by Amber Foxx
“Fucked-up way of getting food, though.” Jamie frowned, thoughtful, and then laughed, like he had almost forgotten how, not the loud snort-laugh Mae was used to. “Fucking brilliant. Wish I hadn’t finished mine—I’d like to have seen him steal two. He bloody well needed it more than I do.”
Withdrawing halfway from her trance, Mae felt like she’d missed, taken a wrong turn in time. Sometimes the sight showed her what she needed to know, even when it didn’t answer her question, but she asked again, being more specific this time. What happened to Dusty? How did Jamie find him dying?
She slipped through the tunnel once more, and it pulled her to the river trail, a thin layer of snow along the sides, the dirt dry and clear, the cottonwoods bare. Jamie, still heavy but no longer on crutches, rode his bicycle slowly along the path, wearing a soft mouse-brown fedora, no helmet. So was that a lie about having it in storage? He just didn’t wear one. Mae silenced her judgment, focused on the vision.
Approaching the dark place under the bridge, Jamie dismounted and said to the shadows, “So this is where you swag out.”
He rolled the bike under the bridge and propped it against the tunnel wall behind some large rocks. Seated on a single dirty pink-and-white fuzzy blanket was the boy who had stolen the leftovers. He wore too little clothing for the weather, and his fair skin was almost blue with cold. He said nothing to Jamie, who nodded at the blanket.
“Got lice, or is it safe if I sit? I hate fucking bugs.”
Dusty scratched, and Jamie grinned, sat on a rock.
“Listen, mate, I think you’re new in town. Am I right?” No answer. Jamie continued. “The river’s not the place any more. There’s a good shelter, d’you know about it? On Cerrillos, right near a bus stop.” He reached in his pocket, brought out a bus pass and offered it to the boy. “Place with dinosaurs on the roof, used to be a pet store, can’t miss it. You could come in, get warm, get a meal.”
“I’m a free man.” Dusty solemnly placed a fist to his chest. He had a Southern accent not unlike Mae’s, the twang of Appalachia. “I’m not going in.”
“Jeezus. It’s only food. You like to swag out in the cold, do it. Just an offer, y’know?”
“If you were a white man, I’d kill you.”
Jamie let out the full-volume hah-and-snort laugh. “Bloody hell, you do think you’re Geronimo. I’ll bet you’ve never killed a white man in your life. You are a white man.”
Dusty shook his head. “I’m an Indian.”
“And I’m a bloody Chinese.” Jamie stood, shifted his hips as if sore and stiff, and sat back down. “What’s your blood quantum? What’s your tribe? One sixty-fourth Cherokee?”
The boy sounded contemptuous. “I’m a full-blood Apache.”
“Fuck. No wonder you won’t go in. You think you’ll get committed.” Jamie sighed. “Not on any meds, are you?”
Dusty stood, raised his arms toward the roof of his bridge cave, and chanted in nonsense syllables. Chest thrust out, facing Jamie, the boy dropped his arms and fell silent. He touched his beads, and then the feathers in his hat. “I have hawk medicine.”
“Right. Keeps you safe on your raids. You can see from the sky, fly in on your prey.”
The boy stared at Jamie, and with a slow dawning of trust, smiled and nodded.
“Beats being locked up and drugged,” Jamie said softly. “I get it. But it’s cold. You need a better swag.” The boy frowned. “Camp. Gear. That’s your swag. And you need warmer clothes, something.”
Dusty sat on his blanket again, back stiff, lips pressed together.
“Yeah, you do.” Jamie pulled his sweater over his head and handed it to the boy, and then unbuttoned his flannel shirt and gave it to him as well, leaving himself in just a T-shirt. He looked partially in shape, thick around the belly but strong in the shoulders and arms. Compared to the boy, he looked healthy. “Can I bring you food? Or do you only like to raid, free man?”
Briefly taking off his feathered hat, the boy slipped the shirt and sweater on. In the too-large clothing, his wiry frame looked even thinner. He lay on his side and curled up, the hat falling over the side of his face.
“What’s your name?” Jamie asked
“Dust and Wind.”
“Jangarrai.” Silence. “It’s Aboriginal.” More silence. “I’d give you my gadia name but you might kill me.”
“You don’t think I really can kill people.”
“Dunno. Can you? You got a knife or gun or something?”
“I have this!” The boy spun on his blanket, sitting up so fast he seemed electrified, and flung one arm out, two fingers pointing at Jamie, not like a child playing at guns, but with the palm down, and a wild light in his small blue eyes. “That could have killed you.”
“Felt a little something, yeah. Kind of a spark, right? I get it. The Aboriginal law men, they can do that to you. You need to die, done something bad, they can point a bone at you. Kangaroo bone. And you’re dead. Might take days, but you’re done.” Jamie rose and did the hip shift side to side again. “Hope you didn’t use it full out on me, mate, because I thought I’d bring you dinner if you’re hungry.”
The boy looked intrigued. “Point a bone?”
“Yeah, but not some old bone you get from a dumpster. Don’t try it. You'll turn someone into a chicken. You want food that’s not somebody’s garbage or not?”
“I hunt. I forage. I’m a free man.”
“I’m a good cook.”
“You look it,” Dusty sneered.
“Bloody hell.” Jamie stood and walked with a slight limp to take his bike from its parking place. Finding a small heap of trash at his feet, he shook his head. “Clean this up, mate. Us indigenous people love the earth, y’know? And you never know when you’ll have guests. Some fat bloke might show up with some tucker. Catcha.” He wheeled the bike out from under the bridge, mounted again, and rode off.
The tunnel pulled Mae abruptly to a new vision, the sun shining on the bridge above Dusty’s camp. It was still winter. The snow on the ground was thicker, and a thin trickle of ice-edged water ran though the center of the riverbed. Jamie and a middle-aged, heavy-set, brown-skinned woman half-slid down the trail’s steep bank and paused at the edge of the shadow under the bridge. Although she wore jeans and sneakers, the woman also wore a name badge that suggested she might be with a social services agency, and she carried a large woven bag with the top of a clipboard sticking out of it. Jamie called, “You in here, mate? Brought you a friend. Indian lady wants to talk to you.”
Dusty snatched a backpack, bolted out the other end of the bridge cave, and dashed up the slippery trail and onto the sidewalk at a speed neither of them could hope to match. Jamie, limping, led the social worker into the makeshift camp. “Sorry. Thought he might trust you. But anyway, this is his swag. He might not trust me any more after this.”
“I’ll try again. If he doesn’t move out.”
“Make sure you act like you think he’s Indian. And powerful, like he’s this big shaman.”
“I’ll do what I can to communicate with him.” She looked around. There was nothing under the bridge but the neatly folded blanket. “He keeps it clean, at least.”
They started back out, and Jamie paused. “Stupid question, but—I had this weird conflict, asking you to meet him. I’d be fucking miserable if I didn’t bathe and if I was stealing food and eating out of dumpsters and crap like that, but ... can he be happy? I mean, what if he likes it? He says he’s a free man.”
“You did the right thing. Don’t feel bad about it. When you’re that delusional, you’re not really free.”
The tunnel spun through again, and the image shifted to the garden of the house on Delgado Street. Ruth, smoking, sketched at an easel. She was wearing a heavy sweater and a battered broad-brimmed leather hat. Dusty appeared at the wall. He could barely peer over it, only his head showing.
“This is a private garden, asshole, quit gawking,” Ruth snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Ruth knew Dusty? The image was so startling Mae almost lost her focus, and made an effort to return her mind to its quiet state. She couldn’t afford to lose the momentum. A rapid flow of energy took her back into the garden, this time at night. The plants were leafless, dry stalks. The homeless boy side-stepped in a shuffling dance, arms outstretched, palms up as if he might think he was in an Indian ceremony, circling the statue. Ruth opened the back door and sent her dog out. Dusty darted to the carport and into the alley, the dog rushing after him, barking and growling, stopping at the edge of the property. Then the scene shifted to another night, with snow on the ground, Dusty dancing in the garden, chanting under his breath. Ruth stepped out in a nightgown and sneaked up behind him. Grabbing his wrist, she said, “I’ve called the cops this time. You won’t get away.”
Dusty yanked his arm free and pointed two fingers at her, palm down, as he ran for the wall—a quicker exit than the carport—but she grabbed a large stone and threw it at him. With an athlete’s reflex he caught it. Inside the house, the dog barked as Dusty bolted to the wall, dropped the stone, and used it as a step to vault over, giving a war whoop. It was an amazingly quick and coordinated series of moves, but he landed with a stumble and a cry of pain. Favoring one foot as if he’d twisted his ankle, Dusty scrambled upright and sprinted down the alley like a rocket in spite of his uneven gait.
As Dusty reached the bridge, a single car’s lights appeared, several blocks up Alameda. He swung onto the railing, stood unsteadily on his injured foot, spread his arms, eyes to the sky, whooped like he had when he’d stolen the food—and jumped. As if he had wings. On the snow-slicked rocks, his ankle instantly collapsed. Without a second on his feet to break the impact of the fall, Dusty struck his head on a rock as hard as if he’d been thrown on it. Incredibly, he managed to crawl under the bridge.
While the car’s headlights passed, turning left on Delgado, Dusty lay on his blanket, gasping for breath, and let out a sound like a hawk’s cry.
No pursuit. No flashing lights. Stillness.
Sunrise touched the shadow of Dusty’s camp, and Jamie appeared at the edge of the bridge, wearing a heavy denim jacket, a small backpack, and his brown fedora, walking his bicycle to the riverbank. “G’day, mate. Wake up. I’ve been up all fucking night. Share the joy.”
No answer.
“I can see you in there. Sorry about the social worker, all right? You’re a free man. I’m sorry. Brought you some—”
A small wave ran through Dusty, and Jamie leaned his bike against the abutment of the bridge. “Come on. Wake up. It’s a bad dream.”
The jerking continued, spasms from the center of Dusty’s body, and Jamie limped closer. “Oh, fuck.” He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and made a call. “I’m under the bridge. Delgado and Alameda—there’s this homeless kid lives there—” Jamie dropped to his knees, let go of the phone and grabbed Dusty’s hand. “Oh, Jeezus, mate. No—”
Dusty, his forehead gashed, fluids running from his nose and mouth, jerked again and stopped moving. Jamie’s breathing became rapid and shallow and he froze, still holding the boy’s hand, staring blindly while the voice of the 911 operator called to him, “Sir? We’re sending an ambulance. Are you still there? Can you tell me his condition?”
Mae closed the vision and lay back on the bench, shaken, gazing up into the stars. No wonder she had seen so much. To answer her question, she had to know of Dusty’s delusions. It was what had killed him. He thought he had hawk power. Thought he could fly.
Did Jamie blame himself for not saving the boy? For panicking at the sight of his condition? Maybe it would help him to know no one had pushed Dusty, but it wouldn’t erase the trauma.
And what about Ruth? She hadn’t killed him, but when she threw that rock she might have wanted to. What did she think when she heard the news? She had to have connected the dead body with her trespasser.
The police must have been a far greater threat to Dusty than a social worker. If only he hadn’t been so fast, so scared that he could run right through his pain. He might have feared the police, but maybe if he’d been slower they would have caught him. It would have saved his life.
Haunted, compelled, yet unable to explain to herself the need to do this, Mae locked the house and took the feather to the rail of the bridge. She imagined Dusty’s confused, mad soul as a hawk, taking flight. Then, in a dim, half-formed way, Mae actually saw him with her own wide-open eyes, Dusty, looking back at her with his sharp little eyes. The longer they looked at each other, the more she sensed the ghost was somehow telling her something, though he didn’t speak.
“What is it? What did you need to finish?”
His face seemed to be turning into the beaked face of a bird of prey, his shoulders growing feathers and wings.
“Is that it?”
The form became fainter and more birdlike, and this felt like an answer.
Holding the crystals, Mae blew the feather out on the night breeze and watched it fly. Goodbye to the real boy. Then goodbye to the ghost. “You’re a free man now, Dust and Wind. I’ll tell your friend Jangarrai that you flew.”
The hawk-man shadow rose and disappeared.
Chapter Fifteen
What had happened? In a daze of awe and bewilderment, Mae left the bridge and walked back across Alameda and up Delgado. A ghost. She had actually seen one—and sent it on to finish its passage. There was more to the spirit world than she’d realized. Until now, she’d only touched the edges of a universe vaster and more mysterious than she had imagined. All her visions, remarkable as her psychic gift could be, were of ordinary life, like time travel to the past. Now a hole had opened in the ordinary, and another reality waited beyond it, like the street outside a movie theater.
Letting herself into the house, she heard every small sound, the click of the latch, the thunk of her shoes landing on the doormat, the slap of her bare feet on the hardwood floor, as if she had just discovered her sense of hearing.
How many spirits clung to this house and the land it stood on? She brewed a cup of herbal tea. As she sat and drank it, she gazed around the clean, brightly colored kitchen. Ghosts are real. The house didn’t feel haunted—but then, neither had the river or the bridge. The whole world was probably haunted, if a person had the gift—or curse—to be able to see it. Or if the spirit wanted to be seen.
For the moment, she was glad Jamie didn’t have a working phone, or she would probably have called him, tired as she was, and told him more than he could handle. Ruth calling the police, and Dusty’s jump. The hawk-man-ghost-boy. And her views of the past winter’s Jamie.
Could he explain to her how much he had changed? Except for his humor surfacing at times, Jamie in her visions of Dusty was a different man, and not just physically. He was not as loud or as fidgety, and didn’t flip moods into wild highs, snapping temper, and crashing lows. She liked this other Jamie. Maybe that was what depression looked like on him, though, a quiet solidity. Or maybe that was what health looked like, when he ate and slept. She couldn’t tell which weight or state of mind was his natural set point, or if he even had one.
Dusty’s death, however, might have been the tipping point. Not just the death itself, but the way, after all he’d done for the boy, Jamie had panicked at the last chance to help. The 911 operator could have talked him through some steps that might have made a difference. If it had been too late and there was nothing he could have done, Jamie still could have tried—if he’d kept his head—and then he’d know he’d done his best. Having a panic disorder wasn’t a failure, of course, it was an illness, but Jamie had a way of blaming himself when things were not his fault.
Pie came into the room and sat at Mae’s feet, looking up at her and mewing.
“Come on up, Sweetiepie,” she said.
The ancient cat didn’t jump up at the invitation, but still sat and mewed. Of course, poor thing. She didn’t have that much spring left in her old legs. Mae lifted her, surprised again by Pie’s
delicacy, her weightlessness, nothing but fur and bones. Could Jamie have been right that Pie still needed further healing? She seemed to have forgotten the trauma of Ruth Smyth’s dog, but maybe it was still stuck in the back of her little mind somehow. Jamie certainly knew more about trauma than Mae did. He’d been in a hospital six times in the past ten years or so.
And he’d only mentioned three broken bones. The numbers didn’t match. She still didn’t have his whole story. Three major chapters missing, though she could guess at their nature.
Carrying the cat, Mae got a quartz point from her pouch of crystals. She sat with Pie in her lap and stroked her with the crystal, letting it rest in places that seemed to need attention. An image of Ruth’s orangey-brown Chow dog, barking snappishly, face down near its front paws, as seen from under a chair or sofa, hovered briefly and faintly in Mae’s mind, then faded. Pie stretched and purred. Either trauma didn’t cling as deep in the feline brain as in the human, or Jamie had, in his loving attention, been a healer. Though the better Mae knew him, the less that seemed possible.
What would she see if she tried to heal Jamie? Probably more than she could handle. He needed a psychologist, not an energy healer. For that he needed money. She had to get him signed up with Wendy; he was clearly incapable of managing his own career. Even Niall, who wouldn’t talk about him, had said that much.
Pie began punching contentedly with her claws, nesting on Mae’s thigh. It was annoying but she didn’t want to reject the recently healed, de-traumatized cat. “Stop it, Pie.” Mae shifted gently, and Pie clung.
Mae carried her as she went to the laundry room and put Jamie’s sweatshirt in with her clothes that needed washing, so she could give it back to him the next morning. That shirt would fit the “fat bloke” post-injury Jamie she had seen in her visions. Who literally gave Dusty the shirt off his back.
She shook the thought off. Time out from him. He wasn’t in the house, finally. Could she get him out of her head, too? As she started the load of laundry, she imagined dropping her brain into it and washing out Jamie.
