by Anne McClane
One summer, several years after World War II
Ga-dunk.
Little Birdie awoke, happy, but unsure of where she was.
She wasn’t worried about that yet, though. There was sunshine on her face, and soft grass at her back.
The feeling made her think of the time Ronnie took her camping. The air was cool and there were no bugs. Ronnie had said they didn’t need a tent. He had rolled out his sleeping bag, his bedroll—he said they called it that in the Army—right onto the ground.
Ronnie had fashioned a bedroll for Birdie from an old sheet and a blanket from the hall closet. Momma had fussed at him, worrying over picking out burrs and trying to get the blanket clean. But Birdie knew Momma didn’t really mind. Ever since he’d come home from Germany, Birdie knew Momma was just happy he was home—even though she was always saying, “Son, I don’t know why you’d ever come back here.”
Birdie didn’t know what Momma meant by that. She was just happy her big brother was home, too.
He had written her letters, some from before she even knew how to read them. He had talked about taking her camping. And Ronnie made good on that promise not too long after he’d come home.
That first morning at Tickfaw, just as the sun was just starting to show in the pine trees, Ronnie had already been awake. He’d made a fire. He’d told Birdie she could have breakfast in bed. “That’s the rules for camping,” he’d said.
Birdie thought she might like to go camping every weekend after that, but they’d only gone the once so far.
Ga-dunk.
And that’s what Birdie was thinking of, as she woke up to the smell of burning wood. And bacon. She was a little hungry now, come to think of it. She blinked twice and turned her head.
All thoughts of Ronnie and their time in Tickfaw vanished from her head.
Léon was lying beside her. Thick blood was everywhere—it was matted in Léon’s fur and stained the grass all around him. His side rose and fell with slow breaths. A whimpering sound fell upon the air, but it wasn’t Léon.
The sound escaped from Birdie, through pursed lips and teary eyes. She remembered where she was. She’d gone looking for Léon before dinnertime. He hadn’t been home since breakfast. And he always came home around lunchtime, looking for table treats. She’d always sneak him some when Momma wasn’t looking.
Birdie remembered finding him, lying in the field back behind the whites’ cemetery. He must have fought with some kind of wild animal. Birdie had seen a coyote once, out on the batture, but that was a ways away from here.
She had thought he was dead. She’d put her hands on his side, to see if she could feel him breathing. And then she couldn’t remember what happened, or how she’d fallen asleep.
That made her scared. Very scared.
Even now, Birdie was reassured that her precious Léon, the dog with a lion’s mane, was still alive, but she wasn’t sure how long that would last. She pushed herself to a kneeling position and said a quick prayer. “Please, Jesus, please help Léon. And me, too, if it’s not too much trouble.” She reached her arms forward, intending to feel Léon’s side again. A breeze ruffled her dress. But something wasn’t right. There was more fluttering than there should be. She looked down at her dress, and saw tatters bounded by long, dark marks. Like it had been burned.
Birdie’s fear grew.
How did this happen? And Momma was going to be so angry. She had just sewn her that dress, from a bolt of new material Mrs. Bergeron had given to her. “Okay, Jesus, I hope you can really help us both now.”
Ga-dunk.
That sound must be from trucks out on the river road. It wasn’t too far from the cemetery. She didn’t want any strangers to see her and Léon out in the open, somewhere they shouldn’t be.
Birdie pressed down the remains of her dress to cover herself. She reached out to Léon, who opened his eyes and blinked at her before she touched his side. She lay a gentle hand upon him, and he blew out a sigh. He tried to get up on his legs, paws struggling to get upright.
“Shhhhh,” Birdie said. “Shhhh, it’s okay, Léon. I think I can carry you.” She wiped the back of her arm against her eyes, wiping away the tears. She had to be strong for Léon.
Little Birdie wanted to believe she could carry her beloved dog, but he was just as big as she was. When she slid her forearms under his side, and strained to move him even an inch off the ground, she knew she’d have to come up with another plan.
“It’s okay, Léon. I’m going to get help.” Still trying to be strong, she couldn’t keep her voice from cracking.
Her tattered garment fluttered. “Hopefully Momma won’t see me, or she’ll never let me back out again once she sees my dress.”
Léon let out a low bark.
The sun was close to setting, and Birdie knew that’s when the wild animals were the worst. She’d have to hurry for Léon. She stood and looked around, to make sure no coyotes were lurking. She took off as fast as her legs could carry her.
She didn’t get far before big, strong arms caught her and held her close.
“Ronnie! What are you doing here?” Tears threatened again, but this time they were tears of relief.
“Why you so worried ‘bout where I’m at? Momma’s gonna start a bonfire, calling out everyone looking for you.” He set Birdie down.
“Oh, Ronnie, Momma can’t see me like this! And you have to help me get Léon!” Then a torrent of words tumbled out of Birdie until they turned into big, gulping sobs.
“I think there was a coyote and there’s blood and you . . . and Léon . . . can’t move . . . and . . . I thought he wasn’t breathing!”
Ronnie laid a hand on her head and gently stroked her braids. He spoke slowly.
“Birdie. Where’s Léon?” he asked.
Birdie grabbed her big brother’s hand and pulled him back toward where Léon lay. On arrival, they found him standing, ready to go, looking much better than he had just moments ago. Birdie ran to him and encircled her little arms around his head. She smiled and said quietly, “Thank you, Jesus.”
Ronnie looked at his little sister, and then paced a circle around where Léon had been lying. He crouched down to get a closer look at the blood. He brushed his fingers over the grass.
“I swear, Ronnie, he was really hurt! I thought he was dead,” Birdie said, her voice notching lower on the word. But she grew quiet as she watched her brother. He stood, folded his arms, and narrowed his eyes. He looked angry.
“Roberta, do you remember anything about Daddy?” Ronnie asked.
Now Birdie thought he was really angry. He never called her Roberta.
“Yes,” she answered in a tiny voice.
“What do you remember?”
“I remember going out to the woods the day after Halloween, and Momma praying over his soul.”
Ronnie walked over and laid a hand on her shoulder. Birdie winced.
“Sissy, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“You’re mad at me,” she answered.
He smiled. One of his big, light-up-the-sky smiles. “I’m not mad at you, Sissy.” He kneeled down, his great form sinking into the scrubby grass. He was still a head above her, but no longer towering.
“I’m sad you don’t remember anything about Daddy. He passed something on to you, and I wish he was still around to help you figure it out.”
Birdie stared at him, confused.
“Guess it’s up to me and Momma,” he said under his breath.
Ronnie stood. “C’mon, let’s get going before Momma calls down the rain.”
“What am I gonna do about my dress?” Birdie asked, panic rising in her voice.
Ronnie looked her over again and chuckled. “Yeah, she ain’t gonna be too happy about that. I’ll talk to her while you go round the back and change.”
Birdie was glad her big brother had foun
d her. She was sure Jesus had heard her, and healed Léon, and then sent Ronnie her way. And she was happy that Ronnie would help her explain things to Momma.
She grabbed his hand as they walked toward home, Léon scampering ahead of them.
Ronnie looked down at Birdie. “Did you know that Daddy was what they call a traiteur, Sissy?”
6
San Luis Obispo, California
Current day
Lacey awoke, confused. She wrestled with a brief bout of deep-sleep-induced amnesia. Soft notes of something tangy reached her ears. It was much too languid for an alarm.
It was a harmonica. Someone was playing softly, a few notes at a time. Someone was trying to wake her. The thought of that someone made Lacey smile broadly.
She opened her eyes to peer at the back of a naked man, perched on the foot of the bed.
Trevor.
Trevor’s head turned toward her and she shut her eyelids, a coy opossum. Seeing she was awake, he worked the tune-up notes into a full song, something quiet and soothing. Trevor’s bungalow-style hotel room felt remote and secluded, but Lacey still wondered if neighbors could hear them. The music he made was low and melancholy, maybe not such a disruptive thing to wake up to, even if the neighbors could hear. She surrendered to the music—it was a melody she recognized, but couldn’t immediately identify. She reflected on a snippet of last night’s conversation.
Wine low in the bottle, the surf crashing, the stars twinkling, she’d admitted, “I’m a sucker for the harmonica.” Trevor had looked at her, eyebrows raised.
“It’s amazing how versatile it is,” she said. “It shows up in rock, r&b, in country, even classical music.”
Trevor’s bright blue eyes had mimicked the stars overhead. She’d known she was talking too much and possibly slurring her words, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“You’ll be amazed how dexterous it makes the tongue,” he’d said.
Lacey had spit out her wine then, immediately relieved it was a Chardonnay. The spots on the white linen tablecloth faded as quickly as they appeared. Trevor had been quite pleased with her reaction.
Back on the bed, the music faded. Lacey opened her eyes and checked the time on her watch. It was the only thing she was wearing.
She sat up in bed, tucking the sheets under her arms. She had a little time to play still.
“‘Helped her out of jam I guess, but I used a little too much force,’” Lacey sang. She’d finally placed the tune, and she could swoon over his rendition of “Tangled Up in Blue.”
Trevor faced her, sitting cross-legged. A tan line right below his waist revealed his true alabaster pallor.
“I only used the force required for the situation, darling,” he said.
Lacey cringed inwardly at his choice of pet name. It was what Fox used to call her. Luckily, Trevor’s Irish brogue and her dead husband’s Cajun twinge sounded worlds apart.
“I’m surprised you don’t burn,” Lacey said, staring at his mid-section. “You’re as pale as a newborn down there.”
“My mother is Spanish,” he said. “Note the lack of freckles?”
He rose up on to his knees and gestured his hands down the sides of his torso. He ignored his penis, which saluted at half-mast.
Lacey burst out laughing.
“Love, I’m the essence of ‘what you see is what you get.’”
“Love. That’s so cute.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, hoping the positive reinforcement of the “Love” pet name would help it stick.
He moved to return the kiss on her lips, and Lacey leaned her head back into the pillow, bringing him with her. Trevor rose up on all fours, bracing himself like a bridge over her. Lacey stared at his biceps, and marveled at how quickly she’d gone from flirting to naked with Trevor Toomey.
“What are you looking at, darling?”
“Nothing,” she said and smiled, and turned her head upward to look him in the eyes. “I liked your version of Dylan.”
He sang the opening to her, returning the look, his husky, a cappella voice pinging a chord in her soul.
Lacey was amazed at how simple everything felt with Trevor. No initial awkwardness at his touch, no internal struggle over whether or not to sleep with him. As much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about Nathan. Everything with Nathan—even for as recent and fleeting as it was—had been like trying to resist a tidal wave. She wanted to resist but couldn’t. With Trevor, it had been grabbing a hand and plunging in together with a running jump—giddy, joyful and undeniably fun.
They shared a knowing glance, and Lacey nodded. Trevor moved over to the other side of the bed. He grabbed a condom, laid back and slid it on, humming a song she couldn’t make out.
Quit thinking. Lacey obeyed her own command and moved on top of Trevor, guiding him inside her. She began slowly, a light rocking atop him, savoring the feeling of him between her legs. Hands at her sides, eyes closed, she arched her back. She brought her head forward to sneak peeks at his lean, smooth body and lanky brown hair with hints of red. Suddenly, his blue eyes opened and focused on her breasts.
“Keep your eyes open, love, I want you to watch me,” he said between stanzas of the song he kept humming.
She looked down at him and smiled. An early wave of pleasure made her shudder, and her rocking gave way to grinding. He stopped humming and let out a soulful moan in its place. She turned her head to the side.
She returned her gaze to him. He reached up and cupped her breasts, one at a time. His index finger brushed over her nipple, first her left, then her right. She gasped each time.
This feels too good to be real. The pressure was building up instead of her. His moans were rising in intensity, and she added her own to the chorus.
“You’re phenomenal!” he said.
After they came together, and everything felt real again, Lacey almost laughed as she pulled off of him and collapsed back onto the bed. His exclamation in the throes of passion sounded funny to her. She decided to look past it and just take it as a compliment.
Trevor rolled off the bed and disposed of the condom. He jumped back onto the mattress and pulled her into a spooning position.
Lacey allowed herself a few moments to relax into his embrace, but she was beginning to feel like Cinderella a few minutes before midnight.
Just the previous afternoon, Trevor had met Lacey, Jimmy, and Monica at their last stop, a winery in San Luis Obispo. Lacey, tipsy and uninhibited from a full day of wine tasting, had been receptive to Trevor’s flirtatious overtures.
She was disappointed when Jimmy and Monica had to cancel their plans for dinner to return back to L.A. Trevor, as it turns out, had booked a room in SLO, intending to stay overnight, and invited Lacey to join him for dinner. Though Lacey sensed all the markers of a set-up, she definitely enjoyed his company and could see no good reason to decline his offer.
Her eyes closed, back on his bed, she smiled. Lacey was surprised that she had slept so soundly in a stranger’s bed. To awaken to that sound, and to one of her favorite Bob Dylan songs, it’d been surreal.
But now, the realization that it was already Sunday sat like a weight right between her eyes. That, and the lingering effects of the wine, contributed to the headache that gathered at her temples.
I could use some of that healing power now.
She still had enough time to get to the rental, shower, feed Ambrose, and make it to the studio by the time Kandace expected her. But she’d have to leave within the next few minutes.
“I can almost hear the hamster wheel in your head, love.”
Lacey wasn’t too stressed to appreciate that he’d gone back to her preferred nickname.
She rolled over and propped her head on her hand, supported by a crooked elbow.
“There’s no hamster wheel,” she said. “My mind i
s a blank. I’m so zen right now, I can barely stand it.” It was a bold-faced lie.
He mirrored her side-propped pose.
“A likely story. Your twitchy foot kept me from falling back asleep.” He popped up and grabbed both of her feet through the top sheet, like a pouncing kitten.
“Ah!” Lacey pulled her feet away. “I wasn’t twitching my foot!” Was I?
“Zen is not the first word I’d use to describe you,” Trevor said. “Lively, intrepid, maybe, but not zen.”
She didn’t want to leave. She hadn’t had this much fun with a guy, with anyone, since Fox. Trevor had literally charmed the pants off her. Her stomach gurgled, and she thought of breakfast.
Ugh. No time for breakfast.
She rolled over and swung her feet to the floor. She sat for a moment with her back to Trevor. She felt the room spinning, and thought maybe she had arisen too fast. No, the room wasn’t spinning, but it wasn’t still, either. Whatever was happening, it had a sound, too. A rhythmic clanking from somewhere within the bungalow’s bathroom. A little kernel of fear developed in her gut.
Now she felt herself moving back and forth, as if someone was standing at the edge of the bed and shaking it. She looked to see if Trevor was doing it.
Reclined on the bed, fingers clasped behind his head, he opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
“Earthquake,” he said.
The movement stopped as quickly as it began. All became stationary again, but she kept waiting for the shaking to return. She was paralyzed, poised on the edge of the bed.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“This doesn’t freak you out at all?” She found her footing and stood, grabbing her clothes that lay in a rumpled pile near her feet.
“This one didn’t last very long. I get more concerned when it goes on for a bit. And you hear crashing. Was this your first one?”
“Yep.” She pulled on her jeans and fastened her bra, then turned around to face Trevor on the bed.
“Ha. And you were with me. You could say I made the earth move under your feet.” He began to hum the rest of the song.
Lacey laughed. “Keep dreaming, love.” She gave him a half-smile, but was too preoccupied with getting on her way and on with her day to engage his teasing any further.