by Amy Harmon
“Your ethnicity? I thought you told me you weren't Native American.”
“I don't know what the hell I am, but that still sounded like a slam, Sherlock!”
“Why don't you know what you are, Blue? Haven't you ever tried to find out? Maybe that would make you less hostile!” Wilson seemed frustrated. He stomped ahead of me, almost talking to himself. “Absolutely impossible! Having a conversation with you is like trying to converse with a snake! You are vulnerable and tearful one moment and hissing and striking the next. I frankly don't know how to reach you, or even if I want to! I only said totem poles because they are usually carved from wood, all right?” He turned and glared at me.
“Cranky when you stay up past your bedtime, aren't you?” I mumbled.
“See?” he griped, throwing his hands up. “There you go again.” He stopped at his car, his hands on his hips. “I know you are incredibly bright, because when you are not being a smartarse your comments in class are very insightful, and when you ARE being a smartarse you are witty and clever and you make me laugh even when I want to slap you. I know you are either an adrenaline junky or you have more courage than anyone I've ever met, and you know how to unload a weapon. I know you were raised by a man with the name Echohawk. I know you don't know when your real birthday is. I know you have no plans to go to university when you graduate. I know you enjoy being the class clown and making me the butt of your jokes.”
He counted on his fingers. “That's eight things. Oh, and you carve something out of wood. Most likely NOT totem poles, since that seemed to get a reaction out of you. So nine or maybe ten if we count being a smartarse.” He put his hands back on his hips. “I would really like to know more. I don't want to know about the little blackbird who was pushed from the nest. I would like to know something about Blue.” He poked me in the center of my chest, hard, as he said 'Blue.'
“It's a parable,” I whined, rubbing the spot he'd jabbed with his long finger. “My father – Jimmy – used to say I was like a little blackbird, far from home.”
“Eleven things. See? Not so difficult.”
“You're kind of cute when your angry.” I meant to ruffle him, but it came out sounding flirtatious, like something Sparkles, aka Chrissy, would say. I felt stupid and darted a look at him. Luckily, he just rolled his eyes. Funny how you can tell someone is rolling his eyes, even when it's dark and you can barely see them.
Wilson dug into his pockets, feeling in every one. Then he tried his car doors. I could have told him they were all locked, but I wisely remained silent. I suppose that would be twelve things: I can be wise.
“Bollocks!” He pressed his face up against the car window, hands shielding his eyes on either side. “Blast!”
“You have a filthy mouth, Mr. Wilson,” I chided, trying not to laugh. “Isn't saying blast like saying the F word in England?”
“What? No! Bugger, blast and bloody are fairly tame . . . like damn.”
“And bollocks? That sounds downright profane.” It really didn't, but I found I was enjoying myself. “Soon you'll be saying fiddlesticks! I don't think Principal Beckstead would approve.”
“My keys are in the ignition,” Wilson groaned, ignoring me. He straightened and looked down at me soberly. “We're walking, Blue, unless you're willing to admit you have certain skills . . . breaking and entering, perhaps?”
“I don't need skills to break and enter. I just need tools – and I don't have any of them on me,” I retorted flatly. “We could shove your big violin through your car window, though.”
“Always a smartarse,” Wilson turned and began walking toward the road.
“I live about four miles away in that direction,” I offered, hobbling along after him.
“Oh, good. I live six. That means for at least two miles, I will not have to listen to you snipe at me,” Wilson grumbled.
I burst out laughing. He really was cranky.
Chapter Ten
We walked along for several minutes with only the clickety clak of my high-heeled boots to break our silence.
“You'll never make it four miles in those shoes,” Wilson remarked pessimistically.
“I will because I have to,” I retorted calmly.
“A tough girl, eh?”
“Did you have any doubts?”
“None. Although the tears tonight had me wondering. What was that all about?”
“Redemption.” The dark made the truth easy. Wilson stopped walking. I didn't.
“You'll never make it six miles with that violin on your back,” I parrotted, smoothly changing the subject.
“I will because I have to,” he mocked. “And it's a cello, you ninny.” His long strides had him walking beside me again in seconds.
“Don't say ninny. You sound bloody ridiculous.”
“All right then. Don't say bloody. Americans sound foolish when they say bloody. The accent is all wrong.”
Silence.
“What do you mean by redemption?”
I sighed. I knew he would come back to that. Four miles was far too long to evade him, so I thought for a moment, wondering how I could put it into words without telling him what I needed redemption for.
“Have you ever prayed?” I ventured.
“Sure.” Wilson nodded like it was no big deal. He probably prayed morning and night.
“Well. I never have. Not until tonight.”
“And?” Wilson prodded.
“And it felt . . . good.”
I felt Wilson's eyes on me in the dark. We walked in syncopation for several breaths.
“Usually redemption implies rescue – being saved. What were you being saved from?” he inquired, his voice carefully neutral.
“Ugliness.”
Wilson's hand shot out, pulling me to a stop. He searched my face, as if trying to glean the meaning behind my words. “You are many things, Blue Echohawk, I can even name twelve.” He smiled a little. “But ugly isn't one of them.”
His words made me feel funny inside. I was surprised by them. I had assumed he had never noticed me on a physical level. I didn't know if I wanted him to. I just shook my head and shrugged him off and began walking again, answering him as I did.
“I've had a lot of ugly in my life, Wilson. Lately the ugly has gotten to be more than I can take.”
We resumed our steady march through the sleeping street. Boulder City was incredibly quiet. If Vegas was the city that never slept, then Boulder made up for it. It slept like a drunkard on a feather bed. We hadn't even been barked at.
“All right. So that's two more. We're at fourteen. You've had an ugly life, but you're not ugly. And you enjoy praying in darkened hallways in the middle of the night.”
“Yep. I'm fascinating. And that's fifteen.”
“I would think that after the shooting, the school would be the last place you would go for prayer . . . or redemption.”
“I didn't really choose the venue, Wilson. I was stranded. But if God is real, then he's just as real in the school as he is in the church. And if he's not . . . well, then maybe my tears were for Manny, and all the rest of the lost misfits who walk those halls alone and could use a little rescue.”
“From childhood's hour I have not been as others were; I have not seen as others saw; I could not bring my passions from a common spring,” Wilson murmured.
I looked at him expectantly.
“'Alone' by Edgar Allan Poe. Misfit. Loner. Poet.”
I should have known. I wished I knew the lines he quoted, that I could continue the poem where he left off. But I didn't and I couldn't, so silence reigned once more.
“So tell me why you don't know when you were born,” Wilson said, abandoning Poe.
“Do you enjoy picking scabs?” I shot back.
“What? Why?”
“Because you keep picking mine, and it kind of hurts,” I whined, hoping my pathetic pleas of “ouch” would end the questioning.
“Oh, well, then. Yes. I suppose I love picking scabs. Out w
ith it. We've got at least three miles to go.”
I sighed heavily, letting him know I didn't think it was any of his business. But I proceeded to tell him anyway. “My mother abandoned me when I was two-ish. We don't know exactly how old I was. She just left me in Jimmy Echohawk's truck and took off. He didn't know her, and I wasn't old enough to tell him anything. He didn't know what to do with me, but he was afraid that somehow he would be implicated in some kind of crime or that someone would think he had taken me. So he split. He took me with him. He wasn't exactly conventional. He roamed around, made carvings for a living, sold them to different tourist shops and a few galleries. And that's how we lived for the next eight years. He died when I was ten or eleven. Again, I don't have any idea how old I really am, and I ended up with Cheryl, who is Jimmy's half-sister.
“Nobody knew who I was or where I came from, and I thought Jimmy was my dad. Cheryl didn't tell me that he wasn't for another three years. There was no record of me, so with the help of the courts, they got me a birth certificate, a social security number, and I am officially Blue Echohawk, born on August 2, which is the day Jimmy found me and the day we marked my birthday. Social services thought I was about ten, which was more or less what Jimmy and I thought. So they estimated I was born in 1991. So there you go. Nutshell. I am nineteen . . . maybe even twenty by now, who knows. A little old for a senior in high school, but hey! Maybe that's why I'm so intelligent and mature,” I smirked.
“Quite,” Wilson said softly. He seemed to be processing my improbable tale, turning it over in his head, dissecting it. “My birthday is August 11, which makes me three years older than you, almost to the day.” He glanced over at me. “I guess it is a little silly for me to call you Miss Echohawk.”
“I don't mind all that much, Darcy,” I smiled innocently, sweetly even. He snorted at my jab. The truth was, I didn't mind. When he said 'Miss Echohawk' in that snooty way of his, it made me feel like I had been given an upgrade or a makeover. Miss Echohawk sounded like someone I would like to become. Someone sophisticated and classy, someone I could aspire to. Someone very different than me.
My phone vibrated against my hip, and I coaxed it out of my tight pocket. It was Mason. I considered not answering it but thought about the miles Wilson and I still had to walk.
“Mason?”
“Blue. Baby . . . where are you?” Oh, man. He sounded so drunk. “I came looking for you. Are you mad at me? We're at your truck but you're not here. You're not here, right?” He suddenly seemed doubtful, as if I was going to spring out from somewhere.
“My battery is dead. I'm walking home, Mason, along Adams. Who's with you?” Hopefully someone less plastered.
“She's with Adam,” I heard Mason say to someone, and the phone was dropped. Someone cursed and the phone was jostled back and forth.
“Who's Adam, Blue? Is that why you left so early, you skank!” Colby's voice blared at me. He laughed, a high-pitched cackle, and I held the phone away from my ear. I was pretty sure Wilson could hear the conversation, Colby's voice was so loud.
“I'm on Adams . . . the street, Colby,” I said as clearly as I could.
The connection was lost. Awesome.
“Well. We may be rescued,” I said dourly. “But we may not. And it might be better if we're not.”
“So I gathered.” Wilson shook his head. “This day has been one for the record books.”
It wasn't long before lights pinned us in their glare, and we turned to face the oncoming vehicle. I tugged at Wilson's arm. I didn't want to him to be run over by the rescue squad.
It was Mason's truck, and he was driving. Colby hung out the passenger window like a big dog, his tongue flapping and everything.
“Hey, Adam! Did you get a piece of ass too?” Colby chortled, and I felt disgust curl in my belly. Disgust for myself, and disgust for the boy who thought he could talk about me like I was trash.
“Are these your mates?” Wilson said stiffly, hoisting his cello further up on his back.
I nodded once, briefly, too humiliated to look at him.
“Get in, Blue,” Mason yelled across Colby. Colby opened the door and beckoned to me. I remained on the sidewalk.
“Those boys are completely sloshed,” Wilson said wearily. “I don't recognize either of them. They aren't in any of my classes.”
“They've graduated. Mason is the same age as you are. Colby's a year younger.” Both had been out of high school for years. Sadly, neither of them had moved beyond the football field where they had both excelled.
“You need to let me drive, Mason. Okay?” I knew if I got aggressive, he would drive away, which was preferable to driving with him at this point, but they really shouldn't have been driving at all.
“Sure, baby. You can sit on my lap. I'll let you steer. I know you like driving a stick!” Mason yelled, all the time glaring at Wilson like he wanted to beat him up.
I started walking. They could crash and burn. Mason yelled for me to stop and spilled out of the truck, staggering after me. The truck stalled. Apparently, Mason hadn't taken it out of gear before he decided to chase me down.
Wilson was on Mason in a flash, and with one swift pop, Mason's head rolled onto his shoulders and he sank into a heap, Wilson struggling to support his weight.
“Holy shit!” Colby was half-way out of the truck, one leg in, one leg on the ground. “What did you do to him, Adam?”
“My bloody name is not Adam!” Wilson growled. “Now come help me get your stupid mate into the . . . blasted . . . pickup, or whatever you call it.” Wilson had apparently had enough. I had no idea what he had done to subdue Mason. But I was grateful.
I ran to his side, helping him half-drag, half-carry Mason to where Colby was frozen in an inebriated stupor. I put down the tailgate, and we managed to roll Mason into the bed of the truck. Unfortunately, even with Mason unconscious in the back, I had to sit squished between Colby and Wilson, who surprisingly knew how to drive a stick shift. Colby ran his arm along the back of my seat, resting his hand on my shoulder possessively. I elbowed him in the side and moved as close to Wilson as I possibly could, straddling the gear shift. Wilson's right arm pressed up against me and he grimaced every time he shifted gears, as if he hated touching me. Tough. I wasn't sitting by Colby.
We drove back to the school, and Colby sat in sulky silence while we got my truck running. Until he decided to be sick, that is, and puked all over the passenger side of Mason's truck. Wilson just gritted his teeth and climbed back into the cab, rolling his window down with angry jerks.
“I'll follow you to Mason's house,” he bit out, as if the whole mess was my fault. I led the way in my truck, keeping Wilson in my rear-view mirror. When we reached Mason's, we hoisted him out of the truck and in through the basement door of his parents' house. There was no way we were getting him up the stairs to his apartment above the garage. He weighed close to 200 pounds, and it was all dead weight. We slung him onto the couch, and his arms flopped theatrically.
“Is he going to be all right?” I watched for his chest to rise.
Wilson slapped Mason's cheeks briskly.
“Mason? Mason? Come on, chap. Your girl is worried that I've killed you.” Mason moaned and shoved at Wilson's hands.
“See? He's brilliant. No harm done.” Wilson marched out of the house. Colby slumped down into the recliner and closed his eyes. The fun was all over. I pulled the basement door shut behind me and ran after Wilson. He lifted his cello out of the back of Mason's truck.
“His keys are on the dash, but I've locked the doors. It will serve him right if he doesn't have another set. I'm hoping it will slow him down if he and his chum decide to rescue anyone else tonight, or, even better, come looking for you.” He glowered at me briefly and transferred his cello into my truck. He climbed in the passenger side, and I slid behind the wheel, angry because he was angry. I peeled out of Mason's driveway, my temper flaring with the squeal of my wheels.
“It's not my fault you locked YOUR
keys in YOUR car. That had nothing to do with me.”
“Please, just take me home. I smell like beer and pizza vomit. #16 – Blue has horrible taste in mates.”
“Are all Brits this miserable around midnight, or is it just you? And what did you do back there anyway? You are a school teacher and you play the cello! You are the biggest nerd I know. You are not supposed to know Kung Fu.”
Wilson scowled at me, apparently not appreciating the nerd comment.
“I honestly don't know what I did. It was pure luck. I just popped him in the jaw. He went down.” We were both silent, contemplating the odds. “It felt bloody amazing.”
Startled by his admission, my head snapped around and my eyes found his. I don't know who started laughing first. Maybe it was me, maybe it was him, but within seconds we were wheezing and howling with laughter. I could barely drive, I was laughing so hard. And it felt bloody amazing.
I ended up taking Wilson to his house to retrieve his keys and then running him back to the school to get his car. He lived in a big old monstrosity that he was remodeling. Most of the newer homes in the Vegas area were stucco, and you would be hard pressed to find a handful of homes that were bricked. But in Boulder City there was less rhyme and reason, more old than new, and less community planning.
Some older structures still dominated Buchanan Street, where Wilson's house was located. Wilson's home had been listed with the historical society until lack of funds made it impossible to maintain. Wilson told me it was a heap when he had purchased it a year before. I informed him it still was, smiling to take the sting out of my words. But I could see the appeal.
It was an enormous red brick, done up in a style that seemed more suited to a college campus back East than a neighborhood in a small desert town. Wilson said everything in England was old, and not just seventy years old, like this house, but hundreds and hundreds of years old. He didn't want to live in a home where there wasn't any history, and his home had as much history as you were going to find in a Western town. I should have known.
