Sky Bridge Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  Acknowledgments

  AUTHOR BIO

  MORE FICTION FROM MILKWEED EDITIONS

  MILKWEED EDITIONS

  Copyright Page

  Also by Laura Pritchett

  Hell’s Bottom, Colorado

  for Jake and Eliana,

  with love

  PROLOGUE

  That pickup is a piece of junk. Three different shades of white and roaring like the muffler was never part of the deal. But Tess, she’s beautiful. Leaning out the passenger-side window, blowing kisses from her palm, her dark eyes dancing like they’ve finally decided to come alive again. “Goodbye, Libby, goodbye!” she’s singing at me.

  As if that pickup and man are going to get her somewhere. As if she’s not leaving anything behind. As if she don’t see me crying.

  She smiles, she waves. As if this is the happy farewell she’s been dreaming of.

  Her dark hair is giving her trouble, shifting sideways from the breeze, and she has to stop waving long enough to catch up the shiny-dark strands with both hands, and something about that makes her laugh, and with her laugh everything starts to change. The truck roars louder and the gravel snaps as the tires start moving. Her hair flies from her hands again, her body leans farther from the window, and her goodbyes get louder.

  I step forward. Bits of hay dust from the bed of the truck blow in my face, and the sun’s setting behind her, and no matter how hard I squint, I can’t see. Then she’s gone. Just like that. And I’m still standing there, looking at the place where she just disappeared.

  What’s left is this: a couple of cows and a barbed-wire fence and pale grassland stretching on to meet the faint outline of mountains in the distance. The sky’s streaked with pink and orange where the sun’s getting low over those mountains, but by the time the arc of sky gets to me, it’s a dark evening blue. A meadowlark’s singing and there’s the distant sound of pigs slamming the covers of their feeders, but all in all, it’s pretty quiet until Amber starts crying.

  This kid is cradled in the crook of my arm, looking past me and into the sky with foggy blue-gray eyes. One red arm wobbles in the air, the fist clenched tight, and from her mouth shoots a raspy wail, way too big for that newborn body.

  A word comes out of me too, a breath of a word: “Please.” It’s the word that’s been rising in my mind this whole time: Please, goddamn, please.

  Please don’t go.

  Please change that look in your eyes.

  Please look at Amber.

  I stare at the space where my sister just was, and I realize that she was acting like, Hey, ain’t-this-a-sweet-farewell? But underneath, the eyes were saying something else altogether: Keep your promise. Leave me alone.

  I cover my mouth, sink down till my knees touch rocks, and bend over the baby, and I’m crying like crazy. Because that’s when I know that my sister is leaving, and that she doesn’t want this baby of hers that I’m holding in my arms.

  ONE

  It’s true: Every house has a few places that reach out and hold you. Standing spots, Kay calls them, and she says every home has one or two. That’s why I always find myself leaning against the frame of the kitchen door and looking east, toward the alfalfa field that comes up a stone’s throw from our door. In the summer, at least, that’s where I stand, sometimes with my one-cigarette-of-the-day, looking out over the leafy alfalfa in its various stages of growing. Besides that green field and the stretch of blue sky, the only other thing in view is the circle of buildings and cottonwoods that make up Baxter’s place in the distance. And the rutted dirt road that runs along the edge of the alfalfa, the one that connects our two houses.

  Up close is the shed and burn barrel and Kay’s car that doesn’t run any more, and Kay’s other car that hasn’t run in so long that yellow-flowered weeds are growing out of it. There’s a concrete birdbath that we once used for cigarette butts, but it fell over in a windstorm a year or so ago and nobody’s picked it up yet. I’m quitting anyway and Kay mostly does her smoking over at Baxter’s, so now it makes a nice little step for me to put my foot on.

  Next to the birdbath is a line of wilty-looking yellow marigolds. Who knows why I put them in. I think it was my attempt to make this place seem a little more—I don’t know, hospitable or something. I planted them when Tess was at the hospital in Lamar giving birth. I also put up blue streamers because all along we’d thought the baby was going to be a boy and I’d bought the roll in advance. But the tagboard sign I did in pink letters: WELCOME HOME TESS AND BABY AMBER!

  The sign and streamers are in the burn barrel now—I stuffed them in there yesterday, after Tess drove off. If I turn a bit, I can see the streamers hanging over the edge of the black, sooty can. Every once in a while a breeze lifts them and they look like magical arms waving goodbye.

  “Maybe I should have saved those for your scrapbook,” I say to Amber.

  She blinks her hazy eyes at that and keeps staring at my white T-shirt like it’s the most interesting thing she ever saw. What gets me about her is that she clings to me like a tiny monkey. She’s got her tummy to mine, and her little fingers clutch onto my shirt and her little legs curl against my belly. It almost seems like if I let go—just dropped the hand that’s cupped around her tiny diaper—she’d stay attached to me somehow.

  I flick the cigarette butt out at the gravel and rub Amber’s back up and down, up and down. “Well, what the hell. We’ll be fine, won’t we? Basically, I can’t be any worse than Kay, and I guess I turned out all right, even with a mother like that.” I’m tilting my head down, saying this to her blond hair.

  Blond hair. Ridiculous. All along, I thought Amber was a boy and I figured he’d look like us. I was hoping he’d take after Tess especially, with her straight dark hair, tan skin, tall body—Tess who doesn’t need glasses, who’s got straight teeth and a true smile. Not like me with my glasses and crooked teeth and dull brown eyes and stupid thick, wavy hair—hair that sounds like a horse’s mane when I brush it.

  Amber, though, is fair, just like her father, Simon. She’s got blue eyes and pale blotchy skin, and like her father she seems too wispy and empty to be real. That’s how every day she’ll be reminding me: Libby, things just don’t turn out like you think they will. Daydream if you want, but expect the opposite to come true. And don’t go feeling sorry for your heart when it registers the difference.

  “Libby! You deaf or what? Damn.” Kay’s riding up on her horse, and only stupid Kay would be riding a horse. Every other ranch-hand around here drives a four-wheeler but no, not Kay, because Kay is Kay, and Kay says it’ll be a cold day in hell when she sits on anything as noisy and ugly as that.

  “Libby, I’ve been hollering. Didn’t you hear me?” She reins the horse in. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Are you crying?”

  “No.”

  “Because there’s no use in crying.”

  “That’s good, because I’m not crying.”

  “There isn’t any point.”

  There isn’t any point in talking to her, either, so I stare off into the sky behind her.

  She squints at me and sighs. Then she takes off her sunglasses and her beat-up fishing hat and slouches down on the horse like I’ve worn her out. She sits there a while, staring at me with that look that means that I’m a sorry excuse for a human and especially for a d
aughter. I look back. It’s her hair that makes her eyes look so green, because it’s more white than brown now, and she’s got it back in her usual ponytail, low down at the base of her neck, and the wisps hanging around her face are bright white, and I wonder if she knows how beautiful she is—or could be if she didn’t look so continually pissed off. It’s not just her face, it’s her whole body: ready to attack. She’s wearing a maroon T-shirt covered with bleach circles, and her Wranglers are splattered with manure, and even though she’s slouched down it looks like she’s going to leap up and have it out with the world.

  After she’s done staring at me, she puts her hat and sunglasses back on. “Come on over. Baxter decided to work cows after all. We need your help.”

  I tilt my head toward Amber.

  “Good god. Libby, you’re not the one who gave birth. People have been carrying on with their lives with babies since the beginning of time.” Then she adds, “We’ll put her in some shady spot.”

  The horse is dancing all over the place, and Kay jerks back on the reins so much that Luz rears back a bit. When she gets the horse quieted down, she says, “She doing all right?”

  I shrug.

  “Well, that kid’ll get her days and nights straightened out soon enough, then you’ll get some sleep. Luz, you barn-sour old thing, damn, cut it out!” Kay turns the horse in tight circles, fighting the antsy of the horse and the horse fighting back. Kay wins, and finally the horse stands quiet, flaring her nostrils but holding still.

  “Mom, I can’t take a newborn baby out with a bunch of cows.”

  “You sure as hell can. Go inside and put on some shoes and get Amber a sunbonnet—you keep a hat on that kid—and get over to Baxter’s.”

  I don’t say anything at all to that, but still she throws in, “Quit being such a snot.” Then, “Anyway, we’ve got the cows nearly done. Just help with the calves, just the record keeping. You can hold Amber on your lap. Or she can sleep in her car seat. Whatever, just hurry up.”

  Well, that’s what I imagined anyway—that I’d be like one of those women in Africa, like you see in magazines, with a baby strapped to me and the two of us doing everything together. So after Kay kicks Luz into a trot, I get us ready and drive over to Baxter’s. This is where Kay has been working as a ranch hand since we moved here, which was right after I was born, and which is why we get free rent in the old, falling-apart brown house that sits on the edge of Baxter’s land, at the corner of his alfalfa field.

  I find Kay and Baxter by the corrals, both leaning against the chute and talking over the head of some tame-looking cow that’s standing there, reaching her tongue into one nostril and then into the other. I can’t get over that, how funny cows look licking out their noses. It makes me love them, and that’s love for you—one little detail and your heart turns tender.

  I haul Amber and her clunky car seat over to Baxter and Kay.

  “Hey, little baby,” says Baxter, reaching down with a stubby finger to touch her nose. “Look at you, you wrinkly sweet thing, you were up all night, your grandma says. Now that ain’t no good. You be a good sleeper for your new ma, how about?” Amber flails her arm and watches all these words coming at her. Her right eye is squished down a bit, so it looks like she’s attempting a wink, or maybe like she’s already being sarcastic and making a face like I do when I’m thinking, As if, or, Yeah, right.

  “Pretty as can be,” Baxter says, backing up from her and looking at me.

  I snort. That’s a bit of a lie and we both know it. “She looks like a blond lizard, don’t she?”

  Baxter tilts his head, considering, and scratches at his white hair, shaved so close it looks like bristles. He’s got a tan face and green eyes, even lighter than Kay’s, and even today, even working cattle, he’s got on clean jeans and a soft blue western shirt with those silver snap buttons, and that’s why I like him, I guess, because he always looks tidy and put together.

  “Naw,” he says. “She looks like an angel. You look like an angel, smiling like that. Like a proud mother.”

  “Baxter, she doesn’t look nothing of the sort. She looks like a tired mother, scared shitless. Put her here, Libby.” Kay points to a little nook in the corral in between the chute and a water tank. “You have to be at work at four?”

  I nod yes to the four o’clock part, no to the dirt in the corral. “She’ll get kicked there.”

  “No cow’s gonna get past me into this corner.” Then she sighs. “Please don’t argue. Please try not to be such a brat. Please just do what I say for once.”

  I set Amber down. Kay scowls at me, I scowl back.

  Baxter watches us and then says, “She’ll be the youngest helper I’ve ever had. She’ll grow up tough. Probably spend a lifetime giving her guardian angel gray hairs.”

  Kay thrusts the record-keeping book at me and says, “Let’s get busy.”

  Baxter ignores her, though. “When my brother went to war, the Second World War, I asked my guardian angel to follow him. Promised I’d take extra special care of myself. That’s why my brother made it back, you see. He had two beautiful ladies watching out for him. And look here, now I do!” He spreads his arms out toward me and Kay. “No! I got three!” This time he’s raising his eyebrows at Amber and he’s got a big delighted smile on his face.

  What can I do except just roll my eyes at that, because that’s Baxter for you, crazy for sure, but in a too cheerful, hokey sort of way, which is the opposite of Kay’s sort of crazy. Most days I can’t take the either of them.

  “Libby, cow number is 56-X. Write it down,” Kay says.

  I move the syringes and bottles that are sitting on the edge of the stock tank so there’s room for me to sit down. I push my glasses up, open the record-keeping book, and take the pen from the edge, where it’s jammed in those rows of metal circles. I glance at the writing above to remind myself what it is I’m supposed to be writing down: cow number, sex, sire, vaccinations. Baxter needs these records so he can keep track of everything, even though he says the drought’s gonna cause him to sell off the herd anyway, and pretty soon there’s gonna be nothing left for him to record. In the notebook, he keeps a line called Miscellaneous Notes, which is my favorite thing to read, because it’s here that Baxter keeps track of things like who he’s treated for foot rot, who got a rattlesnake bite, what sort of coloring the calves from such-and-such a bull have, or even stuff like, “This cow looks downright sad,” or “Prone to mastitis,” or “Hooliganish,” or “Good mama.”

  The notes I leave for him; the rest I’m in charge of and so I get busy writing. Maybe this isn’t the most exciting way to be spending a morning, but Derek’s at work, Tess is suddenly gone, and standing at home with the baby was no good, so I guess it’s better than nothing.

  Baxter says, “Live so hard that you give your guardian angel gray hair, that’s how I see it. I like to imagine mine sometimes, blond hair streaked with gray, shaking her head at me and wishing she’d gotten assigned to someone else.”

  Kay gives a shot of 7-Way and dusts for mites, and Baxter punches a fly tag in the cow’s ear and rubs some ointment on a ringworm circle. As he works, he leans toward me and talks. “That’s what my mama always said. ‘Child,’ she’d say, ‘Your guardian angel must be exhausted by now. I know I am.’”

  I try to give Baxter a real smile, because he deserves that at least, and when he’s satisfied that I’ve been listening he and Kay get to work. For a long time there’s nothing but numbers being voiced into the air, flies buzzing, cows thrashing against the chute. One of Baxter’s peacocks comes walking in the corral, his tail floating out behind him, and Baxter’s donkey he-haws from somewhere far off. I think Baxter might have too much time on his hands; this place is always filled up with weird animals and it basically feels like a small zoo in the middle of nowhere.

  When I’m not writing, I watch Amber. She’s just a face, poking out of a blanket and mostly covered in a bonnet. She’s sleeping and her mouth is in the shape of a little O and
I hope she won’t grow up ugly and stupid like me. And maybe that blond hair will fall out and grow in dark—that’s what I’m hoping for. But I’d like it if her eyes stayed blue, even though the nurse at the hospital said they’d probably change.

  I try to catch the feeling going on inside me. Because catching feelings is something I try to do. I get real quiet and find what I’m feeling and then feel it. Sometimes it’s like, Fuck this!, and I let the zigzag anger crash through my whole body, even in my pelvis and feet and behind my eyeballs, and I feel like I’m going to fly apart. And sometimes it’s the opposite and I think I’m going to sink so deep into myself, like I’m empty, and I start to collapse into this nowhere space that just goes on and on and on. But this time I’m watching a new baby girl asleep, a red face and a white blanket, and the problem is I can’t tell what I feel. I want it to be a Yes, yes, yes! and a Love, love, love! but it’s not. But neither is it Oh shit, shit, shit! or Please no, please. Whatever it is, is darting around so fast that I can’t catch it, I’m just not fast enough.

  “Goddamnit, Baxter, hurry up here,” Kay says.

  “Guardian angels,” Baxter says. “Pay attention to them.”

  “She’s not listening to you,” Kay says. “So will you please give this cow her shot?”

  I turn and look at Baxter and wait until he’s pinched the skin on the cow’s shoulder and stuck in the needle. “Baxter,” I say. “Get serious. You don’t really believe in guardian angels. You don’t believe in that stuff.”

  I see a half smile flash across Kay’s face, because she’s always wondering too if Baxter is as dopey as he sounds or if he just wants to believe all the happy jabber that comes out of his mouth. It’s a fact of life: It really bothers people when somebody is just too damn cheery; pretty soon you’ve got to wonder about the depth of their thoughts.

  “Naw,” Baxter says after a while, his face falling a little. “But I used to. And I wish I did, because I sure could use one right about now.” His body pauses for a second, and then his eyes light up as usual. “And so could you. And so could that baby.”