The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(31)

Simon might have been picturing an accident, but I wasn’t. I was picturing rat poison and just deserts with a sick fascination.

“Some,” he said. “From scrapes and cuts. Not much, though. You heal up fast.”

“I have lots of practice with that,” I said bitterly.

We both went quiet.

It was nearly three o’clock—closing time—and the last customers were leaving, calling their good-byes to Simon, dropping cash on their tables. The bell on the door jangled as they left. Their trucks pulled out and headed south toward the foothills.

Then all was silent again.

“Guess you’ll have to kick me out after all,” I said.

Simon didn’t answer. He pushed his chair back and headed to the jukebox. He studied the selections, then slid a coin in the slot and punched some buttons. The machine whirred and clacked; a record slid into place.

It was soft rock from the sixties, a hit from before I was born. But it was timeless, and I knew it well. This was the more recent remake, the same version Terri and I would play in our dorm room at Hokona Hall whenever we pulled an all-nighter or just wanted to cut loose.

Don’t worry, baby—everything will turn out all right. Don’t worry, baby . . .

I smiled, and Simon looked pleased. We listened to it together without speaking, and when it was over he sent me back out the door.





Good Night Air





I tugged Laurel’s nightgown over her head. Her hair was damp from her evening bath, the ends rolling like tiny sausages. She could use a trim.

Before she slipped under the covers, she pulled a thin book from the nightstand and handed it to me. Jessie had borrowed it from the library in town. Laurel was too old for it, really, but she loved it. So did I. It was comfort reading, the book equivalent of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

After the book ended, after all the familiar “good nights” were said, Laurel was still wide-awake, watching me solemnly from her pillow.

“Mommy, are we living here now?”

I set the book on my lap.

“For a while, sweetie. Do you like it here?”

She nodded, rubbing one eye with her knuckles.

“But are we staying? Is this forever?”

“Well, forever’s a long time,” I said.

Laurel’s hand dropped to the covers and she leveled a look at me even more solemn than before. It was a piercing, knowing look, and I’d never seen it come from such a young face before. Especially hers. It gave me the distinct impression she knew something I didn’t. And knew she knew, and was only waiting for me to catch up.

I set the book back on the nightstand.

“Laurel, honey,” I said. “Do you remember the day we got here?”

She squinted at me, puzzled.

“I woke up,” she said. “And I was here.”

“Here?”

She jiggled her feet under the covers and smiled.

“Here. In bed. Miz Jessie brought me strawberries.”

I brushed stray hair from her temple.

“And what about before that?” I tried to keep my voice light. “Do you remember Mr. Simon bringing us here?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“And before that?” I asked even more lightly than before. “Do you remember Daddy? Out on the road?”

This time her eyes were fixed on me intently.

“Do you?” she asked finally.

I couldn’t tell if she was being curious or trying to prod my memory. Either way, it was disconcerting.

“No,” I said. “Maybe you can help me remember.”

She shook her head once more.

“I can’t.”

Can’t? I thought. Or won’t?

How old does your child have to be before she starts keeping big secrets? I felt a pang of guilt. Maybe that was something she’d learned from me.

Laurel yawned and stretched, settling deeper under the covers. “Mommy?” she asked.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I heard Tinkerbell today.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Wh-what?”

“She was barking. Up on the Mountain. I think she’s trying to find us.”

In a flash I was back in our yard in Wheeler, Tinkerbell scratching at the shed door, Jim heading inside with the shovel . . .

“That . . . that’s just not possible, Laurel. If you heard a dog, it could have been any dog. They sound alike from far off.”