Broken Arrow

“.... Some songs still get to me, how about you? Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow?”

Mike sat, staring at the email, deep in thought. He hadn’t heard from her in over 6 months, and here she was again, and the memories started flooding back.

He remembered that, all right. Robbie Robertson, one of his favorites. Just the other day he had heard it and thought that she probably wouldn’t remember that one, although it was always his favorite. He was wrong about a lot of things.

“I'm coming to town this weekend with my mom and brother.” A chill ran down his spine. Would he see her, on the off chance they crossed paths? Should he reply and ask if she wanted to meet for a coffee in a public place? Not a good idea, he thought. He replied, after a lot of reservations, with a nice friendly update, but made no reference to her coming to town.

Later that day, alone on the road, he pulled out the Robbie Robertson CD and played the third song.

Who else is gonna bring you, a broken arrow,
Who else is gonna bring you, a bottle of rain?

Shouldn’t have done that, he thought. The tears ran down his face as he drove down the highway oblivious to the traffic streaming past.

Later on that weekend he drove his boys across town to the hockey arena for their practice. He dropped them off early and went to get a coffee before coming to see them skate. The evening was black and the rain was threatening to start up again. Coming back to the ice arena, he drove through the maze of unfamiliar streets and noticed a red Mazda just like her car. It was parked on the street in front of a tiny old house in Chesterton, the low-rent part of town. Lights adorned the eaves and a Christmas tree glowed in the window. It wasn’t that unusual of a car, there were dozens the same model and colour around town, but he knew it was hers. He stopped and pulled a U-turn without even thinking and parked across the street to have a closer look. There were people in the living room window, watching a hockey game on TV. He got back in his car, drove up the street and parked. Got out and walked by the house and car. There were two people in the front yard, talking. A man and a woman. It was dark. It was her, he was sure of it; the hair combed high above her forehead, like a country singer. Did she see him? No. He kept walking, feeling a fist tighten in his stomach, got in his car and drove back to the arena. He hadn’t seen her in a year and a half, and there she was, just standing there, so close.

The boys were still waiting to get out on the ice. He waited with them for a bit, then headed for the exit, telling them, “I just gotta go out to the car for a minute.” He quickly drove back, it was only a couple of blocks away, tore a page from the steno pad he kept under his driver’s seat and grabbed a pen. He neatly folded the page, parked up the street, quickly walked up and stuck it under the windshield wiper.

He rushed back to the arena just in time to see his boys take shots on an open net, the hockey moms and dads huddled in the bleachers, offering loud tips to their offspring. He felt relieved as he drove them home after the practice.

On the scrap of paper he had drawn two lines. An arrowhead on one line, feathers on the other.