A Different Blue(109)

But he didn't deny me. He told me I was his father and that he would like to get to know me. He asked me about my life, my dreams, and my future with Wilson. I answered vaguely. He hadn't earned the right to confidences. But maybe someday. I promised I would be in touch. I wanted to get to know my sisters. Cedar City was only about three hours from Boulder City, and I was willing to drive. Family had taken on a whole new importance to me because I had a daughter who would someday want all the answers. And I would be able to give them to her. Every last detail.





I asked my grandmother once if it was worth it . . . the work she'd traded my grandfather for. I didn't want to hurt her, but I needed to understand. She rattled off a bunch of facts and interesting details.

“Well, in 1984, the Paiutes received 4,470 acres of land scattered throughout southwestern Utah and a $2.5 million fund from which we can draw interest for economic development and tribal services. Our health care is so much better, as well as our education opportunites. We have been able to build new houses, open and operate a couple of factories. But we have to continue to fight for water rights, to keep our land, to keep our people thriving. There is always work to be done.” She smiled brightly, but her hands shook, and she had trouble meeting my eyes. After a while she spoke again.

“The truth is, on a personal level, it wasn't really worth it, Blue. When it's all said and done there are so many worthy causes, so much work to be done, so much good to do, but if we sacrifice everything for a cause, we tend to become a spokesperson instead of a lover, an organizer instead of a wife, a mouthpiece instead of a mother. I gave everything else away in the name of a greater good, but look how many people I hurt. Look at the ripple effects of thinking my life's work was more important than the people in my life.”





“I've been thinking about that story, the one you told me when Melody was born,” Wilson himmed, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed. He had been practicing his cello in my tiny sitting room, the way he did every night, unless I was carving, in which case we filled the basement with sweet strings and sanding. The days of listening under the vent were long gone.

“The one you said sucked?” I murmured, wishing he would play another song. I was half-asleep in my recliner, the deep tones making me mellow and drowsy. It was like an elixir, and I was addicted to both the man and his music.

“Yes. That's the one. It was horrible. And to think you eschewed Ivanhoe. What was the hunter's name again?”

“Waupee. White Hawk.”

“That's right. White Hawk loved a star girl, they were happy together, but she decided to takes their child and float up into the sky, leaving him behind.”

“So why have you been thinking about it?” I yawned, concluding that he wasn't going to play anything else until he had worked through whatever was bothering him.

“I just realized that it's Jimmy's story.” Wilson plucked his strings absentmindedly, his luminous eyes unfocused, distracted by his thoughts. “Stella floated away and took his child. Even the name is similar.”

I hadn't thought of that. But Wilson was right. It was very like Jimmy's story. Except Jimmy didn't get a happy ending.

“But the star maiden came back to White Hawk, Wilson. I didn't ever finish the story. Her son missed his father, so the star maiden came back for him–”

“Did you know that Stella means star?” Wilson interrupted, as if he'd just stumbled over the realization.

“It does?”

“Yes. So we have a Hawk and a Star. And a Sapana.” Wilson counted each name on his fingers. “It's his story,” he marveled.

I shook my head, disagreeing. “Jimmy didn't ever get his family back. The star maiden's father turned his daughter and Waupee and their son into hawks so they could fly between heaven and earth and be together. But none of us ever got to be together.”

“But you came back to Jimmy, Blue. You and he were together.”

“I guess I did,” I agreed. “But Sapana isn't in that story, luv.” I smiled at him tenderly, using his own term of endearment. “She has a story all her own.”

Wilson laid down his cello and stood, leaning over the recliner until he hovered only inches above me, grey eyes on blue, his mouth on mine. He spoke against my lips.

“Of course she does . . . Savana Blue. And it's a story just waiting to be told.”

“A little blackbird, pushed from the nest?” I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Or placed there. It's all in the way you tell the story.”





“Once upon a time there was a little bird who was placed in a nest. Wanted. Cherished. Unafraid, because she knew she was a hawk, a beautiful bird, worthy of awe, deserving of love . . .”