The Hummingbird War

by Joan Shott

  It was time to let the pressure building inside me go; let my message fly away to a life of its own. “I came to Chicago to protest the war in Vietnam. I lost my husband in the war. He was a navy pilot, and he was shot down in a place we weren’t supposed to be bombing.” The words rose like bubbles, floating into the dark air beyond the camera’s lights and disappeared one by one from my pounding heart like Morse code. I took another breath and another step towards my goal.

  “They tried to say he had made a mistake and had flown off course, but I know better. They told me lies. How long will we let them lie to us to keep this war going? I don’t want others to lose the people they love. And speaking for Matthew Bluestone, his brother, Lt. Colonel Maxwell Bluestone, is still missing in action. We don’t know where he is or if he is still alive. Matthew would like the Vietnamese government to know he is willing to discuss how to get his brother home. Please help end the war with your votes, your voices, and help us find Max Bluestone.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hayes. But what about Mr. Matthew Bluestone’s injuries? He was beaten by the Chicago police.”

  “I don’t know how serious his injuries are yet, but he wasn’t…”

  “What does General Bluestone think about his son’s involvement with the SDS after all that’s happened? Do you think it’s a case of just desserts for the general?” The reporter asked.

  “I’ve never met General Bluestone. I can’t speak for him.” A man behind the camera was motioning to the reporter to finish. I took his cue. “Thanks for all your help. And thanks to the two men who helped me get Matthew to the hospital. And thank you, Superman.”

  “Huh?” the reporter said.

  I was pretty sure they’d cut that part, but I’d gotten my message out, our messages.

  The reporter turned back to face the camera as I hurried back towards the emergency room. When I realized I’d been carrying the dirty, torn flag the whole time, I folded it carefully into a triangle and laid it on a table in the waiting room.

  The strain of waiting to hear if Matthew would be all right was ten times worse than flying in an airplane. I bargained with everything I had: let him live, and I’ll forgive Lilly for keeping their secret from me — let him live, and I’ll name my first child after the doctor who saves him — let him live, and I’ll put the past behind me. I sat on the straight-backed seats of the waiting room as Wednesday became Thursday. On the TV, the news station looped footage of the riot in Grant Park. It was a bigger story than Humphrey’s nomination for the Democratic presidential ticket.

  I must have fallen asleep in the crook of the small couch and woke up to see an American flag waving across the television screen while the Star Spangled Banner played. A nurse walked around the corner and asked me if I’d like to see Matthew; he was awake and asking for me. I jumped up so fast I knocked over the coffee table. I looked up beyond the ceiling as I picked up the scattered magazines. “I’ll keep my promises,” I said.

  Matthew looked pale and breakable, a dressing wrapped around the top of his head, a bandage over his nose, and his eyes swollen and a dozen shades of purple. His hair had been cut close to his head.

  I ran to his side, but stopped short, unsure if it was really him.

  He tried to lift his hand to my face. “I’m okay,” he said, then pointed to his head. “It’ll grow.”

  The doctor flipped through papers on a clipboard and looked at us over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. “Besides a broken nose and twenty stitches to close up his head, Mr. Bluestone has a severe concussion, which isn’t uncommon in an injury like this. So far there’s no evidence of intracranial hemorrhaging or swelling of the brain.” He closed his clipboard and spoke to Matthew while he looked into his eyes with one of those little penlights. “I’m going to keep you here for a few days. If everything looks okay, I’ll release you on Saturday.” He clicked the light off and stuffed it in his pocket.

  I craned my neck and looked at the name embroidered on his green cotton top: Henry Rosenwald, Emergency Surgery. Okay, Henry will be a good name someday for my first child. Boy or girl, Henry it is.

  “Diane. Go home. Today. Rodney will take you to…airport,” Matthew said.

  “But I want to stay with you.” I held onto the metal rail of the bed, a shaky excuse for a safety net, even though I’d figured out in the past few hours, whether he was with me or not, I was ultimately alone.

  “Someone needs you.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother. And...”

  “What?”

  “I love you,” he said. “Best dance partner…ever have.” His words melted like snow under the bright lights, and he fell asleep.

  I left the hospital with my flag tucked beneath my arm, plodding through a fog of exhaustion and uncertainty. I walked down Michigan Avenue towards the Drake, past the boutiques and airline offices. I glanced at my reflection in the windows. I was filthy and smelled of sweat and dried blood, sour and cheesy. No Matthew by my side, no Lilly, no Nancy. My father was two thousand miles away, and if he’d known what I had been doing, he would have tried to lock me in a room for the rest of my life. It was just me in the city run by the devil himself.

  I grinned at my reflection. The few people who passed me on the sidewalk looked at me with pity or contempt. I didn’t care what they thought. They hadn’t been in the fight I’d been in. I’d been through a night I would never forget; saving Matthew and proving to myself I could handle the worst I could imagine. And I’d told the world why we’d come to Chicago. I was sure I’d been heard. I’d made a difference.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Miss Hayes, your ride,” the doorman coughed into his gloved hand, “has arrived.”

  Rodney was waiting at the curb with the door open. The crossed-gun buckle on his belt twinkled at me like my personal lucky charm.

  “Hey, Lady Diane. You okay?” He looked at me as if he was inspecting me for bumps and bruises. He offered me his oversized hand, and I took it.

  “I’m fine.” I grabbed his shoulders and hugged him, my face pressing against the collection of gold chains suspended around his neck. “If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know if I would have gotten Matthew to the hospital.”

  “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “Yes, you did. Two men helped me because I asked if they knew Superman.” I took his hand in mine and held it tight.

  “You did that? You sure as shit got the guts I thought you did.” He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “I saw them and I said, do you know Superman? And they stopped and helped us.” I laughed at the memory of how silly I must have seemed, standing in the midst of bedlam and calling out for Superman. “But I didn’t get their names. I didn’t even get a chance to thank them.”

  “Don’t matter who they is. We all helps each other.” He smiled, his straight, white teeth as bright as hope. He opened the door for me, and I slid into the front seat, happy to inhale the smell of gasoline and sweat.

  When we walked into the hospital room, Matthew was awake, sitting up in bed and watching television. He grinned at me, the sight of his unrecognizable face shocking me again. “You didn’t tell me,” he said.

  “Tell you what?”

  “About the interview. NBC News. I couldn’t have done better.”

  “They made a deal with me, a ride to the hospital for an interview. But, if it hadn’t been for help from Rodney’s friends, we wouldn’t have made it as far as the reporter.” I sat uneasily on the edge of his bed, twisting the sheet around my finger.

  “And you thought I had to take care of you in this big, scary city. Thanks, man,” Matthew said to Rodney, and they shook hands in one of those weird handshakes I’d been seeing a lot of in the past few days, holding their hands in an array of grasps that was almost like a dance. I didn’t get it, but supposed it was another way I was old-fashioned.

  He put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry. I’ll see your girl gets to the plane in one pi
ece. I’ll wait outside, Lady Diane.” As Rodney moved towards the doorway, two Chicago policemen walked in. Rodney stepped backwards into the room.

  One of the officers walked to the side of the bed, removed his hat, and said, “Mr. Bluestone, we’re here on behalf of the Mayor’s office and the Chief of Police to extend our apologies about what happened in Grant Park last night. There’ll be a full investigation regarding the incident. Of course, you can understand how things like this get out of hand. I hope you accept our apologies.”

  Matthew squeezed my hand. “Officers, right now my memory is a little fuzzy. I’ll let you know if I remember what happened.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bluestone. In the meantime, if there’s anything we can do for you...”

  “As a matter of fact, my girlfriend is on her way to the airport with Mr. Jefferson, and I would appreciate it if you would give them a police escort.”

  “The policemen looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and said, “Why not?”

  “Can you meet them outside the parking lot?”

  “Sure thing. A speedy recovery, Mr. Bluestone.” They returned their hats to their heads and touched the shiny, black brims.

  Matthew gave Rodney a thumbs-up as the policemen turned the corner into the hallway. “My man, don’t say I never did anything for you. A police escort and they’re not even taking you to jail. They’ll think twice about harassing you next time they see that yellow VW bus.”

  “I’ll wait in the hall,” Rodney said.

  Matthew asked me to pick up the suitcase we’d brought with us from his hotel room and put it on the side of the bed. He opened it and pulled out a box wrapped in pink paper and tied with a silver ribbon. “Happy birthday,” he said, offering it to me.

  “It’s my birthday? I guess it is. How did you know?” But I was sure Lilly had told him. I untied the ribbon and carefully peeled the paper from the package. I picked up the black and silver box inside as if I were picking up a baby bird from the nest. “It’s a camera.” I ran my fingers across the raised silver letters: Nikon.

  “You lost yours, so I thought you could use a new one. I think it’ll take better pictures than the Instamatic.”

  I didn’t want to cry, but I was too tired to fight it.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. He pushed the suitcase away and carefully pulled me closer.

  “I thought I’d move up from my little camera gradually. This is something I haven’t earned. Everything’s happening so fast,” I said, holding the camera as if it might break from the pressure of my uncertainty.

  “Take a class at school. All the up and coming ornithologists have some background in photography.” He tried to wink at me, but he winced from the pain from the stitches and his broken nose.

  “Take over your job at the SDS, take a photography class, run a house I only visit once in a while, and go to school? You must think I never sleep. Matthew?” I wanted to ask what I should do about Lilly, but I knew it wasn’t up to him to tell me.

  “What is it, sweetie?”

  The first time he’d ever used a form of endearment with me should have been a moment that rocked my heart, but I stiffened. “Did you call me Birdie?”

  “I called you sweetie. Your ears must be ringing from the noise last night.”

  “I’ve got to catch that flight,” I said. I kissed him as gently as I could.

  “Don’t be afraid, okay?” he said, squeezing my hand.

  “What’s there to be scared of?”

  “Here, take my car when you get home,” he said, handing me his set of keys.

  “You trust me with your car?”

  “I trust you with my life.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I woke to the welcome sight of rain pelting against the airplane window as we landed. After the heat and humidity of Chicago, the air in Seattle felt as delicate as the shadows of the soft pines that lined the edges of the runway. I found Matthew’s car without a problem, and unlike my old Volvo, it started on the first try. I drove in light traffic on I-5 to pick up Lilly from where she could always be found between noon and one-thirty: the AA meeting at the church.

  As I exited the interstate onto the narrow streets of the university district, the secrets Lilly and Matthew had kept from me popped into my head again along with Matthew’s obsession to find his brother. I turned on the radio; blasted Revolution out the open windows, but thoughts of Lilly and Matthew refused to leave. I wanted to hear her side of the story, why she hadn’t told me the truth. I turned the radio off and sang the words to the catchy new Beatles tune to myself. Nothing worked. I ended up lost in my own neighborhood, missing the turn from 45th street for the Lutheran church and winding through unfamiliar streets.

  I finally pulled up in front of the church, slamming on the brakes when I found a parking space, sending the camera in its case sliding to the floor. “God…” I caught myself before I swore. Swearing was something I’d never done, and why would I start now? I picked up the camera case from the floor. Matthew and the camera and the trip to Chicago seemed like a lifetime ago. I had to search my mind for what day of the week it was, and I’d already forgotten, yes, it was my birthday.

  As I walked towards the open door of the basement meeting room, I heard the group reciting in unison: God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference. The voices had the quality of an accomplished choir, riding through the air like a silk glove. I murmured, “Amen.”

  I looked for Lilly, but couldn’t spot her. I caught the eye of her friend, Richard. He stood up, excused himself, and walked over to me. “Lilly’s not here, Diane” he said.

  “Where is she?”

  “Saw her get out of a cab, but she never did come in.”

  “Has she done this before?”

  “Don’t know that she’s ever missed a meeting.”

  “Thanks,” I said, rustling through my purse and pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper. “Here’s my home phone number. If she shows up, call me please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I had nothing to go on except the two or three places we liked to go for coffee. I ran across the street and headed for the cafes. I walked through one door after another and told the waitresses, I’m looking for a friend, caught myself once from saying I was looking for my mother. I scurried down the other side of the street, peering in the windows of every store or restaurant, hoping she’d be there.

  “Maybe one more block. I can’t give up until I find her.” I was talking to myself, back to making deals with the invisible angel who had granted me Matthew’s safety. If I find her, I’d forgive her. I’d made that promise.

  I walked west to Brooklyn Avenue. After I turned the corner, the first business I came to was a bar. I moved my hand towards the handle and hesitated. I hadn’t given Lilly’s well-being a thought during the four days in Chicago, although I’d given plenty of thought to how angry I was at her for keeping the secret that she was Matthew’s mother. It could be that I’d been so weak when I’d met Lilly, that she thought I needed a guardian angel, and angels don’t tell how they work their magic. All I wanted was to find her. My resentment faded into a background of panic.

  A defunct neon sign hung in the dirty window; curtains older than me were strung across a threadbare string. I opened the door. The slanted afternoon sun lit the area around the doorway, but the edges of the room were as dark as night. A few yellow lights on the wall, like the nicotine-stained fingers of the men at the bar, sent pathetic shadows across the worn wood floor. One of the men turned to look at the open doorway and grinned as if he knew I was the anxious little wren in the shadow of a flock of hawks. His questionable glance and the sour smell of beer and greasy food repelled me, and I stepped backwards. I was in the wrong place.

  The door closed slowly on its worn-out hinges. The scene in the tavern gradually slipped back towards its world of hopelessness. And then I saw her in a tunnel
of light as if I were looking through the lens of a camera, just as the door closed with a groan. I pulled on the rusty handle again; the door heavier than it had been moments before.

  She was seated in the back corner of the room, wisps of silver hair falling over her stooped shoulders. I walked across the creaking floor to where she sat with a drink in front of her. She lifted her head.

  “Diane, didn’t think you were coming home until Thursday.” She sounded frightened.

  “It is Thursday, Lilly. What are you doing here?” I sat down across from her.

  “I needed a friend,” she said, wrapping her hands around a glass of what looked like vodka or gin, clear as pure water, but potent enough to make her hands shake. “An old friend.”

  “Let me take you home.” I reached for her arm.

  “I didn’t do it. I almost did, but I didn’t take a drink. But if you hadn’t come…”

  “Why did you think you needed it? Matthew’s going to be all right.”

  “I know.”She shook her head.

  I wasn’t sure what could scare her enough to make her walk into this place and put everything on the line. I’d heard her once proclaiming to the Friends of Bill that she had been sober for a year and three months and a day. Nothing had changed since then that I could think of. But some people claim to know things before they happen, like dogs and cats before an earthquake. Maybe Lilly knew something was coming before it reached her, too.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m going to leave my boys when they need me. And you, too. You need me, don’t you?”

  She entwined my fingers in hers, and our hands shook against the wooden table with the power of her fear.