by Fran Seen
Blackbird: What it boils down to is: this friendship cannot leave this chat box.
I cried that night. I wasn’t a weepy woman by any means, but I ugly-cried into a pint of cookie dough ice cream until my roommates returned from a night of drinking. Then, I scrambled back to my room after dodging their inquisitive looks and sobbed into my pillow until I fell asleep.
My chest ached with betrayal. I wasn’t upset that Blackbird refused to meet me. I was upset that he didn’t think I would understand his predicament or his obligations. I was no stranger to outside expectations and pressure. Instead of talking to me about his situation, he closed off entirely, leaving me feeling like an idiot for caring too much.
The semester concluded with me barely passing my criminal law courses and a contented sigh of relief. I’d busied myself with grad school applications for most of the winter, leaving a plethora of rejection letters in my mailbox for spring. My only acceptance came from the Nashville School of Law, which coaxed a displeased groan from my father and sister. Dad’s Vanderbilt Law School legacy had officially ended with Minnie.
After his refusal to meet in person, my conversations with Blackbird returned to impersonal topics like movies and history. I was cold to him but not frigid. I didn’t share my graduate school news, because I figured he didn’t care. He’d set a clear boundary with me, and I decided to respect it.
But, without warning, one day, Blackbird vanished. He left no trace he ever existed at all. He deleted his online accounts, including his email. The only evidence I had of our friendship were archived emails. Late at night, I read through our exchanges, wading through the ebbs and flows the friendship we’d cultivated throughout the years. Our conversations steadily grew more personal up until the topic of meeting, then they dwindled and Blackbird disappeared.
Certainly, if my dear friend wished to end all communication with me, he’d at least pay me the courtesy of a good-bye, but he hadn’t muttered any indication of departure.
What if Blackbird died? The thought crossed my mind, leaving goose-skin across my flesh. His ranger job held ample opportunity for injury, between policing the woods and locating lost tourists in the wilderness.
My heart lurched forward. A month had passed since our last chat. Surely I would’ve known if my best friend had passed. I would’ve felt his absence in my bones, like a gnawing in the pit of my stomach and a shadow at the back of my mind.
“Lou,” I called my roommate into my bedroom as we packed our lives into cardboard boxes. With graduation in two days, our lease ended when our diplomas were handed out. Lou and I had been roommates since my sophomore year at Vanderbilt. She was easy enough to get along with, always washed her dishes instead of letting them wallow and fester in the sink, and even cooked dinner for me and our other two roommates on Sunday’s. Her fiery red hair served as a frat boy magnet, and she never had a shortage of suitors at her disposal.
“Can I talk to you?” I patted the mattress beside me as she waltzed into my room. She sat down, eyeing me with concern, then fell back on the mattress and folded her arms behind her head.
“Hit me with it, sour puss.”
I sucked in a deep breath and unloaded the situation: “The condensed backstory is my friend who I met online fell off the face of the earth. We used to talk every day, but now he’s...he’s just gone.”
“He?” she repeated, wiggling her brows at me. “Is it possible he picked up a girlfriend who isn’t too keen on him chattin’ up a pretty stranger?” she asked in her thick, Alabama twang.
“It’s entirely possible, but I think he would’ve given me a heads-up. We weren’t cybering or sexting. Only chit-chatting,” I stared down at my lap, scanning my memories for any logical reason Blackbird would tuck-tail out of my life.
Lou rubbed my back. “Do you know any details about him? His phone number? Address?”
I perked up, reaching for my laptop. “I know his mailing address. He’s in North Carolina.”
“What? Just over yonder?” Lou pointed nowhere in particular, and I nodded. “Listen, you’ve been in a funk the last few months—running yourself into the ground with stress. We’ve been worried about you. Free Margarita Wednesday has passed several times without you dancing’ on a table,” she toyed with the feather charm on my bracelet and pursed her berry-stained lips. “If it will ease your mind, let’s take a road trip to your mystery man’s house, check up on him, and demand some answers.” She stood, awaiting my reply with her hands on her hips.
“That sounds great,” I lied through my teeth, and Lou skipped out of the room, satisfied with her remedy. The idea of confronting Blackbird was enough to send me into hyperventilation, but the thought of never speaking to him again, always wondering what happened to my friend, settled between my ribs like razor blades, tearing up my insides with each gasping breath.
I tugged on my cap, pulling it low on my forehead. I’d been preparing for this day for the entirety of my education.
Dolly Jo Drummond: college graduate. Sure, I was on the four-year plan instead of Minnie’s impressive three-year sprint, but I’d set my mind to something and accomplished it. With a summer internship at my dad’s firm lined up, my path was laid out before me, predictable and certain.
I moved the tassel to the side and joined Lou in the graduation procession. She bounced on her toes with excitement, suppressing a squeal. With a graduating class too large for individual diploma disbursement, we all stood, shoulder to shoulder, in the packed football stadium, and cheered after our college president rattled off a motivational speech, addressing the graduates and our families.
“Congratulations graduating class of 2012,” Dr. Finwick moved his tassel to the other side of his cap and started a slow cap. Everyone hooped and hollered and threw their caps in the air. I almost missed the moment, because I was too preoccupied with biting my nails and scanning the crowd. My fellow graduates’ easy smiles and resolute posture led me to believe they all knew what they wanted and how to obtain it. Some of the graduates would be boarding their flights tomorrow morning, off to accept a dream-job offer. Others would go home and propose to their significant others, since the burden of school had ended and the possibilities for a future together unfurled before them, twinkling with promise like the night sky. The rest were either off to graduate school or marching head-first into the job hunt with at least a vague notion of the direction they were heading.
Then there was me. Thus far, I’d chugged along, propelled by my willingness to please and little desire to orchestrate my own future.
Minnie and Dad managed words of congratulations between discussing their medical malpractice case after the ceremony. Dad had made us reservations at the fanciest steak house in Nashville. During the salad course, my father and sister debated over my sister’s first client, a workers’ compensation case, and indulged in a bit of law firm gossip.
“The nurse documented the infection seeping out of Mr. Johnson’s knee, but the doctor didn’t follow up with a course of antibiotics to eliminate the fever,” Dad informed me, cutting into his t-bone steak. His rose gold cuff links gleamed back at me in the candlelight and clinked against his plate. With each saw of his knife, red juices pooled on the plate, hitting the mound of mashed potatoes like a sea wall. Talk of Mr. Johnson’s stink leg silenced my appetite, and I pushed my barely touched filet to the side and downed my glass of twenty-year-old Chardonnay in two gulps.
“It’s obvious neglect, Dad,” Minnie volleyed back, arranging her cloth napkin across the lap of her navy cap-sleeve dress, which hung loose over her waif-like arms. “We could make a case of negligence, and I’d be willing to bet the hospital would settle out of court. The evidence is stacked high and wide.” She took a sip of wine and turned to me, and I couldn’t help but stare at her tight frown. “What do you think, Dolly? If you were a juror, how would you react to the evidence?”
I glanced between my father and sister’s expectant faces and cleared my throat. “I’d sympathize with y
our plaintiff,” I said, thrumming my fingers along the wooden handle of my steak knife. “Clearly, the defendant was aware of the plaintiff's ailment, as the documentation indicated, but proceeded to do nothing about it. The hospital was understaffed and overcrowded. The doctors and nurses in charge of Mr. Johnson’s care were running on little sleep, and as a result, overlooked his condition. Their mistake cost Mr. Johnson his life,” I conceded, twisting the napkin in my lap. “The Johnson family deserves compensation. If the doctor would’ve done his job correctly, Mrs. Johnson would still have her husband.”
“Absolutely,” Dad agreed, beaming back at me. He prompted Minnie for a high-five. “We’re so proud of you, sweetie. You’re going to be a great addition to the firm.”
I managed a closed smile as Minnie hugged my neck. I caught a whiff of the oily herbal smell, like burnt sage, radiating off her skin and almost went in for a second sniff, but the waiter caught my attention. I pointed at my glass for a refill.
“Better lay off the grape if you’re headed home tonight,” Minnie warned, waving the waiter away. She whipped her iPhone out to Instagram her chocolate lava cake dessert, and commenced on a ten-minute endeavor of framing the perfect shot. I hugged them both after dinner, and we exchanged pleasantries of safe travels. I eyed my Jetta with dread. The drive back to Chattanooga would be lonely and boring, but with my life in my backseat, packed away in suitcases and cardboard boxes, the only place to go was home. I urged the engine to a roar and backed out of the parking space, slamming the brakes when a loud thud smacked my window.
“You dropped this,” Minnie shoved my charm bracelet through the window, and her unreadable gaze swept over me one last time before she jogged back to her BMW, wobbling across the asphalt in her sky-high heels.
I squeezed the carved feather between my fingers and stared down at the grooves etched into the wood. Lou and I planned to drive to Cherokee and search for Blackbird in a week’s time. My bones ached with worry. Something was wrong with Blackbird. I felt it in my spirit, pulsing with each beat of my heart.
“For fuck’s sake, lady, are you coming or going?” an angry Lexus driver shouted with half of his body hanging out his window and his hand flailing in my rearview.
“Going,” I hollered back, giving him my middle finger. I peeled out of the parking lot with my tires screeching and a grin threatening my lips.
Oh, I was going. I was going to Cherokee, North Carolina tonight.
My car hugged the tight curve of the road following the Nantahala River, overlooking the rushing white water that could be seen even in the black of night. My heart raced as I sped toward the unknown, toward a stranger I knew better than most of the people in my life.
Toward a stranger who didn’t wish to meet me.
The tiny town of Cherokee was tucked away between the Great Smoky Mountains, home of the infamous Appalachian hiking trails and the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Nation. From what I’d been taught of Native Americans in school, aside from the fallacies of Christopher Columbus’s kindness and the first Thanksgiving, was that, in the 1830’s, president Andrew Jackson’s Indian removal policy forced the Natives from their lands to Oklahoma. The journey was deadly. Disease and starvation devastated the Natives, resulting in a substantial portion never reaching their destination.
Members of the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Nation managed to evade the removal by hiding out in the Smoky Mountains, and today, the remaining members resided in the Qualla Boundary. The surrounding areas were a tourism magnet, especially after Harrah’s Cherokee Casino was erected. The sprawling eyesore of a building stood several stories higher than the town itself. It was a vulgar reminder of cultural disintegration amongst the diluted Native American kitsch of a town.
Stick Indian Snookering
After stumbling into my room with my gambling winnings and a slight buzz, I awoke three hours later. I slept so hard, I had a pillow indentation on my cheek. I splashed a handful of frigid water on my face, dialed room service at the protests of my empty, grumbling stomach, and proceeded to pace the room.
“Ma’am?” a silvery voice knocked at my door some time later, after I’d tried on four pairs of jeans and strewn them across my suitcase in defeat.
“Come in,” I called out, slipping into a pair of uncomfortable trail boots. I’d purchased the boots a year ago, when Minnie was in her outdoor phase and wanted to hike pieces of the Appalachian Trail. The shoes were stiff with newness and tight on my ankles because I’d never walked around in them, except from my sister’s car to the trail and then back to the car. Minnie stepped foot onto the trail, posed for a picture, wandered around for a few bars of service on her phone, and uploaded the photo to Instagram. We piled back into her car and spent the afternoon driving home.
“Going hiking?” I raised my gaze from my shoelaces and caught a flash of familiar black hair. The casino bartender pushed a cart into my room and began unloading the contents. Her eyes held a hesitant curiosity and hint of agitation, but she busied herself with the cart instead of burning me with her stare.
“I was thinking about it,” I replied, standing to fetch a few bills from my purse. The bartender swung her hair over her shoulder as she laid a tray of food out on the corner table overlooking the balcony. Her features implied a strong Native influence: dark, almond-shaped eyes, fitted on a long face, and contoured with high cheek bones.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” the young woman set down a carafe of piping hot coffee and arranged sugar packets on a cloth napkin. “But I don’t see many young, white girls pass through here, especially alone. You’re not exactly our demographic,” she skirted around a delicate question, but I was able to decipher the meaning behind her carefully chosen words.
“I’m not a prostitute,” I said flatly, pouring myself a cup of coffee and downing it in one, long swallow. I drank such large quantities of scalding coffee daily that my esophagus no longer felt the liquid burn. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Oh?” she inclined her head, dissecting my choice of footwear. Her upper lip curled.“Who?”
“Charlie Blackbird. He’s a forest ranger around these parts. I believe he lives in the Boundary. I —”
“I know him,” she interrupted me, folding her svelte arms across her chest. The straight line of her mouth turned up in a snarl, and her tone evolved from unfriendly to defensive. “Everyone on the Boundary knows each other,” she stated, stepping forward and glaring down at me. Her slender, tall frame shadowed my slight stature. “The question is, what do you want with him?”
“Mainly, I wanted to make sure he’s alive,” I mirrored her posture, puffing out my chest in a false display of confidence. Conflict was not my strong suit. Repressive tendencies, paired with occasional deflection and willful ignorance were the usual cards I played.
“He’s alive.” She returned to her chart and began backing it out of the room.
“Okay, great. Thank you!” I perked up, bouncing on my toes, unable to dial back my excitement. “Where can I find him?”
The bartender remained silent for a time, twisting her mouth like she was contemplating telling me his whereabouts. Once again, I dove into my purse and shoved a handful of bills at her. “Please,” I began to plead. “Please tell me where I can find him. He’s my friend, and I haven’t heard from him in months. I just...I just want to be certain he’s alright.” I pushed the cash into her hand and waited. I’d never bribed someone before. I wasn’t sure of the mechanics of bribery, but I had cash and wanted answers. The woman darted her eyes between me and the money, attempting to assess how harmless I was.
“Fine.”
From our chats, I remembered the name of the area Blackbird patrolled for his ranger duties, but I marched down Fox Creek Trail with no idea what I was doing. My plan was to wander around until I came across him. After the disgruntled bartender told me exactly when and where to find Blackbird, she left in a hurry, and I spent the next half hour punching the air and pep-talking myself into
a frenzy.
With the newfound knowledge that Blackbird was alive and well, I’d officially served my purpose. I should’ve returned home and moved on with my life, because I knew one thing for certain: Blackbird was alive, but he didn’t want anything to do with me.
Go. Turn around and go. The thought crossed my mind several times as I stumbled up the trail, sweating even under the shade of the massive evergreens canopying the sky. Friday’s didn’t seem to bring many hikers along the Fox Creek Trail, or maybe it was the colored markers along the rocky path, indicating the moderate level of difficulty. My only company was a scavenging squirrel and a trio of chirping bluejays. The dense underbrush proved difficult to weave through, despite following a well-worn path up the mountainside. The trail snaked around, dumping into an overlook of the creek below. The climb left me breathless in the Carolina humidity, and I savored the welcome rest.
The overlook consisted of a large boulder boasting a prime view of the trickling creek wedged in the valley. I scooted on all fours to the edge of the slippery boulder and absorbed the breathtaking view: slender trees and green leaves as far as the eye could see, a calm stream below, and a smoky silhouette of mountain caps beyond.
The sweet scent of honeysuckle tickled my nostrils, and a sharp whistle stung my ears. I whirled my head around to locate the source of the whistle, but when I saw no one, I deduced the sound to a bird chirp. A bush of budding blooms rested underneath my feet, so close I could almost reach out, snatch a yellow bud and suck the nectar from the flute. I couldn’t resist the temptation of the sweet honeysuckle. The scent brought back memories of Minnie and I being carted off to summer camp. A popular game amongst the campers was seven-minutes-in-heaven. The danger of being caught by a counselor fueled our teenage hormones even more. The guys and girls played behind the honey-suckle lined fence of the camp, sloppily interlocking metal braces with unskilled french kisses.