Writesville

This is another story written while I lived in Tuscon from 1994 – 1997, also heavliy influenced by the local culture. The move The Crow bourght the mythology mainstream – birds carry the souls of the departed to the land of the dead, which lies in the west, past the setting sun.

Words: 2,800
Reading time: 15 – 20 minutes

Chase the Sky
by
David L. Felts

When Beth got back from riding her bicycle, Timmy was in his room, sobbing. She opened the door a crack, peering in. The room was stuffy and dim, the brown curtains drawn over the narrow window. A small fan hummed as it swung slowly back and forth, stirring the stale air.

Timmy was shirtless, curled on his bed and facing the wall, fresh red welts over older, paler ones criss-crossing his back. Beth was glad she hadn’t been home when it happened. Then she felt bad. She might have been able to help and maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all.

“Timmy?”

“Go away.”

She didn’t. When she sat on the edge of his bed he scooted closer to the wall to give her room, but kept his eyes closed.

“You all right?”

Timmy nodded, sniffing. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know.”

He sat up, wincing, eyes red and wet, short brown hair tousled. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “How come he whips me but not you?”

Beth felt a surge of guilt. Dad never did whip her. Yelled, sent her to her room, grounded her, but never whipped her. He whipped Timmy though. For forgetting chores, getting a bad grade, being late, or just about anything. It’s for your own good, he’d say as he swung his belt. I don’t want you to end up like me.

“I don’t know.” Beth found herself wishing Dad would whip her, at least once.

Timmy stopped rubbing his eyes. “Tell me about the feathers.”

“Again?”

“Yeah.”

She sighed. He never tired of the story. “They’re the Raven’s feathers,” she began, “that’s what Walter says.”

Walter was an Indian who lived on the reservation a few miles away. A year before, Beth had been riding her bike, coming back from the playing in the arroyo, when she’d seen him sitting on a wooden stool in front of his trailer, carving. She’d stopped to watch and they’d started talking. He’d shown her a dried rattlesnake rattle as big around as her wrist and gave her a colorful bead belt he’d made himself. She’d told her parents she’d made it in home economics class. There were lots of carvings of desert animals in his trailer. He did them himself.

On the wall above the couch in his tiny living room hung two large feathers. They were glossy black and beautiful, each one nearly as long as one of Beth’s forearms. Walter, whose Indian name was Two Feathers, told her they were his namesake, tokens of power given to him at his birth by the tribe’s shaman.

When she got home that evening, she’d made up a story about the feathers and told it to Timmy. “Walter said they’re from the Raven and full of power,” she’d told him. “When he uses them his spirit becomes like the Raven, like a bird. He can chase the sky and wind.”

Timmy had listened, wide-eyed. “They’re really magic?”

“That’s what Walter said,” she’d replied, feeling bad about the lie while at the same time enjoying Timmy’s amazement.

Voice wistful, Timmy asked the same question he always asked when Beth was finished. “Is it true?”

“That’s what Two Feathers said,” Beth told him. Timmy liked her to use Walter’s Indian name. Timmy’d never met Walter. Dad had forbidden them to speak to Indians, even though he was one himself, but Beth visited Walter anyway. Walter talked to her like she was grown up, gave her flatbread and cheese, sometimes with chilies so hot they brought tears to her eyes. He paid attention to her.

The thin walls of the trailer shook as the front door slammed.

“Home!”

Mom. Beth patted Timmy’s arm. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Thanks.” Timmy lay back on his side, facing the wall.

Beth left, closing the door and going to the kitchen. Mom was making a sandwich. Dad lay on the couch, watching Wheel of Fortune through half-closed eyes.

Her mother spread mayonnaise on a slice of bread. She smelled like french-fries. Her dark brown hair was listless, limp with grease, her light blue waitress uniform tight around her middle. “Where’s Timmy?”

“In his room.” Beth sat on a wooden stool at the kitchen counter.

Her mother’s eyes flicked towards the couch. “He was bad again?”

Beth shrugged. “I guess.”

“What if he do this time?”

“I don’t know.”

Her mother finished making her sandwich before she spoke. “Well, he has to learn to be better. Right?”

Beth looked at the floor. The vinyl was dirty. She’d have to clean it this weekend. “I guess.”

After getting a Coke from the fridge, her mother went to the yellowed Formica table to eat. The metal folding chair squeaked when she sat. “What did you do today?”

Beth shrugged. “Same old. School. History homework. Rode my bike.” She’d gone by Walter’s, but he hadn’t been home. He’d left his trailer unlocked, but Beth wouldn’t think of going inside if he wasn’t there.

“Finish your homework?”

“I’ve still got math.”

“You’d better get to it then. Lights out at nine.” A slight hesitation. “Timmy in bed?”

Beth nodded.

“He get anything to eat?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Make him a sandwich then, take him some milk. Okay?”

Beth glanced at her father. His eyes were closed. He held a can of beer, resting it on his bare stomach. The can rose up and down as he breathed. The TV remote lay on the floor beside the couch. The audience on the TV clapped as a large woman in a blue dressed guessed a correct letter. “All right.”

She made a ham sandwich and poured a glass of milk. As she walked past her father carrying the plate and glass he spoke without opening his eyes. “Tell him to make sure he does all his chores from now on. Hear? No playing until chores are done.”

Timmy wolfed down the sandwich and drank the milk without pausing for breath. Beth took the plate and glass back to the kitchen and made a sandwich for herself. Mom was taking a shower and getting ready for bed. Dad was gone from the couch, the TV off. He got up early to work construction. He had to be on site by five and worked until two. Mom worked at Wal-Mart during the day and waitressed in the evenings.

After eating, Beth washed the plate and glass and put them in the drying rack next to the sink before going to finish her homework. She finished her math little after nine, brushed her teeth, took a quick shower, and went to bed, falling asleep to the soft murmur of the tiny black and white TV in her parent’s bedroom.

#

Timmy was gone when she woke. Elementary school started an hour earlier than junior high. Beth was glad she didn’t have to get up earlier, but wished she got home at two-thirty like Timmy. She didn’t get home until four. She was the next to last stop on the bus.

She dressed quickly and ate a package of Pop-Tarts cold. Her father was already gone. She tried to be quiet so she would wake her mother. She made it outside barely in time to catch he bus.

School was boring. She got good grades, but it didn’t seem important. In the classes that didn’t use seating charts, she sat next to her few friends and passed notes. Lunch was pizza, her favorite, though this time the crust was soggy. She only paid forty cents for lunch. She knew she paid less because her family didn’t have much money. It made her feel ashamed, even though no one ever said anything about it. Lots of the other kids didn’t have money either. Paying less for lunch didn’t seem to bother them.

Her father was on the couch when she got home. The door to Timmy’s room was closed. An ache settled in her stomach. Had he gotten in trouble again? That would be every day this week.

“Is Timmy home?” She set her books on the coffee table.

“In his room.” Her father’s eyes never left the TV. “He got a bad grade on a math test. His teacher called and told me. I asked her to call when he gets a bad grade. I’ve told him he needs to study, I’ve told him he needs to be educated, so he doesn’t end up like me. There’s a grilled cheese in the pan on the stove, and some potato chips in the cupboard.”

The sandwich was cold. Beth turned on the burner and warmed it. There was one Coke left; she left it for her mother and drank milk. After eating, she went to her room and put her books on her desk, then went to Timmy’s room and peeked in.

It was empty, the brown curtains pushed aside, the window open, the screen gone. Timmy’d sneaked out before, though it meant a whipping if he got caught. She had to find him and help him get back. She didn’t want him to get another whipping.

“I’m going to ride my bike,” she said as she passed her father on the way out. Her heart pounded, her legs felt weak. She was trembling. Surely he would notice.

Her father stared at her a long moment. “Back by seven. Bring me a beer before you leave.”

Timmy’s bike wasn’t next to hers behind the trailer. Where could he have gone? The arroyo was one of his favorite spots to play. She’d check there. She’d see if Walter was home since he lived on the way. He’d help her look. He liked to help. Maybe he and Timmy would get to meet. Timmy would like that, though he might ask about the feathers and find out the story wasn’t true.

She was sweating by the time she reached Walter’s trailer. It was early spring, but already hot, although not nearly as hot as summer would be. Tucson was like a giant oven in the summer. Right now everything was green and growing, flush with life from the rain two weeks before. Probably the last rain for a while, until the monsoons in late summer.

The two mesquite trees in Walter’s yard were heavy with new leaves. One of them cast deep shade over the stool Walter sat on when he carved. When she knocked on the trailer door, Walter answered, looking worried. There were two other men inside the trailer, making it seem crowded and small and hot. They talked to each other in a strange language, making large gestures with their hands, looking both worried and angry. Walter said something and they both nodded and left.

Walter looked at her, his expression grave. “Hello, Beth.”

“Hello, Walter. Is something wrong?”

Walter sighed. Beth was suddenly aware of how old he was, how much gray streaked his long dark hair, how many deep lines etched his face. She hadn’t noticed before. He gestured towards the wall above his sagging couch.

“Your feathers,” Beth said, feeling as though someone had stolen her breath.

“Somebody took them while I was at the store. My feathers were gone when I got back.” He shook his head. “Who would take them? They have no meaning to anyone but myself.”

With sudden alarm Beth knew what Timmy had done, what he planned to do. “I think I know who took your feathers.” She told Walter about Timmy. “I told him they were magic, that they made you fly.” She shook her head, close to tears. “I just wanted to make him feel better, Walter. I didn’t think he would steal them. What if he tries to use them? What if he thinks the story is true?”

Walter’s lined face grew even more grave. “We must find him.”

The inside of Walter’s truck was hot and smelled like oil. The sun-heated vinyl stung the bare backs of her legs. It took Walter several tries to get it started. It ran fitfully, shuddering. With the noise of grinding gears, Walter pulled out, the truck raising a cloud of dust as they bounced along the rough dirt road. They rode in silence to the arroyo, Beth squinting against the warm wind that blew through her open window. The arroyo cut straight through the reservation, in some places only a few yards wide and deep, in others much bigger. Walter stopped at a place called Indian Cliff. It overlooked the deepest part of the arroyo, a sheer drop of fifty feet to the rock and sand bottom. All the kids knew about it.

Walter left the truck running and they climbed out. He walked to the edge of the arroyo. A large palo verde tree grew nearby, dropping yellow blossoms that drifted slowly down like giant, sun-colored snowflakes. Beth saw his shoulders slump. When he turned to look at her, his dark eyes were sad.

Beth left the truck, feeling as though she were in a dream. The wind brushed across her arms, tickling the hairs. As she neared the arroyo, she dropped to her hands and knees and inched forward, too frightened to stand so close to the edge. Riding in the hot truck had made her sweaty — dust clung to her hands and arms, caught in her throat making her want to cough. Her heart thumped so hard it felt as though it were trying beat its way out of her chest.

She scooted forward on her stomach and hung her head over the edge.

Timmy lay on the pale brown sand at the bottom, face down, legs and arms outstretched, a black feather gripped in each hand. A yellow palo verde blossom was caught in his hair.

It felt as though something inside her broke. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare down at Timmy. She should have protected him, kept him safe. She shouldn’t have told him about the feathers, shouldn’t have made up a story about them being magic. She should have helped him with his chores, tried harder to be his friend. At that moment, it seemed there were a thousand things she should have done and hadn’t. Now it was too late.

The wind was cool on her cheeks because of the tears. It felt strange to talk. “It’s my fault,” she said between sobs. She wanted to do anything but look down at Timmy. She couldn’t look away. It was as if someone else owned her eyes and was making her look to punish her, to make sure she never forgot. Her breath caught and she made a soft whimpering noise. “It’s my fault,” she said again.

“Shhh.” Walter knelt and touched her back. “How were you to know what he would do? We each choose our path. It’s the Creator’s hope that we live long and gain wisdom enough to choose wisely. It was Timmy’s choice, although he was not ready to make it. The Raven has taken him home.”

Beth shook her head, tears dropping into the dust by her face. “There’s no Raven, there’s no magic. Timmy’s dead.”

“The spirit never dies.” Walter helped her to her feet and led her back to the truck. “We need to tell the police.”

When he opened the door she shook her head, brushing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m going to wait here.”

It looked as though Walter was going to say something, but all he did was nod. The truck raised a cloud of dust when he drove off.

Beth wiped her face with her shirt as she followed the arroyo north until she found a place to make her way down. The bank was steep and loose. She slipped near the bottom, scraping her leg on a rock. She was dimly aware of the pain. Once in the arroyo she walked back toward Timmy.

His hair was matted with dried sweat and full of sand. The palo verde blossom was gone. His neck looked funny, swollen and bent. There was dark blood on the ground around his head. Flies gathered in it.

Timmy’s pale fingers were wrapped loosely around the feathers. One feather was broken in the middle — the top half hung loosely, twirling lazily in the slight wind. A thick green clump of buffalo grass grew near his feet, brought to life by the recent rain. In a few months it would be dried and shriveled from lack of water. Beth knelt beside Timmy, reaching out to touch his hand.

There was a noise behind her. A large raven, feathers glistening blue-black, stood on a rock. It watched her, pointed pink tongue peeking out, then bobbed its head twice before spreading its wings and launching into the sky, a dark shape against brilliant blue. It circled three times, then flew towards the horizon in the direction of the setting sun.

Beth sat by Timmy’s body to wait for Walter and the police.