Lifting the Sky (19 page)

“I've got to go help my relatives for a while. Out there, by the Owl Creeks. Coupla weeks. But I'll catch you when I get back.” He nodded again and hopped over the ledge.

I stood there already missing him.

It's a wonder I got through the next three weeks without driving myself and Mam bonkers. Every time Stew Pot barked or the wind rattled the door, I jumped up to see if someone was coming. I don't know quite what I expected—my dad to come merrily driving up to our front door? Knocking politely, tipping his cowboy hat, and saying, “Excuse me, do I have the right address?”

But that wasn't what happened.

Nothing happened.

I stuck a calendar on the wall by my bed. I crossed off the days since the ninth of May when we'd come to the ranch. Every day I searched for signs that Mam had come to the end of her stay-in-one-place rope.

It staggered me how much she'd already done. The fences didn't lean crazily and the wires weren't all droopy and snagged, and the ditches all carried water—well, thanks a little to me and my beaver-dam project. We hadn't lost
one single cow or calf to illness or anything else, and the barn probably hadn't been cleaner since the day it got built. And of course the house was now totally livable.

So what now? Would my mom figure it was time to pack up? What would happen if I told her my dad had been spotted close by?

No, I couldn't chance it.

Mam buzzed about full of her own private thoughts. I got more words out of Pot than her. At suppertime we turned the pages of our books and said “Please pass the salt” or “Would you like ketchup?”

When I worry I always seem to drop back into old habits. I stashed away a sack of flour and ten cans of tuna fish and three jars of honey and two cans of jellied cranberries. Just in case.

I searched through the bookshelves and carried piles of books up to my attic. There were so many I hadn't yet had a chance to read, like the ones full of stuff I'd never been taught at school. The ones telling the
other
side of the story. The ones from the viewpoint of the Indians instead of the white men. At night I couldn't turn off the movies running wild in my head.

But some nights Shawn rode into my movies. Those were silent, like the olden-day films before sound. He'd show up out of nowhere and beckon to me, and I'd follow him into mysterious rocky landscapes where we searched day and night for a rainbow.

The nights had turned almost as hot as the days. I
tossed in bed, fanning myself with my sheet. I kept the windows at both ends of the room wide open.

For three afternoons in a row, dark stormy clouds had built up over the badlands. In spite of the wild show of thunder and lightning, not one drop of rain touched the ground. Clyde the storekeeper had been right. Eight years of dry hadn't disappeared with one snowstorm. It was hard now to imagine all the snow we'd had back on that wintry day. I wished we could've saved a bit for later and spread it out like butter on this dry, burned toast of land.

Every afternoon Stew Pot and I sneaked through the fence. Each time I crossed my fingers, hoping that Shawn had returned from helping his relatives out by the Owl Creeks. But he hadn't—or else he was avoiding me. Maybe, I thought, maybe he was sorry he'd let me in on his secret. Maybe he'd decided I was too nosy prying out secrets he'd kept to himself until I fished them out of him.

I stuffed my tree full of wishes. Only my wishes were more like demands. Commands. Statements of fact.
My dad is coming
, I said.
He's on his way. I know he is. Thank you.

On the thirteenth of July I crossed off the day on my calendar and hopped into bed. Tomorrow was the fourteenth of July. Tomorrow I'd be thirteen.

I pulled my journal and box of colored pencils off the chest by my bed and sat twisting my hair into knots. I picked out Metallic Violet and wrote,
To Papa
. The tip
broke. I chose Electric Blue and started writing. Halfway through my poem I smashed that tip into the page. I finished the rest with True Blue.

Which was exactly how I felt. As if I was finally getting the truth out.

To Papa

I was four when you walked out the door.

“I'm going to get mustard,” you said.

Must've stuffed your chaps and lariat ropes

Into the back of your truck, along with your spurs

And the silver-tipped saddle that wasn't yours; it was Mam's.

But you forgot your guitar,

Forgot Stew Pot and me.

Your lights that night, I remember them now

As sparkly red arrows darting out of dark gray.

I said, “Papa's gone off in a dark thundercloud.”

I remember you calling me “ma petit Bleu”

And how I thought you said
blur
, like a smudge, a mistake.

I remember the way you pinched my cheeks

And said I was small as a mouse.

You were tall as a house, and your silver belt buckle

Shone like a star when I stood on your shoes and we danced

And when I rode on your shoulders I lifted the sky.

I was four when you walked out the door.

What can I say? We were out of Dijon.

But you forgot your guitar,

Forgot Stew Pot, Mam, and me.

The fourteenth of July I lay in bed fanning my sheet up and down. It was hot, even with the windows wide open. The morning sun struck the peachy walls and turned my attic to gold. Downstairs the radio belted out an Indian song about fry bread.

“It's my birthday,” I said. “I'm
thirteen
!” I shouted, expecting sloppy wet kisses. None came. I reached down to pat Stew Pot and stirred empty space. I'd been deserted. Mam had already gone out.

Well, no matter. It was my day, and she'd promised to take care of my chores. I stretched, thinking about how my dad had made such a big deal about the fact that I was born on the French Fourth of July, as if that somehow made me more French or more his daughter. But I wasn't going to think about him—no, today I'd just boot him out of my thoughts. I yawned. Maybe I'd stay in bed all day and catch up on my reading. Maybe I'd go sit on my
hill and do nothing. Maybe I'd sleep in for once. I closed my eyes.

Thrummmp!
Something crashed onto the floor. I bolted straight up. A rock? I kicked off the sheets and flew to the window.

There stood Shawn, looking up, aiming another rock at my window. “Wanna go lookin' for rainbows?” he called up.

I raked my fingers through my tangle of hair, grabbed the jeans and shirt I'd worn the day before, then tossed them aside and fumbled through the measly choice of clothes hanging in my closet. Suddenly I stopped. What was the matter with me? I'd never cared a hoot about what I wore. Was it because overnight I'd turned into a teenager? Or was it …?

My heart did an actual cartwheel, as if it'd turned head over heels and dumped me in some curious, far-off place. I almost didn't want to go down the stairs. I almost couldn't wait….

I threw on whatever and shot down the stairs. In the mudroom I stopped, twisted my hair up, grabbed my cap, screwed it down, tucked in my shirt, pulled it back out, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the porch.

“Catch!” Shawn pitched a rock at me.

I grabbed it and clutched it to my chest. Shawn had on black jeans and a T-shirt as white as his teeth. He was smiling. He glowed.

I examined the rock. Had he chosen it because it looked like a heart? I stuffed it into my shirt pocket, but it poked out like a pointed breast so I snatched it back out.

Shawn flashed a big grin. I about threw the rock back at him, but his face suddenly got all serious. “Think you can get the day off?” he asked. “I'll take you to some of the places where I've already searched. Then maybe the two of us can figure out where that rainbow is hiding….”

“My mom's already gone off, but I'll leave a note. I'm sure she won't mind.” I started to say it was my birthday, so getting out of chores was no problem. But I already felt so
birthday-ed
, so
gifted
, that I just flashed a huge smile and dashed back into the house. Honestly, my brain wasn't working. I should've invited him in, should've taken more time brushing my teeth and asking what he'd planned for the day, fixed a lunch or something, but I didn't. I hurried, scribbling a note saying,
Gone with Shawn. Be back late afternoon. Don't forget to feed my bums!

I stared at the rock I'd put down on the table. It was almost perfectly heart-shaped. But maybe it was just what it was. A rock. And just because I was suddenly flooded with all kinds of new feelings didn't necessarily mean that Shawn felt the same way….

I drew a heart on the note and stuck the rock on it.
She needs a token of love as much as I do,
I thought.

Shawn straddled the fence, then pushed one strand of barbed wire down with his boot and held up the top one so I could slip through. We didn't talk as we circled the hill, hiking along the ridge and heading toward the bowl-shaped valley. I wondered if he was thinking about the time when he'd yelled down at me for trespassing—when
was it, about a month and a half ago? How on earth had I gone from being so furious at him to
this
? My heart pounding, my feet barely touching the ground, me practically
floating
on air just being next to him!

In my head I was chanting a prayer I'd found in a book I'd just read.
Where I walk is sacred, sacred is the ground. Forest, mountain, river, listen to the sound. Great Spirit circle, circle all around.
Over and over I chanted to myself as we hiked. Suddenly I felt my face getting red. It was an Indian prayer, and I'm white. I thought of the times when I used to play cowboys and Indians with other ranch kids. Sometimes I'd be a cowboy, but usually I'd be an Indian so I could sneak around real quiet and carry a bow and a handful of stick arrows. This time, though, I was with a real Indian, so that meant I was the cowboy. Somehow, after all the stuff I'd been reading, that made me feel ashamed.

Tivo waited in his usual place in the hollow behind my hill. I hadn't thought too much about how we'd go on this search. Maybe I should've saddled a horse? I raised an eyebrow at Shawn.

“He'll take two easy,” he said, “given you're not much bigger than a gopher.”

I grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it at him. He dodged and stumbled and slid the rest of the way down the hill on his rump. For the first time in what seemed like ages, I laughed. Shawn brushed himself off and bowed. Tivo neighed and trotted up to him. He ran a hand along the horse's flank, swooped up the reins, slipped a boot into the stirrup, and swung into the saddle. Then he reached
down, hooked my hand, and lifted me easily behind him. He'd folded a blanket and placed it on top of the saddle blanket as if he'd been sure that I'd come.

I stared at Shawn's back. What was I supposed to do with my hands? I'd ridden behind my mom or some cowboy plenty of times when I was little. I'd always just grabbed ahold of them without thinking. Now I felt very self-conscious. I touched his sides with just the tips of my fingers as we rode across the small valley. But as Tivo reached the next hill and started to climb, Shawn reached back and pulled one of my hands around his belly and squeezed my fingers as if to say “Hang on tight.” I felt a shiver go through me.

“You okay?” Shawn asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“You're shaking.”

“I'm just … excited, I guess.”

I closed my eyes and moved with Tivo's rhythm, filling my lungs with the smell of horse and sweat and sage-scented air and the warm-boy and soap-smell of Shawn. On the flat tabletop of the hills Tivo galloped, gliding over sagebrush, sidestepping boulders and prairie-dog holes, following along barely visible animal trails.

I smashed into Shawn's back as we swooped down a steep slope. At the bottom, spiky buffalo-berry and gooseberry bushes scraped our legs as Tivo brushed his way through to the creek. At the shallow crossing he snorted, spread his legs, and guzzled.

“Creek's lower than I've ever seen it,” Shawn muttered as Tivo waded across it.

We climbed out the other side and rode on. Soon we were at the edge of the mountains where the foothills turned into jagged cliffs and rock outcrops and deep forests. A herd of cows and calves scattered as we slowly rode through them. We stopped while Shawn stared at an old cow, checking to be sure her calf had been nursed. Satisfied that it had, we went on. We skirted the forests and outcrops and galloped steadily along until we clattered to a stop at the edge of a towering cliff.

I slid off Tivo's rump, sank to my knees. I crawled to the jagged edge of the cliff. Looking down made my head spin.

Far, far below, a sea of white rocks flowed across the valley, smashing up against pink cliffs that held it in on both sides. The land seemed to gush back and forth; I could almost hear the deep ocean sounds of waves curling and crashing.

Shawn crouched beside me. “This is where the ley lines meet up, isn't it?” I said.

“That's why I brought you here,” he answered. He pointed toward a cliff on the other side of the valley. “The dreaming rocks. That's where we come to fast and to have us a vision.”

On the other side of the valley, pink cliffs rose out of a milky-blue lake. Clouds hovered around the cliffs, but for a quick moment they parted. Even from this distance
I could make out that the cliffs had been used as a drawing board. They were covered with petroglyphs, some of them huge. Strange-looking figures, some circled by zigzags and dots and long wavy lines, had been chiseled high up in the cliff walls. Then, as if I'd been allowed just this one glimpse, the clouds settled back over the cliffs, hiding them behind a gossamer curtain. I shivered.

“It's the most incredible place,” I said, “but I'm glad we're up here and not down there. It's spooky. For some reason I get the feeling I'm being watched.”