The Girl Who Would Be King(11)
She tries to speak to me, but no words come out, just her lips moving, with no sound, as if someone has forgotten her soundtrack. One of the words lost on her lips looks like ‘coming’. She glances behind her and turns back to me and mouths it again. COMING. I follow her gaze to try to understand what might be coming but all I see is desert and the strange thunderstorm continuing to build. Cracked barren ground stretches for miles in front of us, darkening to an almost black as the clouds swirl. Lightning strikes brighten the sky like day in disorienting blasts. They come one after another with a relentlessness that makes me wince. The sky seems to cry out as it pulls itself apart, breaking into thousands of storms, as if even the storms themselves are confused and unsure. Strands of my mother’s hair blow into her face and she turns again to scream at me without sound.
From the clouds above us, emerges a giant black bird – a crow maybe – and she flies above me, nearly swiping my face with her inky black wing. I watch her, transfixed. The lightning in the distance causes a glistening flicker on her thick body. With a crack of thunder the crow splits into three. The trio circle above me as if preparing to feast on my limbs, alive or dead. The rain begins in earnest now, drops falling into my eyes as the storm ratchets up another notch. The sky darkens to an even deeper shade of blackened blue and the crows split again and again and again until they are hundreds, flying above me like a jet-black undulating carpet. It looks like something from a horror movie, but I’m not afraid. I feel my mother’s fingers taking my hand and I see she’s as transfixed by the bird-sky as I am. I look back to the birds and feel part of them – part of something I don’t understand – as we fly with great purpose toward the heart of the storm, me linked with the birds, the birds linked with me. I don’t want to go where they’re going but I don’t get the feeling I have a choice.
When I open my eyes I see Jenny, sitting up in her bed, her locket pressed to her chest. She looks up at me suddenly, her eyes wet with relief and happiness. She knows; I don’t know how she knows it was me, but she does. I smile at her, silently confirming her suspicions. She smiles back as if to assure me that my secret is safe with her. I know I’ve made an ally. I don’t think it will change how my life is here, but it’s comforting in some small way. And my chest swells with an emotion I’m not familiar with…happiness? Pride? I’m not sure what it is, but I suddenly feel compelled to do things that will make me feel this way all the time, which gives me pause, since that seems dangerous too. Surely it’s no coincidence that the dream of my mother has come only after my good act. But what about the storm on the horizon she’s clearly trying to warn me about? Does the danger come only if I keep doing these things, or will it come regardless? What is the danger that’s actually coming? For the first time in my life I’m beginning to have a true sense of something greater than myself, something larger that I never could have imagined existed. It’s as if I’m getting just the tiniest taste of it and it’s both thrilling and frightening.
•
I come in wearing street clothes but with my sweet cat suit on underneath, just in case. I left my new necklace in my motel room this time. Felice motions me over to a table with four other guys. Two of them are old; one Spanish-looking and one an average white guy with a big gut, the other two have dark hair and their backs to me. I walk up to the table and Felice smiles. “This is her,” she says to the four men, who seem not the least bit impressed. The pair who had their backs to me are younger than the others, and the youngest is surprisingly cute, which makes me oddly nervous.
“What’s your name?” the white guy with the gut asks.
“Lola,” I say. The entire group chuckles. I really don’t know what the hell people think is so damn funny about my name but I get this reaction a lot. “You got a problem with my name?” I ask, crossing my arms. Felice stands up.
“No, no,” she gestures to her seat. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink. What do you want?”
“A beer is fine,” I say, pretending I drink beers every day and not taking the offered seat. She leaves and I look at the white guy that asked me my name. “What’s your name?”
“Melvin,” he says with a straight face.
I crinkle my nose. “And you’re making fun of my name? Jeezus.” The entire tone of the table changes in an instant. Nobody is smiling and the hairs on my arms prick up in warning. After a long silence that feels like some kind of old Western standoff, the older Spanish fellow speaks.