by J. A. Giunta
“Of what?”
“Your meeting with Sleeping Bear. She will decide what to do with you.”
I hesitate. “And she likes… Julian?”
He gives a shrug, not bothering to turn around.
“She should, he’s her son.”
We get to what I think is the western side of the water. I try to use the sun, and the hills, and where I think the road is… But my head hurts and I’ve been spun around too much today.
Cattails and long, thick green grass work as the zipper that keeps the desert sand and the silt of the beach together. An old, makeshift dock extends out into the water where two large red canoes bob gently next to it.
The camp runs along the length of the water. Teepees, mobile homes, trucks with trailers. A corral has been made at either end but most horses stand idly tied to truck hitches or simply staked to the ground. Some aren’t tethered to anything.
The camp is abuzz with activity. There are small fires everywhere. Men and women pare vegetables or gut fish, hands busy with leather or the making thereof. Three children that stand calf deep in the water, apparently washing clothes, stop what they’re doing to stare as we pass. I hear Ghost’s name being muttered. One man gives a gentle wave. Most just watch us go by in silence.
I see Julian sitting on the bed of a truck. His lip is packed full of some dark, reddish brown leaves that have left a trail of drool down his chin. His knee is bandaged, but the coagulated blood trails still stain his leg, his white sock dyed a permanent red.
“I’ll never walk the same, bitch. But you won’t be walking again.”
I don’t respond, and I see Ghost restrain himself.
These two have a history.
A large teepee stands separate from the rest. A gentle hill raising it above the others. Smoke leaks out the top, only to be snatched by the ever present wind, as if it were secrets too sacred to let escape. Painted rocks line the way to the entrance. Birds and fish and flowers and symbols indiscernible.
Ghost and his men pull up and dismount, all grim. Or perhaps not grim. The face of men who thought they’d enjoy something and find they don’t.
“Sit. Look at the water with me.” Ghost pats the dirt and plops down, jacket splayed around him like some cocky raven, legs crossed as if this were exactly where he wanted to be. “Sit. Please.”
I pause, taking a moment to consider my options. I can’t make a run for it. I certainly shouldn’t. Not with Julian around. Nor would I know where to go.
Pike flops down and presents his stomach to Ghost, who obediently pets it. I do not wish to kill this man. But such is the world around me. A list of necessaries. A list of regrets. I am a woman. A slender, slight woman, at that. My only advantage is that I am underestimated. And that I do not hesitate.
Mostly.
That I will escape here or die trying levels the world to black and white. A man attempting to forge some sort of friendship adds color that I’m not sure I want.
You need to do this.
It’s a hard truth. I know I’ve become a blunt instrument. Hell, I catalogue things in order of importance. And now that I have something I never thought to have, coupled with what I have experienced… I have a callous view of death. But a future… A future means I would have to grow. To do what Har has. Trust. Or pretend to until it’s true.
I can’t help but sigh as I sit down next to Ghost. Harlan torments himself with the moments that come afterwards. I torment myself with those that come before.
A high-pitched squealing rises behind us. Rita is being dragged into the teepee to visit Sleeping Bear. Neither of us turn around. Neither of us acknowledge the noise. I think we’d rather enjoy the tranquil vista before us, both knowing it’s not going to last.
“Can I have my knife back?”
My fingers dig into the clay and I can’t help the loud exhale of breath that escapes me. A sly grin and I catch the flash of a gold tooth.
Fucker.
I pull it out of from the small of my back. It’s a short blade. One that was in a saddlebag. One that would do no good but to maybe cut a rope. Or one good stab.
“So you’re a knife kind of gal?”
I shrug. I don’t know if I should be flattered or not.
He reaches out and hesitantly takes the knife from my hand. The slightest pause given to me, in case I might want to fight back. As if that would be okay. Understood. But I hand the blade back silently. Calmly. Almost relieved.
“You don’t have much of a poker face.” He flips the knife up into the air from hand to hand. “Especially your eyes.”
“You knew I had the knife.”
“No.” He grins that devious grin. “But you looked at me and you looked sad. And I’m too handsome for that.” His smile fades as our eyes meet. “You had the look of someone about to kill something. I have to admit, I was a little terrified. And comforted.”
I snort, and in spite of myself, I smile for the third time that day.
“You were comforted by thinking I wanted to kill you?”
He grins a more honest grin. “I was comforted that you seemed sad about it.”
One by one the others are marched into the teepee. Rita is a hunched over, bawling mess when she leaves. Matt is silent and grim, hands balled into fists that still somehow manage to shake. Terry is nodding and talking to himself as he stumbles past me, the men who brought us here taking them back the way we came.
My turn.
Only Ghost is left to make sure I go into the tent. I wonder what he would do if I made a break for it.
Where would I go?
I approach the teepee. I can smell the smoke as I get closer. The flap is partially pulled to the side. I cast one glance back at Ghost before I crawl inside. He is still staring out over the water, a stalk of grass idly twirling between his fingertips.
It’s dim inside. The glow of embers from a potbellied chiminea in the center of the circle, the aroma of bread mixing with the smoke. Benches sit across from the entrance and along the sides. Two men and one woman sit on each bench. Knives laid across their thighs. Stock-still, unmoving.
“Are you hungry?”
A white haired woman, hair hanging down past her lower back, straightens from the other side of the chiminea. She holds a small tin square with an oven mitt. She is dressed in a nice button down blouse, white with blue stripes, and jeans.
“You were expecting an older woman, wrapped in a pelt of some kind, seeking visions in the fire?”
She gives me a stare with only the hint of a smile. I don’t respond.
“Did Danny tell you anything?”
“Danny?”
A heavy sigh. “Dancing Ghost.”
I give a nod.
“What did he tell you?”
This isn’t an occasion in which I find I can’t speak. It’s a time in which I’m impatient. A time in which I don’t feel like banter. “He says you… are awake. Will you kill me or set me free?”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Can’t there be something in between? Or does it have to be one or the other?”
I don’t answer, only the scrape of a butter knife as it slices the bread in the pan. She carefully maneuvers a piece out, slicing it in half and then drizzling it with honey.
“Honey doesn’t go bad. You know that?”
What?
I shake my head.
“If you see some, grab it. Out of all the things that we had before, it seems like all the good ones went bad.” She turns to look at me, a small, kindly smile on her face. “I wonder if we’ll see ice cream again in our lifetime. Probably not. But honey, it’ll last forever.” She places the plate of cornbread in front of me. “Eat. You look hungry.”
I don’t know what I had been expecting. By the reactions of the others I had imagined someone, something, more sinister.
Give it time.
Stuart had been one of the nicest people to me, at first.
The woman makes herself a small plate of the cornbread and sit
s down across from me. I don’t eat, no matter how good the cornbread smells. No matter how much my stomach rumbles.
She heaves a heavy sigh. “It isn’t poison. Nor is it a bribe. Although I wish it had been done baking when the others were in here. Might have put them in a better mood. And they probably would have eaten it.”
The way she says the last sentence lets me know that she sees them for what they truly are.
“Why were they… so upset?”
She waves the butter knife in the air as she shakes her head. “Fools would have been upset no matter what. There are just certain people more comfortable hearing what they want to hear and seeing what they want to see.”
“And what did they hear?”
“Nope.” She speaks around a mouthful of food. “I’m hungry. You’re hungry. You eat that and then we’ll talk.”
I reluctantly take the first bite. The bread is gone before I realize it, and Sleeping Bear is giving me a pleased look.
“My dog needs food, too.”
She hoots a laugh. “I’m sure Danny has already taken care of it.”
“Thank you.”
She nods and then we both lapse into silence.
“The others were already telling me whose fault it all was. Though what fault they were talking about was beyond me. Two of ‘em blamed you. Said something about thievery.” She shakes her head, one old hand reaching up to brush her long hair back away from her honey covered plate.
I don’t bother responding. I don’t feel the need to defend myself to a stranger. To lay out the reasons behind why I am with them, or what I did or did not do to them.
“What do you want with us?”
She stands up and takes our empty plates and begins to slowly clean them from a bucket next to the fire. “I am a mother. First and foremost, I am a mother. And now I am a mother to… So many more. And protecting them is my job.” She turns around to face me, idly toweling off her hands as she speaks. “And if I’m going to have to kill you, then I think it’s my job to try to get to know you first. You should never kill a stranger.”
And that’s the when the chill finally runs up my back.
HARLAN | 9
WE FOLLOW THE road. The hoof prints separate. Or disappear. For fuck’s sake, none of us is a tracker.
We follow the road. Blind. Moving only because staying still, waiting, would somehow be worse.
I feel like I’ve lost a limb. As long as Beryl was at my side I was contained. Sane. Almost myself. Now I stalk down a road, uncaring that I’m outpacing the others. Making sure I outpace the others lest I lash out at them. Lest I let loose the animal on someone undeserving.
The car had been heading northeast. Why? And who would stop them? Why would they take them?
I know a million answers to that. We’ve experienced one shade of darkness and it’s far too easy to see the spectrum of evil that can take place in a broken world full of broken people.
“Should we separate?”
I hadn’t heard Theo approach. A feat considering the heaviness of his steps.
I snap. “We should have done that hours ago if we…”
I stop myself. Press my fingers into my eyes until they hurt. I can’t do this. I can’t be the leader who unravels when his own heart…
Steady. Steady.
I feel the others around me. The tension. The worry. Even Sheila. “We can’t. Not now. And there was a lot of them. No good for one of us to find her if we’re alone.”
I hope this is true.
We walk. And I walk with them. A quick pace but not alone. United in purpose and not blinded by rage. Still blind though, still wandering aimlessly in a world that grows larger with each step.
Where are you Beryl?
The day is too short. The sun barely seems to find the time to break free of the clouds before it is disappearing over the horizon.
Evening and the mutters behind me. Josey catches me by the arm. I know they need to stop. I know I need to stop. I’m exhausted. Doubly exhausted. My mind and the worry, the images past and present, the fear painting a picture of misery for Beryl has robbed me of my reserves. But I don’t want to stop.
“Har. You have to.”
I thought I was still walking. My head is bowed and I stand in the middle of the road. Josey has his arms on my shoulders, as if he is either about to hug me or perhaps tackle me to the ground.
“What?”
“You have to stop. Rest. Eat. You can’t do anything for… for her if you run yourself into the ground, man.”
I do need rest. And food. And water. And, most desperately, I need to sleep. But the mind is a powerful thing. The imagination the wet paintbrush that makes all other demands black and white.
We eat but I don’t have the stomach for food. I drink sips of warm water and sit on the hard pavement and the movement of the others around me is nonexistent.
“Your sleeping bag is behind you.”
Josey claps my shoulder and gives me a little shove. So I lie down. Heavy eyes try to close but can’t. As if sleeping is a betrayal. A luxury that would be wrong to take part in at a time like this. I stare at the sky and listen to the swishing and twitching of the group. I can’t tell if they are sleeping.
Oh Beryl.
I had thought that, perhaps one day, we might have to part ways. One dark ideation in the endless hours in which we drove and I had nothing to do but try to imagine what the future might hold. If Jessica is alive. If she isn’t. My child…
And, to be honest, I don’t know what Beryl wants. Or what she sees. But I had this idea that somewhere, perhaps, she would find a place that could make her happy. That she would call home. And she would tell me that she was staying, and that I should go be with my family. But in my musings, though it was always a sad affair, it meant I knew where she was. Always. That I could always find her. And she would be able to find me. That the tether that bound us together would be stretched taut, but intact. Always.
Not this. Not a parting of the worst kind.
I can’t sleep. I stand and find Sheila on watch.
“I’ll take over.”
“The fuck you will. Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
She cocks her head. “You fell asleep for the last three hours.”
What?
“I can’t sleep anymore.”
“Fuckin’ try.” She reaches out and touches my elbow. “She isn’t a weak little girl, Har. I feel sorry for whoever is trying to mess with her.”
We both feel awkward with her trying to be nice, so I just nod and walk back to my sleeping bag. It’s true though, I can’t sleep anymore tonight. So I walk off the road toward a low hill. Perhaps distance from the others will help. The swish of sleeping bags and heavy snores, the rustle and groans and so many other noises are keeping me from listening, truly listening, to the night. Maybe I can hear something in the darkness that will help.
If I’m alone.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this kind of loneliness.
I try to stop the unraveling that I feel. The plunge into a despair that is so easy to fall into and so hard to climb out of.
Be patient.
My dad would tell me that. And I would be angry. Even now, just thinking about it makes me mad. How could one be patient now? How could…
I remember his face after he dispatched the deer. I remember the way he would carefully choose his words. An argument could never gain steam because he took his time so much.
So maybe less about patience, more about acknowledging that you have no control?
So what do I do here? Fucking wait. Fucking hope.
If that is all I have, then I shall embrace it. The other way lies madness. And despair. And the dark corners of my mind that I swore I would never again revisit.
As the realization sinks in, my body’s aches finally tap me on my shoulder. I shiver. I hadn’t realized it was so cold. The stars seem extra bright, the way they do right before the onset
of winter. And the insects are gone.
How have I not noticed this?
Peace, of a sort, settles over me. Frenetic energy subsiding to conserve itself. To wait. To be patient for light, for a time to continue our search.
And there, miles away, an orange glow.
The fire is in the curve of the road. The tongues of flame deep inside of a trash can. Just a glimmer of orange, so slight that it had me doubting myself. Even when the others claimed to see the light, I wondered if perhaps they were just showing support. Nodding along lest I completely fall apart.
We approach carefully. Spread out, guns up and ready to go. But not stealthy. I’m too anxious for that. The worry that I’ve made a mistake, somehow, and one that will only cause more pain the longer it remains.
Please be okay.
Two figures sit on the hoods of two cars on the far side. They see us approaching but make no move to flee. Or to grab weapons.
“Beryl!” I can’t help myself. I yell her name and I don’t know what I expect to get in return.
Nothing.
“Where is she?” I kick the metal trash can, sending it toppling over to roll in a semicircle, sparks and flaming detritus littering the road. Gun is up and pointed at them. Theo circles off to the side, a look on his face that I haven’t seen before.
“Where is she?!” he echoes me.
The two men slowly climb down from the cars. Young, both either in their late teens or early twenties. Both wearing multiple necklaces, and watches, and bracelets that jingle as they step towards us. One of them is smiling. Neither looks perturbed to have so many guns pointed in their direction.
One gives a cocky grin to his companion. “I told you they would come.”
What?
“Where is—”
One of the men holds up a hand. “She awaits your arrival. Come with us.”
“Is she okay?” I can’t help the way it comes out. Begging. Pleading. If she wasn’t I think they’d know to lie. I think they’d know they would be dead if she wasn’t.
An odd look exchanged. “She’s fine. C’mon, she’s waiting.”