Secret Bird
by Politic X

Part 5
See part 0 for header information.


She looks spectacular tonight, in her piece of a
blouse and piece of a skirt.  Monica's the kind of
person who looks different from outfit to outfit.
Wearing red makes her look older and more serious,
both blue and yellow soften her and make her seem
more vulnerable, and she's like a chameleon in
black, either hip or all business, depending on the
cut of the outfit.  And in brown she looks
devastating.  Brown suede jacket over a beige
ribbed cashmere turtleneck.  I've seen her in this
outfit only once, but it was all I could do to keep
my hands off her, even though the circumstances at
the time were much too dire for me to have been
thinking about sex.  I swear, one day I'm going to
walk into that basement while Doggett's at lunch
and I'm going to push her chair back from her desk
and push her chair back and push her chair and push
her and push and push and push until I'm inside and
she's wrapped tight around me.

"Dana."

She's breathtaking.  I don't know who I'm kidding.
It doesn't matter if she's gay or bi.  She can have
anyone in the room and she doesn't even know it.
Her complete lack of guile makes her all the more
beautiful and all the more wanted.

"Do you need to take a break?"

Yes, I need a break.  Feelings are overwhelming me,
and I don't know how to deal with them.  Monica's
looking at me with such gentle concern that I'm not
sure I can stand it.  I'm not accustomed to such a
caring person being up close or in my face or
holding me.  I pull away from her a bit abruptly.
"I need to sit this one out, Monica."  I try
smiling, but it's more of a grimace.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, but she's the woman of my dreams, and I've
waited my entire life for her, and this is too good
to be true.  I've got to get out of here before I
find out that I'll have to love her from afar.  She
watches me go.

It's air I need, but I head to the kitchen instead,
where the alcohol is.  I find a woman emptying the
refrigerator.  She removes a bottle of vodka and a
twelve-pack of Heineken to grab something from the
back.  She places the items on the counter, and
even though she's turned away from me, there's no
one else here with long, strawberry-blonde hair.
"Hi," I say, taking the cold bottle of vodka and
pouring myself a shot.

Stephanie stands with a lime in her hand and
studies me.  "Hi yourself.  How ya doin' there?"

"Fine."

Her eyes run all over me, like they've done before,
and she proceeds to cut the lime in half.  "Look."
Stephanie seems to search for words.  Here comes
the warning.  "Monica thinks the world of you, you
know."  She rummages around in a lower cabinet and
pulls out some tequila and a rather large shot
glass.

I cut a glance at her and down my shot.

"She's a special girl.  I don't want to see her
hurt."  Stephanie pours salt on her hand, licks,
drinks, and bites the lime.  She doesn't even
flinch, which makes me think that she must drink
her tequila this way just for the drama of it.

I pour myself a vodka tonic.  I need to be numb,
and I need it pretty quickly, so the gin I've
nursed all evening won't do, because I can't drink
gin very fast.  Vodka is a different story.  "I
won't be getting close enough to hurt her."

She rolls her eyes at me.  "If I had a dime for
every time I've heard that."  Her voice is bitter
and her face is hard.  She seems to size me up, to
be judging whether or not I'm worth her effort.
"Have you seen her place?"  She waves her arm out.
"I mean, really seen it?"

"I've seen most of it."

"Yeah, but have you *seen* it?"  Stephanie picks up
a small stone statue from the counter.  It rests
very close to the gift I brought with me that
Monica has yet to open.  "Well, this is a bad
example because I don't know who it's from."  She
replaces it and picks up a ceramic jar that's
nearby.  "See this?"  I move over to her and look.
"A woman who lived near Teotihuacn -" Stephanie
slurs the word horribly - "Did this for Monica when
she was in the hospital for so long that time."
The jar is pretty and simple, blue with little
white birds etched in.  "There are things like this
everywhere."  She replaces it and pours another
shot.

"When was she in the hospital?  What happened?"

She turns to me and touches my arm.  She seems to
soften a bit.  "Jesus.  You're in love with her and
you don't know a damn thing about her."

I'm not going to acknowledge this.

"She was in an accident when she was seven.  She
has problems with her back all the time."  She
repeats her tequila routine.  "Damn bum back."

"What sort of accident?"

Stephanie shrugs.  "Never would say.  You know, the
chick's wide open, but there are a couple of things
she just won't talk about.  Sometimes I think she
has a lot of repressed stuff going on."  She puts
away the tequila, rinses her glass and tosses the
lime in the garbage under the sink.  "I mean, she's
the most together person I've ever known, but she's
got some issues she's never dealt with."  She stops
short while returning the Heineken to the
refrigerator and eyes the vodka and then my vodka
glass with raised eyebrows.  "You finished with
this?"

I shake my head, no, and I don't want to ask, but I
do.  "What kind of issues?"

"This isn't Monica Reyes 101."  She reaches into
the refrigerator and pulls out a Corona.  "Look
around some.  Most of the little knick-knacks and
stuff you'll find were made for her by her
friends."  She smiles.  "She has a ton of friends.
There are people from here to Mexico that love that
woman."  Her smile broadens.  She looks proud.
"You need to check out the wool tapestry hanging in
her bedroom - a little blind boy did it for her.
There's something about Monica.  Everybody wants to
give her gifts of love."  She nods toward the gift
I brought and begins walking away.

"Like the Cheron?"

Stephanie freezes for a split second, then turns
back to me.  "Yeah, like Marty's wolf.  Most of his
art was for her."

"He died, right?  Motorcycle accident?"

"Yeah.  A few months ago.  It was bizarre."  She's
still looking at me, and she takes a step forward.
"She didn't tell you, did she?"

"What?"

"Marty died a couple of days before your son was
born."

I nod, but I don't understand what she's trying to
tell me.  "And?"

"It was a huge loss for her."  She punctuates this
statement with a pause.  "Everyone expected her to
be at the funeral, and she wasn't there.  Everyone
expected her to investigate his death, and she
didn't."

Ah, I get it.  "Because she was with me."

Stephanie nods.  "That's right."

"And you hold this against me?"

Stephanie studies me.  "Hold it against you?  No.
Expect you to live up to that kind of devotion?
Hell, yeah."

"Why did you need her to look into his death?  What
happened?"

She shakes her head.  "Like I said, this isn't a
history lesson here.  It's Monica's story to tell.
She'll have to tell you."  She waves her hand.
"All I know is that it was awful and strange, and
that he's dead and it shouldn't have happened."
She's still staring at me.  "You need to be good to
her.  If you're half as good to her as she is to
you, I won't complain.  But if you ever hurt her,
I'll drive seventeen hours just to kick your ass."

She swigs her Corona and leaves.

------------

Twenty minutes later, I'm still nursing my vodka,
and I'm finally growing numb.  I took Stephanie's
advice and looked around at Monica's things, and I
think this experience anesthetized me more than the
alcohol.

She was right, there are tokens of love all over
the loft.  Pottery, poetry, a tapestry, wooden
carvings... more things than I could believe
possible.  But it's the photos that get to me.
They're everywhere, with different people in each
one.  Her friends are so varied in age and race
that I can't even begin to discern which pictures
are of her parents, if any of them are.  There are
some lucky people who get to be framed more than
once - Stephanie and Raney are the ones I
recognize.  There are several more, and two of them
haunt me.

One is a child, dark-haired and dark-eyed, who
looks to be not quite old enough for school.  She's
in many pictures, from her birth to the one that's
apparently the most recent - it lies without a
frame on a stack of bills on Monica's massive desk.
I try not to study it too carefully, because it's
similar to the pictures of Monica from her
childhood, and this alarms me and reminds me that I
know nothing about her past.

The other person who worries me is a man.  He's
captured in almost as many pictures as the girl.
He's dark-haired and dark-eyed, too, and looks to
be of Native American heritage.  His thick,
straight hair touches his shoulders and he's at a
football game with Stephanie, Raney, Monica, and
some other people who appear to belong to their
group, and his arm is around Monica's waist, and
she's laughing so hard that her eyes squint closed.
He's in another photo in black and white, seriously
staring off into space, his white shirt a nice
contrast to his deeply tanned skin.  Desert is the
background for this one.  And then he's rappelling
down the side of a mountain, and I know it's him,
because there's an inset of a close-up.

The oldest picture is from their college days, and
Stephanie - who looks incredible in jeans and a
sweatshirt, no makeup, dark blonde hair pulled
loosely in a ponytail - holds one blonde toddler
and Monica another, and the dark man is staring at
Monica with pure love on his face.

There's another photograph, and this one is
strange.  It's late afternoon, and there are
several people standing on the wooden porch of a
small white cottage.  Two tall, lanky teenagers
stand off to the side.  They have long, blonde hair
and cigarettes dangling from their hands, and
they're very pretty boys, but in a very unkempt
way.  They're trying to come across as nonchalant,
staring at the grown-ups in the picture, but both
appear nervous.  One of the adults they're gazing
at is Stephanie, who's their mother, I'm thinking,
because I see a resemblance.  She's turned to Raney
with her hands on her hips and a strong look of
concern on her face.  Raney seems to be trying to
placate her, his arms open.  The dark man is
standing in front of the porch, his hand pushing
his hair back.  He, too, seems to be worried about
something.  His brow is wrinkled and he's frowning.
And all of this is bizarre enough - especially when
I wonder who the photographer is and how that
person came to capture such a strange moment -
without Monica being in it.  But she is in it, and
something inside of me crumbles.  I think it's my
heart breaking.

Monica's leaned against a column, placid, her eyes
closed.  She's wearing jeans and a loose blouse,
and her hair is long and pushed back with a
headband.  There's a laceration on her face.  It's
small, but noticeable.  The dark-haired little girl
has on a colorful dress, and her arms are wrapped
tight around Monica's legs, but this doesn't mean
the child is hers.  The child clings to her and
looks at the camera fearfully, but this doesn't
mean the child is hers.

And on this black and white picture is blue ink
handwriting that I think I recognize as Monica's:
"The last time."

As disturbing as this picture is, there's one that
bothers me more.  The dark-haired, dark-eyed man is
on a large horse with Monica, her hair long and her
face radiant.  His arm comes from behind, circling
her waist and reaching up, and his palm is over her
heart.  I stare at this photo for a long time
before moving on.

I know who he is.  His artwork seems to be
concentrated in the living area, and it's what I
see people admiring time and again, not for its
form, but with the awe that comes from touching
something that the dead have crafted.  This man is
Marty Cheron, and his arm circles around Monica's
waist and snakes up to her heart and holds her.

And now I'm numb.  I'm watching Monica visit her
friends, laughing and talking.  She can't belong to
one group of people without someone tugging at her
to join them.  I'm not sure I've ever witnessed
such popularity, so I prop against the kitchen
counter and watch her from this almost hidden
vantage point.

Stephanie's pulling at her this time, and they're
on the dance floor again, and Monica has Stephanie
by the waist.  Stephanie is bending backwards,
backwards until she's arching up in the most
beautiful way, and suddenly it seems very sexual.
The way that Monica holds her, propelling her up
and then back again, causes my blood pressure to
skyrocket; my face is aflame.  I'm so jealous that
I could march out there to the dance area and
separate those two in one very swift move.  I pull
out the vodka instead, and pour myself another
drink and breathe.  And I pull a beer out of the
fridge and open it, and I'm about to go interrupt
them, but my hands will be full, so there's no
danger of me embarrassing her.

They're still dancing, but Monica sees me and stops
short.  Stephanie whirls around at the look on
Monica's face, then pats her butt.  "Later,
'gator," she says and she's gone.

-----------

Dana's gaze is direct and intense.  "Having a good
time?"  Her voice is tight.  She's holding a beer
and what I guess is another gin and tonic.

"I should be asking you that."  I squeak.  I'm in
high school.  I'm the dorky yearbook editor and I'm
talking to the Beta Club president, who also
happens to be Homecoming Queen.  My hands feel
clammy.

Dana nods.  "Nice people.  Nice place."  She hands
me the beer.  "Nice host."  My hands shake as I
take it.  Her fingers brush mine.  "I'm going to
get some air.  Care to join me?"

I don't think it's a question at all.  I don't
think she's going to allow "no" for an answer.
Part of me wants to test this theory.  It's not the
part of me that has a voice, though.  My heart is
thudding.  "Sure."

She walks to the front door, and I walk behind her,
feeling very much like a schoolgirl.  I stop her at
the closet so we can get our coats, but she shakes
her head at hers.  "I won't need it."

"It's colder than -"

"I won't need it," she says tersely.

I put mine on and we walk out my door and into the
hall.  She's heading to the front of the building,
but I touch her elbow.  "Come this way," I murmur.
I lead her up a wide staircase to the roof.

A cool breeze slaps us when we push the heavy door
open.  I smell smoke, and not just cigarette smoke.
Somebody's brought weed up here.  I could stand to
be taken down a notch, my nerves calmed, so I
inhale as deeply as I can without Dana noticing.

She glances back at the crowd suspiciously as we
move to the opposite side of the roof.
"Stephanie's friends, mostly," I tell her.  They're
actually her exes - three of them, anyway - but I'm
not going to tell Dana this.  Stephanie never dates
anyone for long, and it's always about sex, never
love.  There's only one person she loves, and he's
a preacher man, and she thinks she's so unworthy of
him that she tries to prove this to him over and
over again.  He won't ever leave her side, though,
that's what she doesn't get.  He's in love with
her, too.

"You went to college together - you and Stephanie?"

I nod and lean against a short wall.  The roof is
lined with these parapets, giving the old school
building an almost fortress-like appearance.  "I
met her in college.  She was different from anyone
else I'd ever met.  She had two kids in diapers
when she started.  She's your age."

(Continued in part 6)