Lyrics for Rock Stars

By Heather Mateus Sappenfield

Lyrics for Rock Stars is a collection of seventeen stories―some historical, some contemporary- all set in the West. Involving skiers, ranchers, cyclists, suffragettes, tourists, super models, dead pigs, burro racers, religious beet farmers, immigrant miners, scorned lovers, penitent centenarians, and musicians, they are as varied as the

• Language: English
• Publisher: V Press LC
• Release date: Sep 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781733048859

Heather Mateus Sappenfield

Heather Mateus Sappenfield's writing explores the adventures that fill life, often in the Rocky Mountain landscape that has been her lifelong home. She's fascinated by the many selves each of us becomes in our varied roles throughout the day (some we like, some we do not), and her writing often delves into the internal adventure of juggling those multiple selves. Among the recognitions she's received are the Danahy Fiction Prize, the Arthur Edelstein Prize, three Pushcart Prize nominations, and finalist for the Flannery O'Connor Award, the Kraken Prize, and the Colorado Book Awards.

Book preview

INDIAN PRAYER

Get up! Mom said that night. Her voice was stern but quiet because my brother Paul slept on the opposite side of our room. In the light from down the hall, war paint sliced across his cheeks and forehead. We’d run our fingers through the fireplace ashes and made lines with soot. My face matched his. I’d also braided a feather into my long hair, and as I sat up, it fluttered across my arm.

Mom walked to the door. I darted up to follow her but stubbed my little toe on the coffee-table book I’d been reading before bed. Indians of America was filled with old photographs of actual Indians, and for Paul, who was in first grade, and me, in third, it was our water and air. We’d bought it at a garage sale with our allowance and made my father proud because he said somewhere back in our family tree there was Indian blood. Mom laughed at that, but he called me his Indian princess. I hunched over, cradling my toe.

Come on, Drusilla! Mom said and started down the hall.

I limped behind her, rubbing my eyes. Snores drifted from my baby sister Clary’s room. As we approached the light from my parents’ room, Mom’s filmy negligee swirled, and it looked like she walked naked in a billow of smoke. Its beauty stole my breath, until I saw her head, which was contorted and lumpy with curlers. From behind, you couldn’t see her belly was ballooned with my new brother.

Mom stepped into her room, waddled to the bed, and maneuvered in. She burrowed against propped-up pillows and sighed like she’d walked a hundred miles. I wondered if my father slept scrunched on the living room couch again and wished I could flee downstairs to curl against him.

Mom pulled Grandma’s quilt over her belly. She hated Grandma, but that quilt had draped her bed for as long as I could remember. Her breasts weren’t covered, and they showed through her negligee. Her nose and eyes were swollen red.

I need some company. She studied me like I was a problem. Sliding her feet to the bed’s center, she nodded toward its end. Well, come on! Get up here!

So I did, but I leaned against the footboard. I sat Indian-style, my knees straining my nightgown. Beside me were two quilt buttes from Mom’s feet. The lamp on the nightstand cast a buttery glow.

Read this. She tossed a letter that somersaulted and landed near her knees. Its two folds propped together like a long tent, but I didn’t want to touch it. Real Indians didn’t read.

Read it! Mom said.

I stretched forward and picked it up. Written loops coiled along the paper’s lines. I was just learning cursive, so I couldn’t decipher it, but I recognized my father’s stylish penmanship. Is it Daddy? I whispered.

Daddy? Some Daddy. He’s gone! Mom rubbed her belly the way she scrubbed the kitchen sink, and she yanked a tissue from a box on the nightstand.

Where is he? I set the note beside me.

Hell, I don’t know! Hell is what he deserves! Clenching her teeth, she kicked her feet like one of Paul’s tantrums, making an earthquake that bounced me, and the note crumpled beneath my leg. I leaned away to keep from banging against the footboard.

Before bed, when I’d looked at the book, I’d studied a photo of a group of Indians who’d trudged the Trail of Tears only to arrive miserable on the reservation in Oklahoma. They seemed human raisins, thirsty for all the things they’d lost, but every face stared down the camera with a steel chin and eyes like poems.

The next photo was of some Sioux Indians on a different reservation but with the same faces. I’d run my finger along the image of an old woman who looked brittle. When I touched her hand, I stopped. She had no fingers. On either hand. At first I thought I’d made a mistake, that maybe they were there in the folds of her skirt, so I got Paul’s magnifying glass to check. No fingers. Only thumbs. Her hands ended in nubs like swan feet. All the other Indians in the photo were missing at least one finger. The caption said some Plains Indians followed a ritual of severing fingers as a sign of mourning for loved ones. The little finger meant a child. The ring finger, a wife. The index finger, a parent. Closing the book, I’d pressed my palms together like in prayer. I’d turned my pressed hands side to side, studying how they were like mirrors. Grandma always wanted us to pray, but the topic of God made Mom cuss. I’d fallen asleep wondering if prayers worked the same without fingers.

The phone rang. We both flinched.

Hello. As Mom listened, her mouth clamped the way it did when she talked to my father, but it changed to a puckery o, and her eyes squeezed shut. Clary coughed from down the hall, and I hoped she’d wake up to distract Mom.

No! she said. No! Frank, listen, shooting them won’t solve anything.

Hugging my knees, I wondered who Frank was. I remembered another photo of a battle with a soldier pointing his rifle at Indians who stood in front of a teepee. I pictured my father from a year ago when he’d brought us to this site for our new home. He’d lifted his arms, spun, grinning at all the trees, and announced, This is paradise!

Mom had lumbered up then, balancing Clary on one hip and leading Paul with her other hand. Here? she’d said. This is the middle of nowhere! Who will the kids play with?

My father looked at her like she’d stabbed him. Each other. They’ll run through this forest like Indians.

Right! Mom laughed.

Pulling me to his side, he rubbed the top of my head. Dru and me, we’re our own tribe. Look at our olive skin. We’re not like the rest of you.

Mom flinched. Paul and Clary resembled pale owls with round eyes and little circle mouths, faces that branded in my memory. I stared at Mom to avoid them, but she wore the kind of frown that can’t be taken back. My father’s eyes glimmered.

After that he often said, Dru and me, we’re our own tribe. Each time, to keep from seeing Paul and Clary, I’d watch Mom wince. After a while I started believing I was a princess, and I’d lift my chin and watch them all. Clary would shout in baby talk. Paul would gaze at the table, or his toes, or scuff away.

Okay, Mom said into the phone. I know. Her voice went high at the end of know, and she snuffled and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Call me if you hear anything. Thank you. Goodbye. She hung up. My backbone pushed so hard against the footboard I was sure I’d leave dents.

Your father’s run off with some woman from an art gallery near his office. That was her husband. She left a note, too.

My father had taken us to that gallery just the week before. First we’d toured his law office. We’d admired his vast, shiny desk and his floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out at glinting skyscrapers, and we’d marveled at his importance. On his desk was a photo of our family, and I’d studied how my father and I seemed superior to Mom, Paul, and Clary with their blond hair and fair skin. Then he’d walked us down the block to the gallery. He’d shown us the paintings and statues and introduced us to Gloria, all with a proprietary air. There was a marble statue of a woman with a baby cradled in her arm that was so beautiful, I’d reached out to touch it before I was aware I had. It was cool and smooth beneath my fingertips, and I’d looked to my father, but Gloria stood between us. The disapproval pinching her face made me yank back my hand. She gave us Jolly Ranchers, but her smile was crooked as she held out the bowl. Daddy stood there in his suit, grinning like he was proud of us kids. I could still taste that apple candy as I sat there on my parents’ bed and pictured Daddy and Gloria zooming away in his Mustang.

Mom was pretty, with her wide forehead and dimples when she smiled, but lately, all she did was scowl. It seemed my father was too good for her, and I concluded that he’d had to escape, even though it’d just about killed him to leave his princess. It might take a while, but I knew he would see through Gloria, sneak back, and rescue me.

Her husband says he’s going to find them and shoot them. That would serve him right.

I rolled my knuckles against the bed.

"He left you, princess. He’s gone. She snorted. Do you think this is the first woman he’s had an affair with? She held up her hand, fingers fanned wide. Five! He never gives you a second thought! She looked through me to someplace else. I wondered what affair meant. Mom’s voice went softer as she said, Only this time he wrote that, she pointed to the crumpled note, so he’s not coming back. Even if he does, I won’t let him."

I stared at Grandma’s looping stitches on the quilt. Can I go to bed now?

"It’s me now, Dru! Can’t you stay with me? Can’t someone care about goddamn me?"

The stitches around one velvety squares had unraveled, and its corner had crumpled. I smoothed it flat.

Come over here and comfort me like a good goddamn daughter! She slapped the bed beside her.

I stared at the square.

Now!

Her voice startled me to my hands and knees, and I crawled over her feet and slunk up the bed’s far side. I slid under the covers.

Mom shook her head like I’d done something wrong. She put the box of tissues on her belly and stared at the air. You’re my kids, she said. Mine!

No, I thought. Daddy will come. The bed shook with her crying, but I kept my hands tight in my lap and imagined her as a perilous badger. A sliver of fury at my father slipped up my throat, but I swallowed it back. He’d had to escape.

I dreamed a dagger pierced my arm but woke to find it was only the corner of the tissue box. I rubbed the dent. Mom slept sitting up, the curlers cocking her head at a crazy angle and her mouth open wide. Her arms were crossed on her high belly, hands clenched in fists. The one closest to me looked like a swan foot.

I slithered from the covers and tiptoed away. I crept to my room and stood on my bed. I got the wood chair from our desk, put it on my bed, climbed onto it, and wobbled, arms out as I straightened. This was how we looked to God, I decided. Paul slept with his mouth open, snorting at the end of each breath. Daddy’s still with him and Clary, I thought. I wished I were a dream walker, so I could sneak into their slumber and have my father longer.

I leaned forward to hear Clary’s snores, teetered, tumbled to the blankets, and bounced. The chair hit the floor, and my bow and arrow, which I always slept with, clattered down the wall beside the bed.

Paul bolted up. What are you doing?

Nothing.

Are too.

I shrugged. Want to go hunting?

He scratched the back of his head. It’s night.

I know.

Mommy will get mad.

She never said we couldn’t.

He yawned, leaned over, and squinted down the hall at the light from Mom’s room.

She’s asleep, I said. I’m going. The wall was cool against my cheek as I reached down, groped for my bow, and pulled it out. By the time I got to the stairs, Paul was behind me. He grabbed my arm as we neared the living room. Daddy—

Shh!

The empty couch seemed to shout loneliness.

We stopped at the back door and wriggled our feet into our tied sneakers. Paul’s lips were pressed tight.

She’s sleeping, Paul. Don’t be such a baby.

Outside, a full moon blazed low in the sky and stretched shadows across the ground. The leaves that still clutched the trees clacked against a crisp breeze as we prowled below them. Paul and I paused. We breathed. We’d decided the air outside the house tasted better. I picked up a leaf, and it crackled as I rubbed my thumb along its veins.

What are we hunting? Paul said.

I shrugged, dropping the leaf. The moon seemed to bulge from the sky. Lifting my hand toward it, I realized that with this new baby, I’d never once touched Mom’s belly. With Paul and Clary, I’d held both my hands there. Mom’s skin would stretch warm, tight, smooth beneath my fingers. Sometimes I could feel her pulse as I waited for their kicks. There’d be that little jab, like a punch, and Mom and I would giggle. I fanned out my fingers. Mom’s voice echoed in my head: Five!

Why are you doing that?

Why do you ask so many questions! I sounded like Mom.

Sorry.

I rubbed my eyes. Badgers. Okay? We’re hunting badgers.

Badgers? You can’t eat badgers!

Okay. Deer then.

Deer’s good. Look! Over there!

We crouched low and scurried from trunk to trunk toward the stump we always pretended was a deer because it had branches like antlers reaching from one end. We loved how the rubber suction on our arrow ends sometimes stuck. Paul and I split to hide behind two trees, bows ready. I watched him pull his string tight and heard his arrow thunk. I pulled my string back and aimed just behind the deer’s shoulder at its heart. My stomach did a roller-coaster flip because, for a minute, it felt like I was shooting at my father. I heard Mom: Serve him right. I gulped against it and let go. Thunk.

Good shot! Paul cried and dashed out. He stopped. Both our arrows had stuck, and in the moonlight that stump seemed real. We were frozen by that dead thing we’d killed.

Come on, I said, but Paul didn’t move. Taking his hand, I led him toward the deer-stump, but he yanked back his arm and threw down his bow.

I hate him! He jumped, and the bow cracked under his feet.

Paul!

He’s gone! Paul stomped on his bow, then ground his shoe against it. He kept jumping and grinding, and I simply watched till he stopped and his chin fell to his chest. His shadow stretched long behind him.

Is it Daddy? I whispered.

Paul nodded.

How— I knew Paul did better if you waited. I remembered his pressed lips, how he’d been cranky all day.

An owl called, Whoot. Whoot. Whoot.

Paul spoke from his chest. This morning he came in our room. Before he went to work. You and Mom were still sleeping. He said he had his car all packed. He said we might not see him for a while.

You didn’t tell me!

Paul nudged his bow with his shoe. I tried a little bit ago. Besides, it would’ve hurt your feelings.

"He had to leave!"

Why?

Because of Mom.

Paul’s chin pierced his chest as he shook his head. Mommy’s nice. He squinted at me. You’re mean, Dru. You and Daddy. Mean! His top lip disappeared inside his bottom one. He spun and marched toward the house.

I grabbed his arm, but he kept walking, dragging me along. I’m not mean!

Are too!

Am not!

Are too! Serves you right!

What?

That he didn’t even tell you bye.

I let go and stopped dead in my tracks. Paul seemed like a soldier as he walked stiffly to the door and closed it behind him without looking back.

I wobbled to the deer-stump and kneeled. I petted it and imagined smooth fur under my palm. When I pulled back my hand, the moon cast its shadow against the trunk. I held my hand above the deer-stump and petted it with my shadow. My shadow fingers fluttered over the bumps while my real fingers were still. I pressed my hands together like a prayer, and there was no room for a shadow between them. Instead, one shadow stretched from both.

Our arrows popped as I pulled them off. I picked up my bow and walked to Paul’s. It lay in three pieces. I reached for it but stopped.

Clary could know, too, I thought. My legs gave out, and I landed on my knees. My nightgown bunched against my butt, and scratchy leaves and sparse brittle grass crumpled under my shins. It came to me that after he spoke to Paul, my father looked right at me and he didn’t even say bye. I pictured him standing over me in the early sun shining through our room’s window, his shadow stretching across me, and me not even feeling it.

Liar! I said to Paul. Liar! Liar! Liar! By the last word, I was shouting at my father. The owl lit from its tree and glided low overhead. Its shadow fluttered across me. Liar, I whispered.

I sat on the floor in the hall outside our room till I heard Paul’s snores. I snuck in, picked up the book, balancing it against my stomach like a tray, and tiptoed down the dark stairs. The kitchen glowed from the moon and a nightlight near the sink. I slid the book