her finger at her.

  “Here we have Little Boy Blue.” Blue looked straight at her, a razor shot of fear zipping through her before she realized she had the blue peacoat on. “What you got inside you to show us?”

  She had a glimpse of faces, of shadows stretching up the walls, of her own fingers trembling as she tried to tune the guitar. She tried to think of anything Mama might have said about playing for real, but she’d never given Blue any instructions about it. Tish, on the other hand, had told her that when she was starting out she’d coped by imagining she was playing for a candle flame. So that was what Blue thought of, the way a flame bends with a breeze, with breath, how the color changes from base to tip. Candle, candle, candle, she thought, until the guitar was ready.

  She launched into “Bluebird” without even thinking. Every now and then she caught her lips moving, singing words that didn’t come. All the way through, ending with a little flourish, something she’d made up.

  Everyone clapped. She felt she’d never heard applause before, never understood it at all. It reverberated inside her, shook everything loose from the shelves she’d tucked it away on. It wasn’t until she’d made her way back to Dill that she realized she was crying.

  “Okay?” He touched the skin beneath her right eye, gentle as snow.

  It made her cry more. She kept on crying, through the rest of the talent show, right on into the break as people ate chili from paper cups, and a band formed at the front of the barn. Dill didn’t say more. He just stood beside her, his hand brushing hers, almost like he was holding it. She didn’t want anything more, just the bump of his skin against hers from time to time.

  She finally took her notebook back out of her pocket.

  Weirdest date ever, right?

  He read the words, looked at her, puzzled. Not puzzled like someone trying to understand something theoretical; more, he seemed confused right down deep inside. She remembered who she was supposed to be, who he really was.

  “Interstate, I . . . I . . . This . . .” Before he could go further, a banjo kicked into high gear. The emcee was fronting the band, her hands bringing the banjo to life. The crowd pushed out toward the walls as dancers took to the floor.

  Why had she said date? She knew it wasn’t like that. Homeless kids drifting along didn’t have dates. Or did they? Being lost, being scared, that didn’t make everything else go away. Even Anne Frank, locked up in those secret rooms somewhere, had had a crush, had been kissed. Not having an address didn’t take away your right to want to be in love.

  An older woman came by and took Dill’s hand; off they went, dancing some country step that Blue didn’t know. Same with the next dance, and the next, and soon Blue settled back into the shadows and watched.

  After a while, a new group arrived. Two women and two men, all nicely dressed. The banjo woman nodded when she saw them, played through to the end of the song, and then stopped. “We’re gonna break for a few and let our good friends from Emmie’s do their work.”

  One of the newcomers moved forward, up to the spot the band had vacated. She cleared her throat, the sound lost amid the conversations and restless feet. The banjo woman reappeared, put two fingers in her mouth, and gave a piercing whistle. The other woman smiled at her.

  “I think most of you know us and are familiar with the resources in the area.” She was tall, straight-backed, hands moving as she spoke. “Those of you here tonight must not be staying in shelters, because you’ve all missed curfew.”

  A few boos, a few hoots. She studied the crowd before continuing. “We’ve been working on some of the issues brought up in our meeting. Bedbugs are better in some facilities—”

  “It’s not just bedbugs,” a woman shouted from the back of the room. “You try getting rid of lice if you got no space to call your own.”

  “Not just that,” a man chimed in. “Try getting anyone to take you in for a night or two if you got bugs. Just not happening.”

  A buzz of agreement. The woman at the front nodded. “We understand that. That’s why we’re trying to address your concerns everywhere, not just with one or two locations. In the meantime, we’re concerned about the number of you who are staying out in the cold. Winter’s come early, and hard. Snow tonight, snow tomorrow, big storm coming.”

  “Ain’t snowing in here. Downright hot,” someone shouted, and the applause spread through the barn.

  “Can’t stay here permanently,” the banjo woman called. “Barn Magic works because we come and go.”

  “It’s a crime, though, leaving these houses to fall apart, when we could be living in them.”

  The long-haired woman smiled again. “The politics need to hold off for now. We’re focused on keeping everyone warm and alive through the winter.”

  “Ain’t politics when you’re the one without,” corrected the banjo woman. “It’s life.”

  The long-haired woman nodded. “You’re right. Bad choice of words.”

  The banjo woman spoke again. “Emmie’s House does good work, folks. Y’all know that. We gotta correct them when they’re wrong, but we do it with love.”

  Then Dill was at Blue’s shoulder, leading her to the line for food. Some people had brought cups of their own; some had plastic spoons with their name written on the handle. Blue took a paper cup from a woman with a ladle and ate the chili quickly, wolfishly hungry.

  The music began again, a new song, sweet and slow, starting up. She took Dill’s hand.

  “Um, listen, you’re a lot younger and—”

  She pulled him, ignoring the words, thinking instead abo
ut the feel of his palm on hers. The air around the dancers smelled of bodies, of smoke, of earth and dust and snow. She put Dill’s hand on her hip, ignoring everything but what she could feel: the solidity of his back under her touch, the quick breath he took when she rested her head against his shoulder, when she leaned close. The music within him, like bagpipes over hills, calling, searching.

  “Interstate?”

  She didn’t lift her head. There was no time for everything that would have to happen if they talked. Instead, there was now, this moment, the music and the warmth and being alive, so alive that her entire body sang, too, a song she was sure he could hear.

  Blue and Dill danced to every song from that point on, winging arms, wiggling hips, laughing at each other. Finally, as more and more people settled into the old horse stalls, bundled together in groups of three to four, they held hands and made for the door.

  A hand on Blue’s arm stopped her in her tracks. The banjo woman’s topaz eyes were even paler in the waning light as the lanterns were turned down.

  “You two gonna take care, right? You know about the roads, about the Traveler, know not to take rides with anyone you don’t know?”

  A swirl of air brought with it the smell of smoke, of heat, of sweetness and loss. Blue stared at the woman, not sure how she’d missed it before. Was this a threat or a warning? Had the woman in the red dress been here all along, or had she simply taken control of the emcee in the same way she’d taken Blue’s voice?

  Dill answered her. “We’re fine. I’m driving. We’re safe.”

  Someone called to the emcee and she turned away. Blue looked at Dill, eyebrows raised.

  “The word is that there’s someone killing street kids. It’s been happening for years, but it’s getting worse. They call him the Traveler cause he passes through a lot of places.” He glanced back. “Hang on a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  Blue stood by the door. Someone killing street kids. When she left Maine, she wouldn’t have thought twice about that. Now, it raised the hair on her arms.

  She looked back toward the dance floor. What light remained shone on a small group of musicians. None looked familiar. They must have all come late, and they played quietly now, people walking past them. A little man strummed guitar, his build as wiry as his hair. Something was painted on his instrument. She moved a few steps closer to see.

  “This Machine Kills Fascists.” It was a weird thing to paint on a guitar, but she kind of liked it. It made the music feel tough, like Rosie the Riveter flexing her muscles in that old poster.

  Dill reappeared and led her out the door. Blue wanted more light, some way to communicate. Up in the sky stretched a band of stars like a crack in the night; and for a moment, her voice showed through there. She almost believed that if she could reach high enough, hold on hard enough, she could drag it back through to her. She held one hand up, but saw only her fingers.

  She played with the radio as they drove back, looking for a song that summed things up, only she’d never heard a song that encompassed “the night you thought I was a fifteen-year-old boy hitting on you and I turned out to be a seventeen-year-old girl.” It wasn’t until they reached the parking spot for Beyond that she pushed away her jitters and touched his wrist.

  He turned slowly. “Listen, Interstate—”

  She leaned over, bumped against his shoulder, managed to get her lips half on his cheek, half on his mouth. He didn’t move either closer or away—just held steady until she pulled back.

  “Crap,” he said at last.

  She opened the door and stepped out. She didn’t know what she was doing. Better to get back to Andrea, scurry down into the hole, hide there until it was time to leave.

  “Wait.”

  She paused.

  “I . . . This is really confusing. And wrong, wrong is the biggest thing. You’re a lot younger than I am, and you’re in a bad place. I guess I’ve been making things worse. I brought you tonight because . . . I think I’m as confused as you. You keep feeling different to me. Like someone older. I should probably just go.”

  She hadn’t expected Dill to be the one fumbling for words. For once the lack of a voice appealed to her. She could think about what to say, rather than charge in.

  She went back to the car, opened a door for some light, wrote quickly.

  I’m a girl. 17. Thought it would be safer to travel like this.

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Um. Well. Do you have a real name, too?”

  It’s a secret. Someday, if you’re lucky.

  More important, if she was.

  “Okay. Okay, this night has been—” He stopped talking and took a step toward her. “Can we try this all again? Starting right about the point where you asked me to dance?”

  She cupped her ear.

  “No music? That’s easy enough.” Dill hummed at first, then started to sing. “Waltzing Matilda”—a little weird, but that was okay. He put his hand on her back, the other on her hip, and moved them through the snow. His voice vanished as he leaned close and touched his lips to hers, warm and cold all at once.

  No, it didn’t matter if you had an address, a name, anything. You didn’t need anything but another person to feel love.

  The next morning she woke, groggy and grumpy, then remembered dancing with Dill.

  “You were out late” was all Andrea said as she helped Lacey get her boots on before heading up.

  Blue nodded. She took out her guitar, her mind on Dill and Barn Magic. Lacey was fussing for the outside, and Andrea nudged her toward the door.

  Blue plucked a string or two. A kiss. Just one kiss, one simple little thing, but it made her feel different. Her lips tightened into a smile as she strummed. He’d be back in the afternoon, and she had something she wanted to play for him. Time to practice. First, she needed a capo.

  She opened the little box inside the case. The capo was there. Her keepsake bag wasn’t.

  Fuck. If she could have screamed it, she would have. Was it at the barn? Had it fallen out there? Or while she was dancing—had someone stolen it out of the case? It wasn’t as though anything in it was of importance to anyone other than her.

  It was hers, though. Her past. Her things. Her only means of identifying herself.

  The license.

  If someone had stolen the bag, then someone knew her name. She put the guitar down, reached for a boot. She’d put them on, go up, figure out whether there was some way to contact Dill, get him to take her back to the barn.

  As she tightened the laces, she glanced at her pillow. A fine line of red velvet showed like blood beneath it. Her bag.

  She grabbed it and dumped the contents out. Everything was there. All of it. It must have fallen out yesterday, before she left, and she just hadn’t noticed it. Andrea had picked it up and put it under her pillow.

  Right?

  Only, inside something gnawed at her, something with the soft clicking teeth of the man in the blue shirt. Had Andrea looked inside? Fury hit Blue like a storm channeled straight into the hole. One kiss. It wasn’t fair. She’d gotten one kiss and now she’d have to leave, because of Andrea’s snooping.

  The anger pulsed through her, head to toe, as she left the tunnel. Andrea, digging into things when she shouldn’t, being nosy. She had no right to do that.

  Andrea was heating water on the little cookstove outside. Blue balanced her guitar on her toes while she wrote.

  You looked in my bag?

  Andrea looked hurt. “No. Lacey found it, and we put it on your bed.”

  You sure?

  “No. It belongs to you.”

  Just as fast, the relief came. She picked up her guitar, a little light-headed as she bent over. Dill would come, and she still had weeks, and everything would be fine.

  “But . . . the first day, when you were asleep in the car.” Not anger this time. Dread. “I looked at your license. It was sticking out of your pocket, and I was curious. I know who you are, Blue.”

  Too
many days. Too many, she didn’t even need to count. She could feel it the way dogs feel thunder coming, the way leaves feel the winter’s approach.

  She ran. She didn’t even know where, just ran, hitting a tree as she went. Andrea yelled behind her, and the guitar bounced in its case, and she just kept going. I’m leaving, I’m leaving, let them be.

  She bounced into someone. The woman from the mall called out, startled, as Blue continued past. Running on and on before finally pausing to lean against a tree as she tried to catch her breath.

  Then the crunch of feet in crusty snow. Voices. Men, uniforms, a group, almost to the camp. Her with no voice to scream, to warn. One male voice carried loud through the cold, followed by a wail: the sort of sound that surrounds a heart and stops it, even if you don’t know the source of the pain.

  And if you do?

  Blue ran again. Away, through the trees, out into the snowfield. Her fault. She’d brought this on them. Lacey would be returned to her father. Andrea would go to jail, because who would believe the daughter of a crazy woman against a family of cops.

  And it was her fault. Blue’s. The one who’d left her license where it could be seen. The one who’d stayed when she should have gone.

  By the time she reached the road, her lungs burned. She knelt in the snow, coughing. Her knees were wet when she stood, the wind cutting through the damp patches as if she wore nothing.

  She wanted to run back, do something, but what? She couldn’t stop what was happening. In fact, she could only make it worse. The woman in the red dress would destroy them all.

  She’d lost everything that mattered. Mama. Cass. Home. Her voice. More, too—Steve, she’d lost him, and Dill, and Tish long ago. Lost, over and over. All she’d wanted was the chance to see Cass again, to hear her say I missed you, I forgive you.

  Cass had left because Blue found the letters, read through them all. Blue had run into their room with them, told Cass that her father was Rick Rafael, lead singer for Device. He was the epitome of a rock star—and as unlike Mama as Blue could imagine. Only, Cass had wanted to see the letters, had latched on to what Blue had overlooked.