The Hummingbird's Cage by Tamara Dietrich

Antonio? At those times, it was all I could do not to pick up the phone and call the number she’d left. What stayed my hand was the realization that the only thing I could do if she answered was to pinch out a pathetic, “Are you still coming?”
    The easiest thing was keeping it from Laurel. I was so well practiced in that already. And there was so much at stake.
    That last night as I lay in bed, my mind could level on only one thing:
    Tomorrow
.

June 4
    Insurrection Day
    As scheduled, Laurel had early dismissal from school. The bus dropped her off around twelve thirty. She showed off her certificate for passing first grade and I suggested a fried-chicken lunch on Saturday to celebrate. Jim approved. I fought to hide my nerves, fixing my face into something neutral, waiting for him to hit the shower before work. I laid out his fresh uniform with shaking hands.
    By the time he was strapping on his Sam Browne, my face was flushed. When he kissed my cheek, he paused for a second to ask if I had a fever. I don’t know if it was concern in his eyes or suspicion. I blamed it on the excitement of Laurel’s special day.
    At 1:58 his Expedition pulled away.
    Laurel changed into her play clothes of many colors and I sent her out to the backyard. I stationed myself in a chair at the front window and stared out at the road, my fingers knit together so tight my knuckles cracked, listening to every tick of the sunburst clock above the couch. I grew light-headed, and realized I was holding my breath. So I decided to time myself to the deliberate beat of the big clock—
tick, breathe in; tock, breathe out.
    At 2:33 came the distant roar of a Harley.
    My heart twisted in my chest like a snared rabbit. This time, my breath caught and held till I could see motes of light. I didn’t care. I sat as fixed as a tombstone, head bowed, willing with all my might for the roar to come closer.
    And it did—a faraway growl from the west, growing louder and louder as it approached the house, closer to the ticking clock, closer to the harp-backed chair that was the only thing, it seemed, keeping me from sinking down to the molten core of the earth.
    Closer and closer, until—
    Bernadette rode up like an archangel in studded black leather on a steed of steel and chrome, a bandanna capping her head, her long hair flowing behind like a banner.
    I exploded through the front door and nearly knocked her down before she had a chance to set the kickstand, hugging her hard, weeping, my eyes and nose running shamelessly.
    â€œI wasn’t sure you’d come,” I choked out at last. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
    â€œHell!” She gasped, laughing, staggering under the impact.
    When I let her go at last, wiping at my wet face, stammering out an apology, she stripped off her gloves without a word, reached into a zippered pocket of her jacket and handed me ablank envelope. Inside were the tickets, five hundred dollars in cash, an Albuquerque street map with the airport circled in bold red marker, and a phone number and address on a sheet of lined paper.
    â€œYour friend will be waiting for you at the airport in Boston,” she said.
    I swayed on my feet. “She remembers me?”
    â€œOf course she does.” Bernadette was regarding me with frank amusement. “I told her it was a family emergency and you had to leave town fast. She didn’t even ask what it was—I figure you can explain when you see her. She says you and your daughter can crash with her and her husband as long as you need to.”
    I stared speechless at the bounty in my hands. When I looked up again, Laurel was watching us uncertainly from the side of the house. She’d heard the motorcycle rumble to the edge of the front lawn and had come to see. We’d never had such a visitor before, and she wasn’t sure how to take it. Her little hands were knotting anxiously.
    â€œHello,
niña
!” Bernadette