The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(28)

Laurel looked startled. “Somebody stole a child?”

“It’s a poem, sweetie,” I said. “About a fairy that tries to tempt a mortal child away from the troubles of the world.”

“Did she go?”

“Well, yes. The last stanza goes like this:

‘He’ll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal chest.’”

I surprised myself, recalling those lines. I hadn’t thought of that poem in years. And the book was long gone.

“That’s sad,” said Laurel. “Not seeing the mice anymore. Or the calves.”

“That would be sad,” I said. “But think of the wonderful life with the fairies. And no reason to be unhappy again, ever. That’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But if you didn’t come, too, I wouldn’t go.”

“That’s right, honey,” Jessie said, patting her hand. “You stick with your mama. And if those fairies come round, you tell ’em to scat.”


*

Later, as Jessie passed around the dessert plates, I felt Simon’s eyes on me. I forced myself to glance up. His gaze was steady, speculative.

Olin cleared his throat, then spoke: “Simon, how you holdin’ up down at the café? We sure did leave you shorthanded of late.”

“I understand—you’ve been busy.”

Jessie was shaking her head. “Still, a shame you don’t have some help. Even for a day or so a week.”

I took their meaning then. It wasn’t that I was unwilling to help out in their café, but I’d never done restaurant work before. Or held any real job. After we were married, Jim wouldn’t allow it.

But it wasn’t only lack of experience that unnerved me. It was imagining Jim pulling up at that café one day—stepping out of his unit with his spit-shined shoes, his Sam Browne and .40-caliber pistol, unsnapping his holster. Working there, I’d be sticking my head out of my hiding place.

On the other hand, I realized he could just as easily pull up at Olin and Jessie’s door.

So what I really had to decide was when I would stop letting Jim make my decisions for me—control me, even in absentia. Again I was staring at my plate, this time wrestling down my own survival instinct. I took a deep breath.

“If you like,” I said at last, “I could help. But I’ve never waitressed before—I might be lousy at it.”

“Oh, honey,” said Jessie, “the way you do around here, you can handle yourself. I’ll teach you all you need. Then I’ll leave you in Simon’s hands.”

I glanced at Simon, who was still watching me steadily. And for some unearthly reason, I blushed.





The Café





It took a few days to muster the nerve to cross the footbridge, but one morning I woke before dawn feeling something like resolve, pulled on a skirt and blouse and left a note for Jessie.

I paused on the front porch. The yellow pickup was already parked next to the building and the neon sign and windows were lit up.

To the left of me, the Mountain was a massive silhouette under its snowcapped peak. I stepped off the porch, averting my gaze even as I sensed it still watching me.

I started toward the café, my eyes fastened on the path. There was little ambient light, but enough to navigate. My movement must have startled something in the brush—I could hear a rustle and scurry of some small animal, receding fast. Something was throwing shadows of pi?on and juniper all around me, and I glanced up ahead to see a full moon on the wane, low and fat in the sky and visible just above the flat roof of the café.

And there it was again—that inescapable force of gravity, latching on to me. It wanted me to turn. Wanted me to look. The prospect was terrifying—and yet thrilling at the same time.

I’m not sure it was my decision to stop.

Or to turn.

The sun hadn’t breached yet, but light was spreading out from the east. There was an anemic layer of stratus clouds hanging low in the sky, and as the dawn grew their underbellies bled out from scarlet to salmon to pink.

The face of the Mountain was changing, too—from flat silhouette to deep shadows, cut with shards of light. It seemed to be shifting, rearranging, from the rising sun or some other catalyst.