Leonard slept with his hands curled, his mouth parted, his Afro smashed where his head lay on his folded T-shirt. Corey lay awake for hours, listening to swishing tree boughs, scratchy critter feet, unidentified sighs. She pressed her open palm over her skylark. In your lonely flight, haven’t you heard the music of the night?
“I got business to do,” Leonard said in the morning when she thought maybe they’d hang out for the day. He told her where she could get a free shower and how to check her email at the library. “Best thing you could do is go see Michelle.”
After a hot shower at the public swim center, Corey found the library. She waited her turn and then sat facing the monitor. If she logged on, wouldn’t they be able to trace her location? She’d been gone for three and a half days. By now they would have sobered up, contacted the authorities, maybe even driven out to the quarry, up to the national forest, into Memphis and Little Rock. Tracking her via a remote computer would be too costly, too complicated. It wouldn’t hurt to open her email.
First she deleted the junk messages. Then she read the one from Mrs. Sweeney, who scolded her for not coming to school, as if Corey were just watching TV on the couch at home.
There were three messages from her mom. Three was a lot. A sign of concern. A fist clenched in Corey’s stomach.
She read them in the order they were sent. The subject line of the first was a bunch of question marks: ???????? Corey opened the email and read, “Where the fuck are you?” Given the profanity, probably written while inebriated. As in, drunk.
The second message read, “Tell me you’re safe.” Corey bit her raw bottom lip and swallowed hard.
She opened the last email and read, “You did good to leave. Bonkers here. Some day I’ll see you on American Idol. Fly, girl. Fly and sing.”
Corey shoved back the wooden library chair so hard it toppled. She ran down the stairs and out the front door, where she huddled into herself on the sidewalk, back against the stucco exterior of the library, and cried. An older woman who looked like a teacher or a librarian or a nun, with short gray hair and purple glasses, crouched down and asked if she was okay. Corey told her to please go away. Then not wanting to keep on blubbering in public, she pushed herself up, thinking she’d go look for Leonard. He’d been pretty clear about the two of them splitting this morning, but maybe he’d want company again tonight. Corey was hungry.
“Hey girl in blue satin dress.”
The person speaking to her wore a pair of red Vans, clean tan chinos, a red T-shirt, and a kickass haircut. The sides of her head were nearly shaved, leaving the top shock long, glossy, and black. Her cheeks, and the place directly below her bottom lip, were plump. Mexican, maybe, with swimmable brown eyes and toasty skin.
“Saw you lose it in there. Bad email?”
Corey nodded.
“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“Mom.”
“Oh, man, that’s the worst. What’d she say?”
Corey shook her head.
“I get it.” The girl reached a hand toward Corey’s shoulder. “You look kind of disoriented. New in town?”
Was it stamped on her forehead?
“I’m gonna write down an address. Come by. You look like you need some stabilizing.” The girl smiled, like that was okay, like everybody needed stabilizing. “Ask for Michelle.”
Michelle again! Corey took the piece of paper. It was probably some kind of cult, Michelle the abusive prophet. They’d shave her head, brainwash her. She’d spend her days handing out pamphlets. She’d seen them at the mall in Little Rock.
“I’m Albatross,” the girl said.
Corey wondered why you’d take that name. Surely her parents hadn’t given it to her. Never mind the insane name, Albatross was the cutest girl she’d ever seen in her life. Corey’s hand migrated to her chest. Is there a meadow in the mist, where someone’s waiting to be kissed? She felt so flustered, she forgot to protect herself with her formal name. “I’m just Corey. Corey from Arkansas.”
Albatross smiled, those cheeks rounding out, the eyes brimming warmth. “So Corey of Arkansas. You’re kinda beautiful. You know that?”
As the girl walked away, Corey wrangled the circus in her chest, the feeling of crazy clown sadness and happiness all performing at once. Hey, she said quietly, or maybe not at all, just thought the word, as the chubby Mexican girl in baggy chinos and a red T-shirt disappeared around the corner. Come back.
Kaylie, Emma, Angeline, Maggie, Tilda, Lili, and Albatross.
She tucked the scrap of paper in the outer pocket of her rucksack and walked over to the campus to look for Leonard. He wasn’t at the fountain. It’d be dark in a couple of hours, and she had nowhere to sleep. She did have ten dollars left, but that might have to last the rest of her life. She walked back up to his camp, arriving at the beginning of dusk. He wasn’t there, so she sat on the forest floor to wait. It grew cold. The night swirled in, blacked out the edges, and still she sat, cross-legged, by herself. She tried to concentrate on her girlfriends for distraction, but couldn’t conjure them, not with her mom’s words running through her head: Where the fuck are you? Tell me you’re safe. You did good to leave. Bonkers here. Some day I’ll see you on American Idol. Fly, girl. Fly and sing.
Corey curled up in the tightest ball possible, pulled her green and black lumberjack jacket over her head, to wait out the night. After a while the terror passed and even her hunger toughened into a kind of sinew. The smell of the fir needles and soil, the roughness of them on her cheek, the low whoosh of the moon passing overhead. She could not run from this place. She had no choice but to slide her hand over her heart, on top of the skylark, and listen.
It was hard to believe that only three years had passed since she stood on that stage, fearless. Cool satin and warm light on her skin. An audience of hundreds, wishing her well, expecting nothing more from her than a beautiful song. The symphony’s pianist flapped out his tux tails, nodded as he sat at the gleaming black grand piano. He played the prelude as she brought her mouth up to the microphone. She began singing, oh so softly, Skylark, have you anything to say to me? Won’t you tell me where my love can be?
Corey brought the house down. They were on their feet. Uproarious applauding. A sea of teeth, happy, happy, happy smiles. Even some two-fingered whistling. They heard her prayer. Her voice.
Corey’s joy lasted for about a week. Then her mom and stepdad went into overdrive sending out CDs of her performance to all the recording studios, talent scouts, and random famous people they could find online. They spent their paychecks on clothes they expected her to wear in upcoming performances. They drank more expensive brands of gin. They took a trip to Nashville, set her up on a prominent street corner where she sang all weekend, the adults fully expecting her to be discovered any moment. She wasn’t. As the months went by, and nothing came of their efforts, her stepdad became more and more frustrated. And angry at the money they’d spent. When he looked at her, and he did all the time, it seemed like he wanted to reach down her throat and grab her voice in his own two hands.
Corey stopped singing. So he tried to fuck it out of her.
Lying on the forest floor in the woods above Berkeley, Corey eventually realized that she didn’t mind being alone. It was a kind of relief. The air was cold and opaque, but velvety. The smell of the evergreen needles was a balm. The song in her chest loosened, as if it too sensed the absence, at long last, of danger.
At first light Corey returned to the public swim center and waited there on the street, shivering in the dawn cold. When the locker room opened, she undressed, showered, and then wrapped a towel she found on the wooden bench around her waist. She covered her top half with the lumberjack jacket. Then she washed out her blue dress, bra, and underwear with soap and hot water. She changed back into the wet clothes and headed for the library.
A warm sun dried her dress as she walked. She bought a quart of milk and a sandwich at the Stop-N-Go, drank and ate it all standing on the sidewalk,
and then crossed the street to the library, planning what she might write back to her mother.
First she sat in the reading room, where they had comfy chairs, and read a magazine. The food in her stomach made her feel better, even if she now only had a total of three dollars and change. She’d have to join that cult for a while, just so she could eat. Maybe she could resist the brainwashing part. She’d handled worse than Michelle.
“Corey from Arkansas!” Albatross shouted, drawing the attention of the librarian, who with her bird-bright eyes and strict mouth looked like a Chinese Mrs. Sweeney.
A white girl, if the term applied to someone whose skin was covered with black and red ink, approached with Albatross. It wasn’t like Corey wanted to look at the tattooed girl’s breasts, but how could you not? Besides bulging out of the tight camisole, they were covered with black thorny vines and red roses. The same motif—which technically didn’t make sense because roses have stalks, not vines—sleeved the girl’s arms. Her gold hoop earrings were nearly as big as her face.
“You know this chick?” asked thorny vines and roses, putting an arm around Albatross, right there in the library reading room. Okay, so they were girlfriends. Corey glanced at the watchful librarian.
“Corey, Hannah. Hannah, Corey.” Albatross sunk her hands in the front pockets of her tan chinos, that fat-cheeked grin directed right at Corey. So Corey of Arkansas. You’re kinda beautiful. You know that?
Corey raised a tentative hand. “Hi.”
“Let’s go,” Hannah said to Albatross. “We got stuff to do.”
“I didn’t stop by that address yet,” Corey said.
“What she talking about?” Hannah asked, slitting up her eyes.
“I thought she might take your place at Michelle’s,” Albatross said.
“My place?” Hannah cocked her hips and braced her fists on them. “Your place is opening up, too.”
“But I was wondering,” Corey said, even as the word caution pulsed through her nervous system. “Who’s Michelle?”
Hannah huffed. “A royal bitch, that’s who.”
“You’re mad ’cause she asked you to leave.” Albatross spoke softly.
Hannah reared back, her eyes piss hot. “This chick wants to jump through her hoops, fine. It don’t have nothing to do with us. Let’s go.”
“I’m not going to New York with you,” Albatross said, and Corey had the feeling it was the first time she’d said this to Hannah. More, she had the feeling, liked the feeling, that maybe her own presence gave Albatross a kind of courage.
Hannah glared at Albatross, her lips twitching like she had a mouthful of venom. “Yeah, you are.”
“No. I’m not.” Albatross planted her feet apart, crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m staying here.”
A new strategy dawned on Hannah’s cellophane face. She slimed all fake mellow, dropped into the chair next to Corey, took her hand. “Albatross is right. This is a real opportunity for you. Places don’t open up all that often at Michelle’s. True, I got kicked out. The bitch is rigid. But some girls need the structure. I’m guessing that’s your story.” Hannah paused. “So, like, what is your story?”
Corey pulled her hand away.
“Mm hm.” Hannah cooed like a fake shrink. “Father? Uncle? Teacher?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Albatross said. “Leave her alone.”
Corey wobbled to her feet and grabbed her rucksack. She looked down a long black wormhole, as if she stood in one universe and needed to pass through an impossible portal to get to another one. She wouldn’t survive the journey, even if she could get through that opening. Still, Corey willed her feet to move, to go somewhere, anywhere. As she slung on her rucksack, her hand grazed the skylark. And in your lonely flight, have you heard the music?
“Ain’t nobody coming after you, is there?” Hannah said.
“Excuse me,” Corey whispered. “I’m going to email my mom.”
“Your mom. There’s a joke.”
“What is wrong with you?” Albatross said to Hannah, her voice way too loud for a library. The man with rolled blankets at his feet put down his book. The pair of teenagers doing math nudged each other, giggled. A mom with twin boys dragged them out of the reading room.
“Seriously? You like this hillbilly chick? I just know you’re not so stupid that you’d choose this piece of white trash over New York.” Right there in the library, Hannah spat to the side of Corey.
The librarian picked up the phone. “Send security to the reading room. Yes. Immediately.”
“No,” Albatross said carefully, as if speaking to something bigger than the spitting. “I want my GED.”
“You could get that in New York. You’re just chicken. Scared shitless. You like Michelle’s rules.”
“Who’s Michelle?” Corey shouted to be heard. She needed to know.
“Michelle is a maniacal bitch who killed her husband. Shot him dead. Did time. Got out. Collects runaway girls.”
“No,” Albatross said.
“Oh, yeah,” Hannah said. “You go there and be her slave, Arkansas. You cute enough, maybe you can service her, too.”
“That’s pure slander,” Albatross shouted. “Michelle’s husband abused her for years. She keeps a house for runaway girls because when she was inside she thought long and hard about the cycles of violence. How they start. How they don’t stop. She got a lot of rules, but they’re about keeping us safe, breaking those cycles.” It was as if Albatross were addressing everyone in the reading room, as if what she was trying to say was the most important message possible. She was trembling all over.
“Look who’s brainwashed.” Hannah paraded out of the reading room, her butt rolling in her tight jeans, the vines swirling around her shoulders and neck. Corey wished they’d strangle her.
Then Hannah pivoted and lunged back, put her nose and cigarette breath right up in Corey’s face. “Touch my girl and you’re dead meat.”
“I’m not your girl,” Albatross said.
Hannah’s hand swept up fast, but Albatross caught the wrist before it hit her. Beyond the two girls, Corey saw the security guard lope into the reading room, hitching up the belted pants of his uniform. Hannah got Albatross in a headlock, the latter’s neck hooked in her elbow. Albatross kicked hard but caught only air.
Some of the library patrons gathered around to watch. A young woman with dreadlocks shouted for the girls to stop fighting, and then she leapt forward, wrapped her arms around Hannah’s waist and tried to pull her off of Albatross. The librarian shouted for the dreadlocked girl to get away from the fight. The security guard didn’t move any closer; instead he made a call, as if he were afraid of the fighting girls and needed backup.
Corey touched her skylark tattoo. Her voice was right there, just under her fingertips, a tangle of danger and joy, entwined just like Hannah and Albatross. No one was coming after her. That hurt so much. It also meant she was free. Fly, girl. Fly and sing.
Corey reached to the very bottom of her belly and pulled up the first note, the first word. “Skylark.” She sang it so softly that only Hannah, who’d wrestled Albatross to the cold hard floor at Corey’s feet, could hear. “Have you anything to say to me?”
Now Albatross heard, too. The girls’ holds on each other loosened.
Corey kept singing as she climbed up on the long wooden tabletop. She liked that she was wearing her blue satin dress, hacked off, with combat boots and her hair naturally straight. The acoustics in the book-lined room were excellent, and her voice took flight. Hannah and Albatross panted, knotted in a now motionless embrace. Corey sang the song all the way through, repeating the last verse, her favorite, three times. Skylark, I don’t know if you can find these things, but my heart is riding on your wings. So if you see them anywhere, won’t you lead me there?
When she finished, silence filled the library. The security guard stood halfway across the room, hands dangled at his sides, his shoulders loosened and chest caved, as if protecting something soft
inside. The librarian held her clasped hands at her throat, as if she too wanted to sing. Hannah moved away first, took slow steps backwards, as if Corey were an alien beast, as if the song pierced her anger. Albatross listened for more song in the silence, tears wetting her round cheeks.
Corey didn’t know where she’d go. In the next month, week, or even minute. She didn’t know if she’d ever see her mom again. If her mom would leave her stepdad. If Corey would graduate from high school or live on the street for the rest of her life. She didn’t know if she’d go see about a spot in Michelle’s house, if Michelle was benevolent or predatory. If Hannah would leave for New York, if Albatross would go with her. Corey didn’t know if Albatross would stay here and kiss her.
Corey knew nothing at all about her prospects. But she knew she had her voice, right here under her skylark. She knew she could sing.
The Found Child
John and Ray found the baby on a Sunday morning, a few hours before their flight back to New York. They had been on a long weekend in Wyoming, of all places. Ray wanted nature. John said fine, if the package included good food. A couple of their more westerly inclined friends suggested the dude ranch, and it had been fun, even restorative. They’d liked the elderly couple who ran the ranch, the horseback riding was novel, and the scenery stunning. John read an entire book, and Ray walked for hours through the tall grasses. They made love twice, which they didn’t really do all that much anymore.
In their minds, the lovemaking somehow got tangled up with finding the baby. Of course they knew they hadn’t made the baby. And neither man was particularly sentimental, so it’s not like they coddled the notion by purposely placing the lovemaking side by side with the baby-finding. But they did feel close. Their intimacy had created a field of hope. Ray was forty-three and John had turned forty earlier that year. They’d been together for eleven years and had talked about having children for most of that time. Their best lesbian couple friends wanted to bear the child, and it would have been perfect because they were also an interracial couple. But while the women liked the idea of an agreement that included lots of fatherly involvement, they didn’t want to share legal custody. The friendship actually ended over that disagreement. Ray thought adoption was a good idea, particularly since biracial babies were easier to come by. But every time they started down the adoption path, they ran into smothering worries about DNA and inherited problems. Then, too, it was the eighties, and so many of their friends had died. How could anyone think of ushering a child into this cruel world? Yet they also thought that maybe a child was exactly what they needed to help them believe once again in life.
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