The Bird Saviors (19 page)

    But I'm broke and he gave it to me.

    Crowfoot shakes his head. A gift given in bad faith is worth nothing.

That's easy for you to say. At least you have a home.

    Crowfoot puts down his brushes and takes out a bandanna. He stares into the distance, to the mountains in the north. He blows his nose and asks Becca if she's ever been up Phantom Canyon. She says she hasn't.

    It's in that direction, he says, nodding with his chin toward the north. Everything is wild and rocky. Way cool.

    Maybe you'll have to take me there.

    Maybe. I could take you a lot of places, he adds. But it would all be easier if you didn't have this Jack Brown and his Saint friends hunting you for that stupid rock.

    They'll be hunting you too, she says.

    I can handle myself.

    I can too.

    But if we take the ring back and return it to this yahoo, maybe both of us will be able to sleep a little easier.

    Will you help me?

    Crowfoot doesn't reply, but he nods. He's finishing the touches on a black house with a stick- figure couple running away from it, chains on the woman's ankles. I'll be right beside you, he says, staring at the mural. I think they'll notice my shadow.

    When they've used most of the pigmented clay in the pails, Crowfoot takes the leavings and slings them off a pinnacle of the cliff face to splatter on the rocks below. The yellow, red, and black splatter together to resemble the guano of a colorful bird colony.

    The morning dew sends dark rivulets down the red cliffs. The air is fresh and Becca feels lighthearted and special as she follows Crowfoot back along the narrow ledge to his trailer. It's a day of change and renewal. The whole of Colorado opens to the north of them— miles away the sound of trucks on Highway 50 shifting into low gear as they head out of Cañon City toward Bighorn Canyon.

    You think you can give me a ride to the Buffalo Head? she asks.

    I don't see why not.

    You do and I'll get that ring, says Becca. We'll take it to Jack Brown and be done with it.

    Smart girl, says Crowfoot. That rock is bad news. It's like a dead skunk around your neck.

    Don't you mean an albatross?

    I've never seen an albatross. Not even sure I'd recognize one if I did. A dead skunk? I've seen one. Smelled it too.

A t  t h e  B u f f a l o  H e a d  I n n , the parking lot is spotty with cars and fast- food wrappers from the burger place next door, a pile of French fries and ketchup on the sidewalk. Crowfoot parks his pickup and sits in the cab as if he doesn't want to intrude, but Becca give his long hair a tug and says, You come along with me and ride shotgun. I figure no matter what I do, nobody's going to say squat to us.

    Crowfoot nods and gets out of the truck. If they do, I'll lift their hair.

    Becca laughs and heads toward the lobby. It's quiet inside but for the burble of a television in the back office. She hesitates for a moment, then quickly walks over to the buffalo head and reaches into its mouth.

    Can I help you? Fufu, the dirty- blond hotel manager, leans over the counter to give Becca a what- the- hell- you- doing look. She glances at Crowfoot, who has come to stand just inside the lobby entrance, his hands crossed on his chest, a look on his face that is close to a glower.

    No, I'm okay, says Becca without turning around. She panics for a moment, not feeling anything inside the buffalo's mouth.

    Excuse me? says Fufu. What the hell you doing?

    I left something here. Becca maneuvers her body to get closer, to get her hand as far inside the mouth as possible.

    Fufu comes out from behind the counter. Her boy starts crying in the back office. She pauses, staring back at Crowfoot now as if challenging him to open his mouth. Don't I know you? she asks.

    He nods. You used to wait tables at Jorgé's Café, right?

    I did.

    You serve a good puffy taco.

    I remember now. You'd come in with Mosca?

    I work with him. Crowfoot smiles. He's a scruffy one, isn't he?

    Oh, thank God. Becca pulls her arm out of the buffalo's mouth and turns toward Crowfoot, holding a plastic coin purse in the air.

    Girl? Fufu frowns. What in the world are you doing with my buffalo?

    Becca hurries toward the door. Never you mind, she says. I just had to retrieve something I left there, that's all.

    The crying from the back office gets louder. Fufu lets Becca pass, shaking her head. I'll be right there, Diego! she calls out.

    Crowfoot holds the door open for Becca and winks at Fufu. Trust me. You don't even want to know.

    Becca gives directions to Jack Brown's house in east Pueblo, an industrial barrio of warehouses, auto- supply stores, and one- story wooden houses on the edge of town. Here lies the boundary of the Great Plains. Dry- mouth desert with yards full of dead brown grass, junky cars, and on every other corner Mexican
farmacias
and eateries. Crowfoot drives and tells Becca he knows the neighborhood.

    I used to live on Montevista Drive, he says, a mile from the coal- burning power plant. I could see the smokestack out my back window. I kind of liked it. There's something hopeful about a smokestack belching that tells you people are working. It's closed now.

    There goes the hope, says Becca.

    
Adios, esperanza.

    Jack Brown's house stands next door to a discount- tire warehouse. The warehouse has 50% off! stickers on its windows, a banner that reads, truckers and bikers welcome! A black column of knobby truck tires towers on the other side of Jack Brown's chain- link fence. In the driveway, a Jeep with a flat tire. On the front porch, an old futon in a bleached wooden frame next to a
chiminea
with burned wood and ashes in its mouth. A bicycle padlocked to one of the porch columns. Dust drifts against the steps.

    Oh, great, says Becca. I was hoping he'd be gone and we could just leave it with a note. You're coming in with me, aren't you?

    You used to live here? asks Crowfoot.

Are you kidding? Not in a million years.

    Crowfoot parks his truck on the street and kills the engine. But weren't you two an item?

    We were engaged. But I wouldn't spend more than an hour in this rathole. Becca gets out and wrinkles her nose. This neighborhood is
muy malo
, you know what I mean? If I went for a walk, I'd have to take Monster with me. And a baseball bat.

    Monster?

    His German shepherd.

    Crowfoot frowns. I'm not so wild about dogs. Especially the kind that bite.

    He's not a biter. But he can scare the shit out of a body, that's for sure.

    They walk up the sidewalk slowly. He's probably playing video games, says Becca. He's addicted to the Country Star game. He thinks he's Randy Travis.

    They reach the door and knock. Up close, everything on the porch looks dirty and unkempt. Dog hair covers the futon. As soon as they knock they hear Monster barking and his claws clattering against the floor inside. After a few moments the door opens and there stands Jack Brown, his short hair spiky and a surprised look on his face. He has hold of Monster's collar. The shepherd whines as Becca coos at him and says, Hey, Monster. How's my boy doing?

    Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle, says Jack Brown. All my sins come home to roost.

    What are you doing home the middle of the day? she asks. Quit your job after I left you?

I got laid off.

Surprise, surprise.

    A lot of people are out of work, Becca. You wouldn't know because you never worked to begin with. Your whole game is livin' off your looks. Monster! Get back! He yanks on Monster's collar and pushes the dog behind him, then steps out onto the porch and closes the door.

    Here, Jack, says Becca. She reaches out and opens her hand. I've got a present for you.

    Jack Brown stares at the engagement- ring box. He starts to reach for it and stops. He looks over her shoulder at George Armstrong Crowfoot. Is this a trick?

    Crowfoot gives him a long, cold look and says nothing. He looms in all his height and muscle, wearing faded jeans and a T- shirt with a bloody tomahawk and the legend custer had it coming.

    No trick, says Becca. When he goes to grab the ring, she closes her hand and yanks it back quickly, putting it behind her back. One condition. I never want to hear from you again, and I don't want any Saints coming after me either.

    Jack Brown steps onto the porch and glances at the street, as if seeing whether the coast is clear. A tow truck cruises by with a wreck hooked onto its rear, spiderwebbed windshield flashing in the sun. Jack Brown has half a smile on his face as he says, Now, I can't speak for all those polygs you pissed off, but I'll say this. You give me that ring back free and clear and for damn sure you won't hear from me again.

    You promise?

    Jack Brown puts his hands in his pockets and nods vigorously. Cross my heart and hope to die.

    Okay, then.

    Becca reaches out and hands him the ring in its red velvet jewelry box. Jack Brown takes it with a certain degree of awe, opens the box, lifts the ring out, and squints at it.

    You tell your Saint friends that if they come looking for me, they'll end up looking at the inside of a coffin, says Crowfoot. Got that?

    Jack Brown keeps his eyes on Becca. I don't have any Saint friends to speak of. But yeah, sure. I'll pass along the info. No word to the law about this?

    This is just between us, says Becca. I don't want to hear, see, or smell you again.

    You have my word, says Jack Brown. But if you don't mind my asking, what gives with the change of heart?

    Becca turns her back on him and puts her hand against Crowfoot's chest, gives him a little shove to get going. Without turning around she calls out, That ring is dirty. Be my guest.

    Jack Brown makes a face and sniffs the ring.

Back in the pickup, George squeezes Becca's thigh as he drives away, says,
Adios, amigos.

    I don't know how you talked me into that. She sighs. That ring was worth something.

    It's time for us to go the straight and narrow. We've got a baby on board, right?

I don't know. I think.

    Driving past a Walgreens, he slows and looks her way. Maybe we should find that out.

    One of those do- it- yourself things? asks Becca.

    Before I get all excited about a name, we ought to be sure, right?

    Oh, my Lord, she says. Okay. I've been thinking about it.

    Crowfoot pulls into the parking lot, a slight smile on his deadpan face. We'll just see, he says.

L o r d  G o d  h o p e s for Juliet's car to come bumping up the driveway again and again stir up a cloud of dust and a torrent of hope in his heart. His beard has grown ragged, unkempt. His fingernails are dark- lined half moons long as claws. His leg stump aches and without Juliet the pains seems sharper and relentless.

    His one good eye looks upon his small and dusty house with suspicion and remorse. He can't muster the energy to sweep and mop so he walks about with a cherry- picker gizmo collecting Lila's toys and rinsing them in the kitchen sink. The water runs a faint pink color like blood hosed from a sidewalk or in a bathtub.

    His whole day revolves around caring for Lila when Ruby is out pretending to work. Without the child he knows he would have no reason to live or wake in the morning. The warmth and woman smell of Juliet in the morning and Juliet at night and Juliet in the afternoon come back to him so strong and sharp he fights the impulse to weep. There's no use feeling sorry for your self. The Lord gives a vision and lets the man decide to accept or deny his truth. Still the bitterness of a life alone haunts him in everything he does. No plan but to go on, keep moving, let the hand of providence guide his daily ministrations.

    The wind picks up and with it the heat. The sky turns a pale yellow shade from noon until dusk. So much grit in the clouds that the sun is a hazy label behind a shimmer of fish- scale clouds. Traffic on the highway west of Pueblo trickles to the odd pickup loaded with fuel and cardboard boxes of canned goods, headed toward survivalist enclaves or compounds in the Sierra Mojada, places where people are holed up with their own beliefs and own laws. They drive with rifles propped out the passenger windows, a warning to anyone who might try to waylay or ambush them.

    The post office doesn't deliver to rural routes anymore. Once a week Lord God drives into town to pick up the mail. On this day he waits in a queue for a half hour to pick up a package. It's addressed to Ruby Cole, shoebox size. The return label is Optics Etc. He can guess what it is. Binoculars most likely. She said something about her bird- counter friend sending her something in the mail, to keep an eye out for it. Like this is something she needs.

    Lord God shakes his head as he returns to his truck, his good knee aching. The world is going to hell and his daughter spends her time numbering birds on power lines.

    He returns from town to find a pickup black as oil parked in his driveway. Lord God squirms in his seat and rifles through the glove compartment, damning the conglomeration of ballpoint pens, plastic straws in white paper wrappers, coins, and Lotto tickets. Beneath the mess is a handgun he keeps for just such surprises.