The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(25)

In my mind, there was no hole so tiny that Laurel and I couldn’t squeeze inside and disappear. I never imagined past that. Never imagined coming out again.

Most days, this farm felt like a good hiding place. Most days it felt safe. It was less easy to feel that way at night. After the supper dishes were washed and everyone settled in, I’d sit in a wicker chair on the porch and leave the light off. It was a good vantage point. Now and then headlights traveled up the road or down, but they never stopped.

I sat and wondered about Bernadette—by now long gone with Sam to Reno or whatever town had appeal for a woman with spirit. And about Terri, who was a true wild card. The Terri I used to know would be ballsy enough to catch a flight from Boston to Albuquerque to find out why her friend hadn’t arrived. Especially if she hadn’t bought whatever story Jim had fed her. That Terri was no fool.

But that Terri was fixed more than—what, ten years in the past? I didn’t know her anymore and she didn’t know me. Terri today might decide I’d flaked out on her one more time, and adios.

And that thought gave me comfort. I didn’t want to be tracked down—not by anybody.

I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear, once and for all.

A few nights ago, I asked Olin if he kept guns in the house. He told me he had a vintage carbine, two long-range Winchester rifles for hunting—one lightweight and one heavy—and a 12-gauge double-barrel shotgun. He showed me the cabinet where he kept the cartridges. He didn’t ask questions.





Simon





If it seemed Jessie and her husband had removed themselves from the world, it wasn’t entirely so. After some weeks, they said there’d be company for Saturday supper—Simon Greenwood, the short-order cook who’d found Laurel and me wandering in the desert. He used to come every week before they took us in, they said. And after that, they thought it best to wait till I was up to it. Apparently they thought that time had come.

I knew this just meant another plate at the table. I should be able to manage that for an hour or so—if Jim had taught me anything, it was how to shut down and fake it on many levels.

But when Saturday came, I could barely function. Back home, for those rare evenings with Jim’s friends, everything was decided for me—what to wear, what to say, how to behave. I was groomed to be insignificant. To ask no questions, but to answer them like a Good Wife. To lie if need be.

That evening, I couldn’t so much as decide what to wear. I simply couldn’t make a choice. Any choice. I felt like I couldn’t bear to make the wrong one.

I gathered the clothes Jessie and I had sewn together and laid them out. Laurel came in, stroking each piece. She had no trouble dressing herself—a green skirt with white daisies, a blue-and-black blouse, red socks.

“Let me pick for you, Mommy,” she said.

At least I knew better than that. I chose something close at hand and buttoned myself into it—a subdued sleeveless column dress of soft cotton. But as I turned to head downstairs, I caught myself in the standing mirror in the corner of the bedroom. I don’t have much to do with mirrors anymore, but this time I straightened and drew close for a better look.

What my reflection told me was that Jessie was a fine seamstress and knew how to cut and sew fabric to fit. I was still too pale, my eyes too guarded. But I wasn’t as bony as I remembered. And the dress, though simple, skimmed my figure in an elegant line. Its bronze hue tempered my complexion from sallow to cream and brought out the color of my eyes, which are the same quartz green as Laurel’s.

I ran a finger along the scar bisecting my left eyebrow. I looked at myself so rarely anymore, it startled me to see it.

My hair was still a lank, neutral brown, without the body or auburn hues it once had. There was a time when women would stop me on the street to ask what brand of color I used. They wouldn’t believe me when I told them it didn’t come from a bottle.

Those days were gone.

I pulled it back from my face, twisting it behind in a swift, practiced movement, fastened it with clips and headed downstairs.

Laurel sat in a wicker chair on the porch, keeping an eye out for the dinner guest. It was the same chair I used every evening to keep a lookout for her father.

The table was laid with bone china, old polished silver and fresh linen. There were tall beeswax candles in silver candlesticks. Olin made a last sweep of the kitchen, dipping his finger in the pear glaze for the chicken before Jessie smacked his hand away. I filled the water pitcher and set it on the table.