Highwire Moon

by Susan Straight

  “So you can braid hair,” she said. “Big deal. Dutch people wear braids. Blond ones. And Africans wear cornrows. A million braids.”

  “Your dad’s a cowboy, right?” he said. “Blue ’62 Ford. Your mom’s Indian?” She didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette and stared at the smoke. “My mother used to catch moths. Brown ones. She took the dust from their wings and put it on her eyes. Here.” He touched her eyelids. “Like sparkly makeup. Cause she lived on the rez. No money. No car. No nothin.”

  “Did you see her catch them?” Elvia whispered. He drank something from a sports bottle. Everyone at school carried their alcohol that way, frozen each morning, slushy by lunch, potent after classes. When he offered it to her, she made herself swallow it. Hot plastic and sour apples.

  “No.” He studied the smoke. “My grandpa told me. I have to, like, imagine how she looked.”

  “Why?” She knew the answer. That was why he’d brought her here.

  But he said only, “I brew up this medicine and then I dream about her for days.”

  “I want to try that,” Elvia said quickly. “To dream about her.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Elvia had never said the words out loud to anyone. Foster mothers had the paperwork; they already knew the story. Her father must have explained it to Callie. “She left me in a church parking lot, in a car with no plates, no ID, nothing. She was from Mexico.” Then Elvia took the cigarette so she wouldn’t have to talk. She didn’t like the taste, never had when she’d stolen them from her father’s pack, but she liked to hold them, liked to hide her face with the smoke.

  She’d stayed in the arroyo with him several times. Once Callie had made scratch biscuits, and Elvia had taken four to Michael. He ate the biscuits and said his mother had been taught to grind acorns on a hollowed-out stone to make bread. “She laughed. She wouldn’t do it. Said she’d rather eat dry Jell-O dust than acorns. My grampa said she didn’t want to be Cahuilla. She went to Coachella to pick grapes and met this Mexican guy. He moved on to the cotton up north, and she had me. Then she died. Ten minutes later.”

  He cried, because he missed his mother, and he held Elvia tightly in his arms, smelling of sand and smoke. He took off her shirt and fit his collarbone over hers. He whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you.” She tasted blood when she bit her own lip. It hurt. No one said it took only a few minutes. That it hurt. That you could barely tell what the hell was going on.

  A mother was supposed to tell you. She was supposed to give you something to drink in a teacup with flowers, even if it wasn’t coffee like on the commercials, and then she’d tell you about feminine protection and where you put perfume and also, by the way, this is what happens when he takes off your shirt. He doesn’t even have to take your pants off all the way.

  Not the sex ed classes, where you couldn’t act interested or pay attention with everybody else joking and sleeping. You were supposed to have done it already. You were supposed to put on nail polish, real bored, like the other girls who knew everything. Who had mothers.

  Real mothers. Sandy Narlette had flowered teacups. She put Ovaltine in them. She sat the girls at the wooden table and told them about deodorant and breasts and monthlies.

  You couldn’t ask a father, she thought angrily, her feet crunching on the fire road, the sun a red Frisbee hovering over the mountains. You couldn’t ask a father anything.

  She had tried to see something of the movies he had watched late at night with his friend Warren, back when they lived in the Indio apartment. Warren would leave, and her father would fall asleep on the couch. When she crossed the room for a drink of water, the TV showed breasts like basketballs and men holding their penises like red batons. She would stare a moment, until her father’s fingers relaxed on his beer bottle and it bumped against his wrist hard enough to make his eyes twitch. Then she’d slide back to her room.

  She had seen nothing of Michael’s body, only felt his mouth on hers, the sour-apple taste of his tongue after he’d drunk Everclear, and his hands in her hair. She felt wetness and pain and his eyelashes against her cheek.

  She ran faster, harder, the white heat scorching her neck, her blood hotter and thinner, shaking loose the pulse in her stomach. Melt, melt—just disappear, she prayed, racing past the date palms and accordion music and laughter.

  “Don’t you love me?” Callie’s whisper was flat as a sandal sole. Elvia stopped against the side wall, between stucco and fence. She could hear them in the kitchen. Her father was home. “I’m windin down, and Dually ain’t shown up,” Callie said, her rubber thongs brushing ceaselessly over the kitchen floor. “Come on, Larry, you’re the best at makin em. Fastest.”

  “Ellie’s back there sleepin?”

  “Out running again. Says she’s lookin for rocks. Larry, I like her and all, but she don’t listen to nothin. Too grown.”

  “She’s still a kid.” Her father was eating something.

  “She’s just skinny. She ain’t as little as you think.”

  “She’s barely a teenager.”

  “Hell if she ain’t.” Callie laughed. “You don’t know, huh? You said she was yours.” Elvia heard Callie’s teeth cracking ice. “Why you got her anyway? For reals?”

  “I didn’t want her in a foster home.” Elvia stared at the dim blue roots inside her wrists. He always said that. “Didn’t want fuck-up people messin with my kid.”

  “That’s love, huh?” Callie’s voice was so soft Elvia closed her eyes to hear. “When I first met you, and I seen this Indian-lookin kid, I thought no way that’s his daughter. I thought you must a took her or bought her.”

  “Bought her?”

  Callie said, “Yeah, except she’s brown. Most times people only want . . . babies that look like mine.” She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “But after a while, I knew you weren’t lyin. She had to be your kid cause you didn’t pay no attention to her. If you’d a stole her or bought her, you’d be watchin like a hawk. Touchin her arm, messin with her hair.” Callie laughed low.

  “Hey,” her father said, the word hard as a shovel. “Like you’re a fuckin expert.”

  “Not me,” Callie said. “I’m wound down, and Dually’s either busted or packed up. This girl Lee, she’s cookin her own out near Sage. Come on.” The screen door slammed, and Callie was carrying a bag of something that tinkled like bells. “Lee said if you do those up for her, she’ll take care of us.”

  They were in the yard now. Elvia scraped her back against the stucco, peering from the corner of the house. “Shit, Callie, I worked all day. I’m fuckin tired,” her father said.

  “Don’t you love me?” Elvia heard Callie’s whisper again, exactly the same, like a recording.

  “Not much of you left. You’re gettin so skinny,” her father said.

  “My tongue’s not skinny. I’ll do you good later on. Okay?”

  “Shit.” Her father grabbed his toolbox from the truck and clanked to the back of the yard.

  “Maa? Maa! Maa!” Elvia listened to the tiny palms slapping the door inside. Jeff was awake. He couldn’t reach the doorknob yet. She slipped back along the fence, in the darkness gathered by spindly mesquite bushes that grew near the wires where traces of water dripped.

  Flames sprayed like purple tongues from her father’s hand. She edged closer. Car air fresheners—the cardboard labels were strewn on the sand. Pine. Vanilla. Baby powder. Elvia had seen the bag in the kitchen and wondered what it was for.

  Her father was intent on the torch. The glass tubes, empty of scent, lay in a pile like clear macaroni. He lifted a tube with delicate fingers, like a woman, dipping it to the flame twice, the glass like a drunk moth. Then he pulled it to his lips and the glass expanded into a golden bubble. He drew it through the cooled night air as though he were directing music.

  Elvia stopped in the darkness. The glass bulbs would hold white pebbl
es of speed. When someone inhaled, the pebbles would glow and melt into the quick vapor and smoke.

  The flames licked out under her father’s thumb. Michael had built a fire in the arroyo to burn wild tobacco, the branches with yellow tube flowers the same size as these glass pipes. Michael had said, “Everybody needs fire, caveman on down to now. Every wino and bum’s gotta have a fire, right? And everybody needs something to make em stoned. Get em through the day.”

  If she found Michael, how could she bring him here, to explain a baby to her father while he was bent over sparkling bubbles and broken glass? A baby browner than both of them? With thick black hair and eyes like onyx? Her father would probably try to kill Michael.

  “Larry!” Callie called from the back door. “You ready?”

  He didn’t answer, squatting now to check something on the torch.

  In the kitchen, Callie stared at her. “Shit, Ellie. Lookin for rocks? Show me what you found today.” Callie’s eyes were hot as the blue torch flame, her fingers red on Jeff’s legs when she changed his diaper. From her pocket, Elvia took out the three glass-stones she’d had since Sandy Narlette’s house. Callie glanced at her palm, and Elvia knew she didn’t recognize them.

  “Them three are enough for tonight,” Callie said. “Cause I don’t trust you here by yourself. You and Jeff are comin with us. We’re goin to visit a friend.”

  Elvia rode in the truck bed, watching the few lights of Tourmaline disappear as her father drove up the highway through ash-dark mountains. The road twisted through pines, dropped to another desert valley. Elvia saw only an occasional trailer or house on a ridge.

  The truck’s dust trailed them like a gold river. She wished she were driving. Her father had been teaching her to drive for years on dirt roads. He said she’d loved cars since she was a baby. She did love the metal cab, like a turtle shell that fit perfectly around her. She liked making her father grin when she stopped smooth, no jerks. “Like there’s a low-rider dog on the dash and he didn’t even nod,” he always said. “Yeah.”

  Maybe you bought her . . . that was what Callie had said. Like people bought babies, kids, all the time. White kids. Like hers.

  She looked at Callie in the front, Jeff’s head bobbing on her shoulder while he pounded on the glass. One night, when Callie got drunk on tequila, Elvia had awakened on the couch to find her sitting nearby, touching Elvia’s foot. Callie whispered, “My little girl. How’d you get so grown? You been out in the sun? I ain’t seen you since they took you away.” She pulled the sandal strap up over Elvia’s heel. “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope they been nice.”

  Callie must have had a baby girl, long ago, and given her away. Callie fell asleep on the floor, and Elvia cried quietly into the couch, imagining her own mother touching someone else, crying like that. In Mexico. In Rio Seco. Wherever. Telling someone she was sorry.

  “I’m sorry,” Elvia whispered, but she still couldn’t touch her belly. You punched me. Do you have hands? Do you?

  Tiny rocks pinged under the truck. They stopped on a dirt slope, and when she stood up in the truck bed, dizzy, her father’s hand reached for hers, his palm hard as a stone.

  “Why’d you stop all the way down here?” Callie peered up the hill. The house was a brown wooden shoebox, with a few matchbox-­sized cars parked nearby.

  “I ain’t takin the truck up that hill,” her father said. “This is close enough. I don’t know what asshole might be hangin out, might steal the toolbox.”

  “Always hopin for the best, huh?” Callie said, hoisting Jeff’s bottom onto her side. His thin white legs clamped around her like twist ties. “So we gotta hike.”

  A lone mulberry tree stood like a feather duster in the yard when they made it up the hill. Elvia saw small toys scattered around its roots. A man blocked the doorway, calling, “Who you lookin for?” His voice came hard from inside his beard; his hands were tucked inside a jacket.

  Elvia watched Callie smile. “Lee,” she said, like a lullaby. “Lee called me up. She said come by and bring her these.” The glass clinked inside the bag.

  Her father said, “All I’m lookin for is a beer and a quiet place to sit down, okay?”

  The man grinned, bone under the reddish hair. “You and me both, man. Them kids in there are drivin me crazy.”

  “Ellie here’s real good with kids,” Callie said quickly. “Come on, sweetie.”

  Her father and the other man walked toward a car, their hands gesturing in a secret code.

  The house was hot as sleeping breath, the darkness a yawning mouth. Elvia smelled something sharp: Windex or pee, or coffee burned on the stove. Lee talked into a telephone balanced on her hunched shoulder while she bent over a box on the floor.

  “Shit, times are hard,” she said into her own shirt. “I’m only takin care a myself and a couple friends.” She nodded at Callie. “Dually’s been gone a week. You think Dean’s gonna do any cookin?” Lee laughed. “Women always gotta cook, no matter what, right?”

  She hung up the phone. “Hey, Callie. Help me start on this damn box. The government’s keepin all the ephedrine locked up. Some’s comin from Mexico, but now I hear the damn Mescans want all the business for theirselves. They’re truckin the shit in, but they only sell it to Mescans.” Her eyes landed hard and gray on Elvia. “Who the hell’s this?”

  “Larry’s kid.” Callie bent to whisper, “She ain’t Mescan. Her mom’s Indian or somethin.” She turned around. “Where’s your kids?” Lee bent her head toward a doorway. “Take Jeff on in there, sweetie. Lee’s got some chips, don’t you?”

  From the kitchen doorway, Elvia saw the huge blackened pots on the old stove. Lee handed her a bag of Doritos, then knelt again by the box, pulling out packets of pills. “I got these from some Iranian dude at QuikStop. We got Sudafeds and Efidac.”

  Callie began pushing the pills from their foil packets, her thumbs curving as if she were snapping green beans on the porch. Elvia guided Jeff’s narrow shoulders toward the blue light coming from the bedroom.

  A baby slept in the crib against the wall. Elvia bent to see the tiny chest rising and falling fast as she could blink. She smelled vinegar, milk, salt.

  “That’s my baby,” a little girl said.

  She was about three, with blond hair curled thin as spiderwebs around her ears. She wore Pull-Ups hanging low. “And that’s my brother.” She pointed to a two-year-old standing near the bed. His diaper was heavy and long as a white beavertail behind him. These kids, they’d look better naked, Elvia thought. Naked, and their moms could hose them off when they peed or pooped. At least they wouldn’t have to carry it around all day.

  “That’s mine,” the little girl said then, pointing to the chips, and Elvia handed her the open bag. She had silvery tracks on her red-hot cheeks, like traces of fairy dust.

  The boy cried, “Chip!” Jeffrey examined the trucks and dolls lying near the TV. The little boy grabbed the bag, and the little girl chased him to the kitchen. Lee said, “Get back in there and share them chips! You know better than comin in here when I’m real busy. Shut your door.”

  The little girl closed the door. She stared at Elvia, letting the chips fall on the floor, her hands splayed stubborn as a doll’s. “How old’s your baby him?” The little girl settled next to Elvia, stretching out her short legs.

  Elvia was startled. Then she saw Jeffrey concentrating hard on a truck with no wheels. “He’s not my baby. But he’s a year and a half. Older than your little baby.”

  “He sleeping. My baby.” The girl put her back against the wall like Elvia, legs stiff, thumb in her mouth.

  They watched TV kitchens and laughing people. Elvia heard her father outside. He hates being inside. I hate it, too, but nobody asked me. I get to be the pretend mommy again.

  She could smell chemicals threading through the air now, like incense sharpened with burning metal. The little g
irl eventually slumped to her side and put her head in Elvia’s lap. The boys ate all the chips, picking the smallest triangles like confetti off the floor, and then they lay beside her, too. The baby hadn’t stirred, but Elvia could hear his raspy breath. All the breaths rose around her like slow crickets caught in the children’s throats.

  Pretend you’re the mommy. She arranged the sticky-sweet arms and legs around her, pale and sweating, shiny as candy canes with the red stripes sucked off. I don’t want to be the mommy yet, she thought desperately. She tasted Cool Ranch on her tongue, felt a swaying under her ribs.

  She must have fallen asleep for a minute. The acrid air pushing under the door stung her eyes open. Elvia moved the arms and legs as gently as she could, trying to breathe. Lee’s baby was awake and snuffling, his round head bobbing against the crib bars. She picked him up. His arms and legs were soft and wet as damp paper when she carried him out of the room.

  “Hey,” Callie said from the couch. “Come sit down. I see a bottle right here. And I was gonna do your hair, Ellie, cause it looks a mess.”

  The air was better near the open door, and Elvia gave the baby his bottle. He snorted and snuffled. Callie swayed behind Elvia, her voice faster and happier now. “Don’t that feel good?” Callie said, loosening the braids, stroking the brush bristles gently around Elvia’s skull. “I always wanted somebody to brush my hair, cause it feels nicer when somebody else does it, huh?”

  Elvia stared at boxes of Red Devil lye. Callie’s voice tumbled like spilled soda. When she was sketching, she would talk all night, about what she would cook if she had money and how men were different animals. “I mean with different blood, sweetie,” she’d say. “Like lizards.”

  Now she said, “Seventies stuff, you can find bell-bottoms at the thrift store if you look hard enough. Cheap, I mean real cheap.” The baby finished his bottle and, instead of being satisfied, started to scream. “Take him to his momma. I’ll get a diaper.”

  Elvia went slowly to the kitchen. Lee hovered over the stove, tiny blue crowns of flame under the pots. The shimmering air enveloped Elvia, prickled her ears and lips hot. She said, “Here.”