She dodges and he barges into the room. All I can see are his meaty hands, woven around Brita’s neck. The world moves so slow, I focus on his dirty nails.
Brita moans, her eyes plead with me until I lurch from spectator mode.
I scratch his face and claw at his hands. One of his hands releases Brita, but then his knuckles rise. I want to block, but can only watch them float down. The pain starts at my cheek, then it’s everywhere. It feels like I’m falling from the sky as I watch Brita look down at me, screaming. Sparkles start to blur the scene. The last thing I see is that he uses the giant dirty hand that hit me to pull curly, black hair out of his cold eyes.
The sun softens the chilled air and its warmth nuzzles the side of my face—at least the side that doesn’t sting. A glowing man looks down at me. Pyrite-golden eyebrows edge a large sloping forehead of burnished skin. Calm, brown eyes shielded by sandy lashes search my face. He is like the sunshine. His hands are under me, but they slip away as a smooth, hard surface meets from beneath. A gurney.
It’s February again. Where’s Brita?
Two EMTs, one man and one woman caw orders and dictate their actions. I search the crowd for the golden man but only recognize Brody. He approaches to tower over me. Smoke and sirens litter the air. The Wild Lily burns. Where is the man who rescued me?
“Hey, Baby.” He must be proud of his teeth, the only reason for his smile. My face hurts so much I can’t do anything but whimper and shake my head.
“Are you the one who pulled her from the building?” the female EMT says.
“Yes.” Brody touches my temple like my father used to.
They ignore me as I shake my head no.
“What happened?”
“A chair hit her.” Brody says.
I cry, “No.” Brody was not there. Brita? I thought I screamed the no, but maybe I’m not making any sound.
“Poor Baby. I won’t leave you.”
Straps hold me down. The gurney rocks up and dips. The sky disappears slowly as the ambulance ceiling slides into view. Brody climbs in. Where is the sunshine man?
The earth greets the pounding of my feet. I raise my arms, and each step emphasizes the thrum of blood coursing through my heart. Fabric sways against my legs.
The fabric is coarse hospital sheets, and the pulse in my feet is throbbing pain. I dreamed again.
“There she is.” Brody’s voice ensures that I dream no longer.
Why is he here? I have never really talked to Brody. He always has business with Buzz. He holds my fingers with a soft touch, smooth hands.
“I was so worried.”
I try to ease my tongue into the desert between my teeth and lips. Brody reads my mind. He holds a pastel cup with a matching lid and straw to my mouth. An ache chases the icy water.
“I bet it hurts.” He nods at my wincing, but I don’t care about that.
“Brita?”
He shakes his head and his eyes comfort and mourn at the same time. “He killed her.” Brody stands and twists the plastic stick on the window blinds. It’s evening, so the light is mild. When he turns back to me, his lips press so that they disappear inside his mouth. He unrolls them thoughtfully. “The police have a few leads. The guy robbed me, torched the bar. Hurt my girls.” Brody steps back to my bed.
“And the other guy?”
“You mean the one who got stabbed?
I nod.
“I think they knew each other.”
The killer seemed to know Brita, too.
“It was probably drugs or something. I never saw him before,” Brody continues.
“But you saw him?” I say.
“Me? No, not really.”
Did he see him or not? Brody takes my hand again. It seems intimate—not the action, but the way he does it.
“I’m going to take you out for a night on the town. Help you forget about all this.” He waves his hand as if to wipe away the death of a friend—the horror of an attack. His face moves into a soft-eyed, puppy-dog expression and he lightly touches my temple. “After this heals you’ll look good and, you know, feel fab-u-lous.”
The enunciation of that word is Brody’s virus, and you can always tell who he’s infected. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to feel fabulous—but I don’t plan to see Brody ever again.
“Come see me at my downtown bar when you’re ready.”
I nod so he won’t pressure me. I don’t even want to think about working again right now. He hands me a business card with the words, “Dames of Desire,” following the curve of a bare shoulder. “Brody Penn, Gentlemen’s Club Owner.”
Brody lifts my chart. “So-oh, Baby has a name.”
He squeezes my foot on top of the sheet. “Don’t worry, Sparrow. Your secret is safe with me.”
The detective is so huge there’s no curve of neck between his jaw and collarbone. His shoulders seem to span more than my arms would reach, and I would have to stand on a chair to get them that high. He makes me think of a rhinoceros, but not in a humorous way. I would avoid him in any setting. He doesn’t smile or even speak after mumbling that he is “detective-so-and-so.” He seems to be judging me, searching the marks and notating the left or right side for each wound. He sets an audio recorder on the bed beside my thigh and presses his chin to his chest.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
As though I have a choice.
“I was in the dressing room with Brita when we heard a noise.” My voice sounds strange to my ears, as though I’m already listening to the recording, and it’s at half-speed.
“What kind of noise?
“First a crash, then a scream.”
His eyes remain vague—like we’ve never met, and I’m the street urchin he passes everyday on his way to work.
“So we opened the door to look outside.” I stop clenching the sheets and force my hands still.
“Outside the building?” He looks skeptical.
“Outside the dressing room.”
“You both opened the door?”
“I opened the door, but she was close beside me.” All of a sudden, I see the killer’s leer, feel the rush of adrenaline again. My thoughts come choppy.
“Yes?” The detective’s brows are like a child’s drawing of a distant bird.
I’m not sure what he’s asking. “Um, she didn’t want to open the door.”
“Why did she?”
“I opened it. We wanted to know what the noise was, we were afraid for Lexi.”
“Another dancer?”
He just choked her. To die that way…
“Is Lexi the other dancer?”
I realize I’m still looking at the killer’s huge hands on Brita’s neck and his black, curly hair tied back in a pirate-ponytail.
“Is Lexi the other dancer?” The detective acts like he’s repeating the question.
“Yes, the other dancer.”
“So you heard a scream, then a crash.”
“Yes.”
“Not a crash and then a scream?”
What is he talking about? “I don’t know. They were both at the same time.”
“And then Brita opened the door.”
“Um hum.” It squeaks out of me.
“I thought you said you opened the door.”
“Yes, I did. She was with me. A man came into the room.”
He has hardly made any eye contact. But now, his brows come together almost as one, divided by exclamation mark wrinkles. Am I in trouble?
“You were with her?”
“I…I…got hit.”
“Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“No, I didn’t really focus on his face.” And I never want to think about it again.
“Would you be able to describe it to a sketch artist?”
“No.” I am done talking to him. My eyelids feel wind-burned as they move across my eyes. I squeeze them shut. Brita…
Thom is sober when he comes to collect me. His red windbreaker highlights the veins a
round his nose, climbing the tower of his shiny face. I wonder if his dad had such a large nose. I hope it isn’t from our mom’s side. His strands of hair are like tracks, combed back on his thinning scalp. He must have used hairspray.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Thom walks so quickly I wonder if he forgets I’m in a wheelchair. At the end of the hall, he looks back and waits until the nurse and I are within ten feet again.
“Lorna has been getting your room ready for you.”
“No.” The word comes out of me with a lungful of air.
“Don’t be like that. She’s been working hard to do this for you.” He looks irritated, but then glances at the nurse and tries to smile like it was a joke.
“What did she do?”
“Just cleaned it for you, organized it.”
“Thom, no…”
He bends over and uses his big brother voice. “Listen, you really need to be more appreciative of the things she does for you.”
I guess we are done with that subject. Sometimes it seems like he really sees; sometimes he is on my side. It hurts to breathe when he doesn’t.
The nurse and I wait just inside the revolving doors while Thom pulls the Firebird around. The faces that enter and exit wear fear. I’m not sorry to leave this place.
“I have to make a stop on the way home.” He pats my knee when I climb into the car. “I spent the whole day at the unemployment office.”
“Okay.” I rest my bandage against the cold window. That’s why he’s sober.
Chapter 3
Thom shuffles around the braided rug between the kitchen and his recliner. The remote waits on the stained, blue arm. He plops down with a newly purchased bottle of White Lighting Vodka hidden under his arm and lets out a satisfied sigh when he pulls the lever and his footrest lifts.
I decide to go see what Lorna has done. Our trailer is really nice. If anything, my sister-in-law has a talent with dried and silk flower arrangements. Her job at Discount Crafts helps fund her hobby. I wish she worked evenings though. Then we’d miss each other completely.
My bed’s made, but she took one of my blankets. I dump the contents of my backpack on top. She stacked my library books against the wall. I start to add Aesop’s Fables, which I finished in the hospital, but my usual system of organizing books in three piles—finished, unfinished, and don’t want to finish—has been changed to one useless stack. I grip Aesop like a security blanket and turn to the closet. The metal hangers are evenly spaced so the clothes don’t touch. In the dresser, I lost a drawer. It now holds a glue gun, puffy paint and other craft items.
Not as bad as I—wait. My metal music stand is gone…my flute too?
I race to the living room.
“Thom, where’s my flute?”
“I dunno.”
I don’t know whether I’m more panicked about the only item I truly own, given to me by my father—not Thom and Lorna—or the fifteen-hundred in cash I had hidden in the false bottom of the case.
I danced for nothing. My room—it’s my room again now that I don’t have money for my own place—looks hideously barren. How did I not notice the flute missing when I first entered? “Thom, she took it!”
Thom looks up from The Montel Williams Show to a real-life, sordid family drama.
“I’m sure she didn’t.”
At least he didn’t deny that I had one. Kudos for big brother.
I hold the hardback up to hide my face, resisting the urge to smack my head a few times. “My dad gave that to me.”
“Yeah, I know Mom married your dad.” He takes another long draft from the bottle. In my fury, I have accidently mentioned the one thing that always steals his sympathy. The recliner chair clanks forward.
“Why you care about a carved stick with holes in it, from a guy who beat you up…”
He continues muttering and walks down the hall. I wait to hear the creak next to my bedroom door. Of course, it doesn’t. He won’t go verify, he’ll just hide in his and Lorna’s room.
A car drives up and a door slams. Lorna’s ridiculous titter leaks through the closed window. “Thank you so much!”
Thom scuttles back into the main room and slides his vodka behind the expired box of bran flakes. We simultaneously turn.
A black, open-toed shoe pushes the front door ajar and a pink and white, striped bag props it further.
“You’re so kind,” Lorna says.
I hear a man’s voice and then an unusual laugh from Lorna. It sounds like a whippoorwill on steroids. A tall man enters. His hair is slightly lighter than his skin; both are offset by his dark, Shoshone-Paiute Police uniform, which peaks out from a navy, flannel jacket. Light brown eyes join with mine in that unique, almost spiritual connection.
“This is officer Pruitt. He was so kind to rescue me.”
We still stare at each other as though we’ve met.
“What happened?” Thom asks.
“Well, since you took the Firebird, I had to borrow Raenah’s Rabbit, and it broke down on me. I can’t believe she loaned me a car that couldn’t make it to the mall and back.”
Poor Raenah, our neighbor will probably get an earful from Lorna in exchange for the kindness. The officer turns and grabs four more bags from just outside the door and sets them on the floor by Lorna.
“So there I was, stranded, when a car pulls up behind me. I was so relieved to see the uniform.” She trills again.
I can’t believe the officer is still bringing in bags. “You sure bought a lot.”
“Hi, welcome home.” Her face doesn’t match the pleasant words. “I got a bonus. Thom, take these bags.” She holds out her arm to the policeman. “I can’t thank you enough.” Lorna puts her hand on the officer’s elbow before she turns and takes a bag to her bedroom. Thom follows her out.
“It’s good to see you.” At the officer’s voice, I turn. I do know him.
“I was at the Wild Lily,” he says.
“Oh.” I cut him off and walk out the front door. Outside, the sun glints off his head. “You pulled me out.” The sunshine man was real.
“Are you okay?” He still doesn’t break eye contact.
“Shh.”
“Oh, they don’t…”
I widen my eyes like, “duh.”
He just stares at me.
“So, Officer…?”
“Hayden,” he says.
“Officer Hayden.”
“Pruitt.”
I just look at him, waiting. He doesn’t seem to notice my confusion. “Officer Pruitt?”
“Call me Hayden.”
I laugh.
“I didn’t get your name.” He just smiles at me and never looks away. I’ve grown used to men’s gawking, but this is more like seeing me than the ogling directed up from the base of the dance floor. The last thing I want is to be on familiar terms with a cop. Instead, I give the name they gave me at the Wild Lily.
“Baby.”
He looks disappointed, but sticks out his hand to shake. It’s better this way.
His hand is much bigger than mine. He waits for a good grip before he squeezes lightly. His skin is dry and rough. At first, I’m amazed at the warmth I feel in his palm. It makes me wonder how long it has been since I touched someone’s skin.
“Cops give people rides home?” I fold my arms around the book—mostly to resist clinging to his hand.
“I was off duty. I saw your mom’s car broken down.”
Awesome. I wish Lorna’d heard that. “Sister-in-law.”
“I have been worried…praying for you.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. Praying?
He points to the book in my arms. “How do you like Aesop’s Fables?”
He didn’t ask what I was reading, he just knew. “I’m not sure yet.” Even after I finish a story, it takes me time to form an opinion. The book is a hardback, but I run my hand across it, as if to smooth the cover. “I can’t seem to find that elusive happy ending.”
“I know what you mean.
” He swallows. “But it isn’t that elusive. There’s a book with…”
“Well, then give it to me.”
He laughs like he doesn’t think I’m serious, but answers, “I will. And if you want—I can take you to hear about the story.”
Oh, so that’s what he wants. “Can police officers date?”
“Not in uniform.”
I turn away to hide my smile. The sunshine man is witty. “I should wait until this heals a little more, until I get the stitches out.” I finger the bandage on my face.
“Why?” The fact that he doesn’t care reminds me how much Brody did.
He might not say that if he saw my stitches though, I’m pretty hideous. “Take me where, like to a bar?” It wouldn’t be good for a cop to learn my age—not that is matters anymore with the Wild Lily destroyed.
“I was thinking more like church.”
I mimic a Lorna pose: hand on my hip, feet apart. Yuck, how did that happen? I don’t want to be her—I drop my arms.
“You know, to hear about the story.” He smiles and crosses his arms. “Then maybe a mountain bike ride.”
No wonder he’s so tan. He reads, he’s athletic…persistent.
“Where is everyone?” Lorna calls from inside.
“I, uh…” If Lorna comes out she’ll drill him about where we know each other. “Sure, Officer Hayden Pruitt. In two weeks.” My stitches will be gone then.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I check to make sure Lorna hasn’t found us yet. “But leave now.”
He turns and leaps off the front deck. He didn’t even take a step, just sprang up. I laugh out loud.
“You’re pretty when you smile.”
I smile bigger.
“Two weeks from Sunday, nine a.m.?”
“Sure.”
Lorna steps out onto the deck. “Where’s he going?” She has changed into a short black dress and teased out her hair.
“I don’t know, I guess he had to get home.”
I leave Lorna to watch Officer Hayden Pruitt drive away. Her hands weave a lattice over her pudgy belly. She gnaws on her lip to the beat of her tapping toe. A price tag hanging from her armpit swings in accord.
Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) Page 2