The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(80)

Simon’s laughter faded. “Does it bother you?” he asked quietly.

“Would it make a difference if it did?”

When he didn’t answer, I raised my hand, gesturing overhead. “So tell me about these stars.”

“That’s easy,” he said. “Those over there? That’s the Spatula. And those? Ten-Gallon Hat. And those five grouped together over that way? Bluebeard and His Wives. But you have to squint and cross your eyes at the same time or you can’t see them right.”

“Ass.” I tucked my arm back inside the sleeping bag, nestling against him with a shiver.

“Sure you don’t want to go inside?” he asked.

“No. This is nice. You cold?”

“I’m fine. I’ve been colder.”

“Tell me.”

He paused. “A long time ago. Winter. A forest in Germany.”

“Ah. One of those trips to far-flung places? Was it beautiful?”

“Used to be.”

His tone was light, but there was a finality to it. Like a door closing.

“So, tell me more about when you were a little girl,” he said. “Did you have pigtails?”

“Pigtails?” I laughed.

“Sure. The kind boys dip in inkwells.”

I raised my head from his shoulder to gape at him. “Inkwells? Just how backward was the school system when you were a kid?”

“We were lucky to have slate boards and chalk. We rode dinosaurs to school.”

I kissed him. “Poor boy.”

“If I tell you about the outdoor privy, do I get another kiss?”

“Don’t you dare.” I kissed him again, this time lingering. When I raised my head again, I stroked the hair springing from his temples.

“How’d you manage to stay a bachelor so long?” I asked.

“It takes commitment.”

“Seriously. Meg’s been married for a while. You must have had . . . other opportunities.”

He ran a finger lightly down the bridge of my nose to my lips.

“I didn’t want opportunities. I was waiting for you.”

“Stop it. I’ll believe every word you tell me right now.”

“You should.” His hand was cupping my cheek, his face solemn.

I nestled back on his shoulder. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before. From when you were a boy.”

“Let’s see. There was the time my dad and I were driving back from Santa Fe. On Rural 14, through Madrid. A coal town.”

“Used to be. They’re turning it into an arts colony now.”

“Hey, who’s telling this story?”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, it got dark and I fell asleep in the front seat. Next thing I knew, my dad was shaking me awake. He wanted me to see the moon.”

“The moon? I think I like your dad.”

“It was a full harvest moon, on the night of the autumn equinox. Hanging so low over the pi?on pines you could almost reach out and touch it. So we sat there on the ground, backs against the truck, drinking Nehi Wild Reds till the moon went down.”

“That’s a nice memory.”

“I remember something else, too.”

“What’s that?”

“I remember the Big Dipper.”





Night Chill





A dull thunk, like an ax splitting cordwood.

Spasms of exquisite pain . . .


*

I woke in my bed with a moan, my hand flying to my skull. To ward off, to stanch—I wasn’t sure which. It took a while for the throbbing to go away.

Nightmares had been coming on more often lately, although when dawn came I could remember them only in snatches. Sometimes vague impressions lingered, like a bad taste in the mouth or a heaviness of spirit. But by breakfast, I was usually myself again.

I was learning to see them as clarifying. Like visions that focus the mind. Giving it direction.

But that night, as the pain ebbed, something else took its place. Like a voice, but not quite. It was giving me direction, too.

Get up, it urged. Get up.

I did as it told me. I opened my bedroom door and headed down the hall.

Laurel’s door was cracked, her night-light glowing. I stepped inside and there she was, asleep in bed. She was curled on her side, peaceful, both hands tucked under her chin.