Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds)

by Hilarey Johnson

  “Sovereign Lord, Hayden and Sparrow need your help. Cloth them with armor so the enemy can’t even touch their minds. Direct our courses. Restrict the ruler of this age.”

  I want to ask him how he knows, but I have the sensation that the Lord, the one he spoke to, is listening. Here, even. This awe creates muteness in me.

  “I have been...” Hayden seems reluctant, but continues. “There was, almost, a presence.”

  I was wrong—wrong about a few things. Hayden understands more than I thought.

  “Well, son, you don’t want to look for the enemy everywhere. He isn’t who you want to find. Keep your eyes where they need to be—on the Savior. But don’t be naïve, either.”

  They go on, back and forth, saying things that don’t make sense, things about prowling lions, attack and warfare, demons and angels. It frustrates me how foreign their talk sounds. It’s like they’re speaking Spanish in high school, and my barely passing grade only gives me random words of comprehension.

  We pass signs declaring the miles left to Battle Mountain, Wells and the city where we are headed, Salt Creek. I focus out the window at the dark landscape, wishing for the sun to rise.

  Yip.

  Miss Priss pushes her muzzle into my shoulder after her whine-bark. It’s a little intimidating because her face is almost all mouth. The guys continue. I try to ignore them again. Every few minutes, she yips and I ignore. Finally, she pushes me and barks in my ear.

  “Priss, what is it?”

  “Sparrow found a stray kitten.” Hayden smiles.

  “Ah,” Matty says. “I thought Priss was telling her to pay attention.

  Hayden squeezes my hand, and we all have a great laugh about that one. But I start listening.

  “Remember, you are given power to tread serpents and scorpions, and over the enemy’s power. Nothing can harm you.” Matty takes a deep breath, “But this is not the thing to celebrate—that spirits are subject to you. Rejoice because your names are recorded in heaven.”

  It doesn’t sound rehearsed, but I can tell Matty recites it. It came from somewhere, he didn’t just make it up on the spot—there is too much weight in the words. Too much power in the way he said them.

  I nod and faux converse, hmms and smiles when they look my way. But spirits, submitting to me? This is something I could use. Wield my own sovereignty. I visualize ordering spirits away. Finally, I know how I’ll laugh at my grandfather’s curse.

  This is a good thing too, because we’re almost there, we’ve arrived in Wells. It’s an intersection of out-of-state bound freeways and gas stations. Everything feels hurried, transient. I want to leave Matty’s truck quickly, but I get the fear that if I hopped in the wrong car no one would know in which state to look for me.

  Matty buys us breakfast sandwiches at a fast food place and apologizes for not taking us north. He and Hayden part with a manly, slapping-hug. He drives away toward a sign that says Las Vegas. Hayden waves until the tow truck is completely gone and then pinches his lips together. He smiles, maybe because I was watching his lips. He kisses me lightly. Why doesn’t he look more tired? I know he hasn’t slept.

  “What now?” I hope he doesn’t say walk.

  He does.

  “No, I need to take care of kitty.” We find a three-foot-wide grassy patch behind the fast food place. Most of the area is packed dirt and windblown litter. I have to wake the kitten. Hayden pulls out a multi tool and crimps a triangular opening in the milk can. We fill the bottle and I try to shove it inside the kitten’s mouth.

  “I think I want to name him after the tow truck guy.”

  “Matt the Cat?” Hayden’s eyes shine.

  “Something like that.”

  Kitty—now named Matty—turns away from the bottle. I pinch the rubber several times to get some of the milk to flow.

  “He’s licking.”

  “Oh, cool.” Hayden is as mesmerized by the little striped face as I am. Matty figures out after awhile how to get the nipple end into his mouth, but he just bites it.

  “He’s hungry.”

  Matty is going to live. Hope is like a sugar high. I can hardly contain the giddiness and all that comes out of my mouth are high-pitched squeals.

  “Can I pet yer kitty?” A little sprite with waist length, un-brushed hair stands before us with three of her fingers shoved into her mouth.

  “Sure,” I say. The child lowers slowly to her knees and pulls her hands from her mouth.

  “What’s her name?” The little girl’s fingers go back in.

  “Matty, what’s yours?”

  She doesn’t answer me. “I like kitties…” Her words falter, and her little hand leaves her mouth. She reaches out to Matty. Her whole arm shakes. She pets Matty as if she is afraid the cat will break or disappear.

  “Lynette!” A frantic woman, obviously the mom, rounds the corner of the gas station and flies toward us. “Oh, Nettie. What were you thinking?”

  Nettie bursts into tears. “Kitty, Momma.”

  “Yes, you found a kitty.” She pulls the child into her arms and squeezes as if to turn her frustration and fear into love. “You can’t run off, baby girl, you know that.”

  Nettie shoves her fingers back into her mouth and lays her head on her mom’s shoulders. “Sorry, Momma.” It’s beautiful the way Nettie fits in her mom’s arms.

  Matty is finished with the milk for now, and I set him on the grass. Nettie wiggles from her mom’s arms. “Can I hold him?” There is so much tremor in her voice that the whole two-and-a-half feet of her quivers.

  “Sure.” I have never seen a child so desperate. Of course, I don’t have much experience with children.

  The mom, already on her knees, plops to rest on her feet with a sigh. “Thanks…” She pulls a wisp of hair back from Nettie and tucks it behind her ear. “We lost a cat a few weeks ago.”

  “A car killed her.” Nettie says without looking up from the bundle in her arms. She cradles Matty like a baby. She even sways gently.

  “Yeah, a car.”

  “Are you looking for a new cat?” Hayden points to Matty and then to the mom.

  I look at Hayden quickly. He looks sorry. But he’s right. I can’t keep the kitty, not with so many unknowns. It was lucky I didn’t smash the thing a few hours ago. Who knows where I’ll be tonight.

  “Someday.” The mom starts to stand.

  “What about today?”

  “Oh, you don’t have…” We all look at Nettie, she is whispering some sort of lullaby while she rocks the cat. Tears stream from each of her eyes.

  “I don’t know if he’ll make it.” I want to clarify. “We just found him a few hours ago.”

  “Just a stray, under a car,” Hayden says.

  “The best kind of pets,” says the mom. “They know somehow.” She squats back down. “Nettie, these nice people…” She stops and looks at us.

  Hayden doesn’t need a script. “Lynette, would you like to keep this kitty?”

  Her face explodes into a sunrise, fireworks and smiles. I love Hayden at this moment.

  Looks like the mom does too. “Do you two, um, need a ride?”

  Hayden nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  We ride in the back of her pickup truck to a rest area two miles outside of Salt Creek. Hayden sleeps deeply with his mouth open and his head on my shoulder during the one hour drive. She apologizes, just like Matty did, for not taking us further. It’s weird to receive help from someone who’s sorry it isn’t more—rather than the kind of begrudging help that lets you know you’ll end up owing.

  Hayden insists that this is better, though I don’t know why. The mom, the cutest little girl I ever saw and Matt the Cat drive away forever. We use the restrooms. I wash my hands and face and try to finger-brush my hair. Outside, sparkles of sunlight glint from water droplets still clinging to Hayden’s short blond hair. He must have washed in the sink like I did.

  We wait on cement and pebble benches as people park, run into the rest stop and eventually le
ave. Some people water their dogs, yell at their kids or smoke cigarettes. I don’t mind being invisible for now. Hayden and I seem to be avoiding plans, at any rate, we don’t talk. The air climbs the thermometer five degrees at a time.

  The last minivan leaves the rest stop, and we are completely alone. “Let’s get out of the sun.” Hayden turns and walks away. There’s a cluster of pine trees and we head that way.

  “Look at this.” The tallest tree’s branches hang down to form a shelter of sorts, a little cove around the base. By the packed dirt, it looks like it has been used before.

  “So this is the problem.” Hayden stretches out on the ground. “No money, no phone. All we know is: we need to go to the Humboldt Indian Colony, past Salt Creek on 93.”

  I sit down on the dirt, but tenderly. My ribs still hurt. I need clean clothes and a toothbrush. Soon I’ll want lunch. Hayden probably only needs sleep. “How long will it take us to walk two miles?”

  “Thirty or so minutes if we keep up a pace.” He yawns. “After a nap, I could run it in less than sixteen minutes.” He yawns again.

  “Sleep then.” A breeze blows through our tree fort. He does, almost immediately. Everything in me says to stretch out and rest—but I don’t listen. I walk to the vending machines and press coin return on each of them, hoping for the clank of quarters dropping. It works. With two dollars in quarters, I buy a bottle of water and take it back under the tree. I sip a tiny amount and leave the rest for Hayden.

  He has done so much for me, I have to take care of this. I pull out a piece of paper and write a quick note that I’ll be back with dinner. I use my backpack as a weight so the note doesn’t blow away. Hayden’ll understand, he will see that I’m leaving everything important to me under this tree. I have to get us a ride, a hotel, some money. I owe him so much right now. It takes a bit of an internal pep talk to leave the shelter of these trees into the midday summer sun, for a trek down a freeway in high mountain desert.

  No, it isn’t the trees. It’s the other shelter I leave—the spiritual shelter.

  Chapter 26

  The town lives up to its name. It’s the worst of Nevada freeway towns. You come to the water and find only the undrinkable kind. Salt Creek: The depraved result of people consenting to dwell under the provision of a brothel, a few bars, casinos and truck-stop gas stations.

  Truck Stop & Go, a two story, newer hotel-like building advertises a diner, showers, internet and laundry. That’s where Hayden and I’ll stay the night. I’ll make it happen. Just beyond, is a sign that says Shoshone Humboldt Colony. Tomorrow I’ll be free.

  I have come to dance, may as well get started. I walk to the first gentleman’s club. More than a dozen cars and eighteen-wheelers are parked out front. The main door opens to a busy restaurant, and a pretty hostess greets me.

  “I’d like to talk to the manager, or owner.”

  “Sure.” She waltzes away. In a moment, she returns with an attractive older woman with hair as long as mine, but turning gray. The woman’s face looks like rock formed by decades of weather. She is not Native American, but I still see myself in twenty-five years.

  “Come on back…”

  “Baby,” I answer instinctively.

  “Excellent. My name is Joan.” She leads me through the dining area into an office. The desk is covered in paper, not stacked in a feint at organization, just smeared across the top like peanut butter.

  Joan points to a chair. I don’t sit. “I need a job.”

  “Great. I’ll need ID and a birth certificate to prove you’re over twenty-one. We’ll need to get you a medical exam and...”

  “No, I just need a short term…just tonight.”

  She laughs. “Not a real job? Just a one-time thing?”

  “I guess, I just need a little money.”

  “Well, you won’t make a little money here.” She crosses her arms and leans across the desk. “We make big money. Of course you’ll have to prove your age. We’re a legal brothel.”

  “I’m just a dancer.”

  “And I’m sure you’re extraordinary.”

  “I’m on a billboard in Reno.” It doesn’t deflect her patronization like I hoped.

  “Good for you.” She stands. “But if you don’t need a job, I have other things to do.”

  “I just need a one-time…”

  “What kind of place do you think I run? My girls are legal, clean, and well-paid.”

  “I’m kinda stuck. I need money tonight.”

  Joan smiles. “I have heard every excuse ever told, honey.” She opens the door to her office.

  “I’m not a beggar. I’m a good dancer. I just need a little money to get a room tonight. Otherwise I’ll sleep at the rest stop.”

  “Hrumph.”

  “Please.” And I am a beggar after all.

  Joan grips the door and looks at her toes. “Well, actually…I might be able to help you.”

  I leave Joan’s restaurant-coffee-shop-brothel with a note and the name “George.” It seems the owner of Truck Stop & Go pays for private dances in cash. I’m in control. I’m taking care of Hayden and myself. Next, I’ll take care of my curse.

  George waits for in me front of the gas station part of the truck stop. He is about sixty-five years old and sits in an electric wheel chair. Faded jeans cover legs so thin the kneecaps protrude. After I give him the note, he silently leads me through the candy bar isle, past a cove where truckers watch television and wait for showers. We walk down a hallway where there is a sign that says “Women’s Showers” on one door and “Men’s Showers” on another. Next, we pass a door that says “Emergency Exit.” I only notice all of this because of Hayden and that makes me want to stop and run back to the trees. The last door says “Office.”

  There is very little air inside, and I purposefully do not look around. I don’t want to remember this place. I feel the presence.

  George pours vodka into a disposable soda cup. Glug, glug, glug. He zooms from his desk to a small refrigerator and adds bottled orange juice. The acidic smell burns my throat, even from the six feet that separate us.

  George’s bony fingers are pale. He is no threat to me. He pulls out five, twenty-dollar bills and lays them out like a card dealer about to do a trick. “I don’t need a name. I don’t need a story.” He pushes the stack toward me. “I only need a show.”

  I dance. No talking, no music, nothing but the sound of George sucking through a straw. Hayden will be wondering where I am by now. I try not to think of him. This is just work. Better than work because I’m in control.

  “I’ll throw in a free night at the hotel if you take it all off.” George’s voice vibrates with an unreserved lack of control. I don’t make eye contact, even when he whines “please.” This is what I came for…I focus on a dented, gray metal file cabinet behind his slight form. I give myself for money, and it leaves me poorer than when I began.

  Walking away from Salt Creek, I hear footsteps on the gravel behind me. The spirit is with me again. The sun is lowering and I avoid shadows. I need to get back to Hayden before dark.

  Need.

  I needed money and George needed a show.

  I run.

  I’m not in control.

  I’m in need.

  Hayden wears my backpack and paces on the side of the freeway a hundred yards from the rest stop. I’m covered in sweat from running, and particles of dust stirred by car drafts have turned to mud and dried again. As soon as we see each other, he starts toward me. I’m not surprised he’s awake. It’s almost seven o’clock. I spent more than five hours in town.

  “Sparrow.” He grabs me into his arms like the mom grabbed little Nettie this morning. The water bottle in his hands is empty. I’m thirsty, but glad I left it for him.

  “Come on, back to town with me.” I turn immediately.

  “I’m so glad to see you.” He stops me and smiles. But I can’t look him in the eye. “Are you okay? I woke up and you were gone, I was afraid you hitchhiked alone.”<
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  “No, I walked.” He tries to grab my hand. I can’t flick it away, but I don’t want to be touched. I didn’t touch George, but I won’t be settled until I wash his eyes off. I let my hand remain limp. This makes him squeeze my hand even more.

  “I got us a hotel room. Come on. I want a shower.”

  Hayden stops and starts to say something, but a big rig drives by. I can’t hear him. The truck leaves a wake of wind that threatens my balance. We scoot farther from the asphalt.

  “What?”

  “How did you get a hotel room?” He stands like a fortress, taller than I’ve ever seen him.

  “Come on, they have computers so we can check out the disk. Internet, showers…”

  “Sparrow how did you get a room?”

  “I have money, too.” I pull out the hundred dollars in twenties and hold it out to him. He takes it and counts them twice.

  “When did you get this?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Another truck is coming; I hear the roar up the street.

  “You stripped?” This time I hear his yell even while the truck drives past us. Several cars follow the truck, and the gusts whip my hair in all directions. Hayden’s eyes are wide and hard, his teeth clenched, grinding.

  I look toward town. I want to throw up.

  “Ahhhh!” He throws the wad of money into the traffic. One bill blows back toward us, one up, one under a car…I don’t see the others.

  “What are you doing?” I start toward the road, but he grabs me.

  “Don’t.” He holds me.

  “That’s my money.”

  “That’s Satan’s money.” He pushes me back from the road. “You’re just like Sabine!"

  I don’t ask him about her because the money is floating away. “We need that.” I reach for it again even though more cars are coming.

  “We don’t need anything from him.”

  I scream. He restrains.

  “It means nothing. It’s just a dance.”

  “It means everything to me. You are worth so much more. Don’t you see?”

  “See what? I’m not Sabine,” I say her name like it’s sour. He recoils. I hold my arms out. “I have breasts, legs, a face.” I dance in a way I didn’t intend to and car honks as it flies by. “I’m a girl, and that’s all I’ve got.”