God's Country

Miranda saw Rick again first thing in the morning, before going to check into the agency. It was more convenient that way, she told herself. He lived relatively close, and since he depended on her to get up and start his day, it seemed more respectful to see him as soon as she could, and not leave him stinking in bed until midday. Also, Miranda was hoping to avoid questions from the other nurses. She didn’t want to have to admit that they’d been pretty much right.

The whole family was up and about this time. A tired-looking older woman sat on the couch in front of the TV, barely nodding when Miranda introduced herself. Donny was mopping the kitchen floor, a blue-flowered apron tied over his bare chest. A gorgeous young girl, heavily pregnant, sat sprawled in a chair at the kitchen table, watching him. A dirty toddler in a saggy diaper stood near her, one tiny finger jammed up her nose.
Miranda heard more voices as she walked back to Rick’s room. She knocked, then opened the door and a heavy cloud of smoke whacked her in the face. Five or six young men sat or stood around, passing a bong and drinking 16 oz. cans of Bud Light. She recognized the one with the round face who had been passed out on the couch the previous day.

Rick shooed them out of the room. They lumbered past her, not meeting her eyes. One looked startlingly like Rick, tall and handsome, with a long braid like Donny’s. Another brother, she surmised. She closed the door after them and regarded Rick.

"What did I tell you about doing drugs?"

He rolled his eyes. "Pot isn’t drugs. It’s medicinal, man. Don’t you read the papers?"

"If you were dying of a painful, incurable cancer it would be medicinal. You don’t have any feeling below the waist and there’s nothing wrong with you above it except for the billions of dying brain cells, which you can’t afford to lose."

He scowled. "I didn’t know when you were coming."

"I talked to you 20 minutes ago." She crossed to the window and threw it open to let out the smoke. "No excuses, Rick. I told you the rules."

"So you’re just going to let me die now?" It wasn’t hard to discern the desperation beneath the defensiveness.

"I figure you’re testing me to see what my limits are. Fine. This is our first week, so I’ll cut you some slack this one time. But don’t think I’ll just let things slide. Don’t blow this, Rick. Not on purpose." He stared down at his lap. "Are we clear?"

"Yeah," he muttered.

"All right, let’s get started." The routine went faster today, and Miranda didn’t wash his hair. A couple times a week should be sufficient, with one dry shampoo in between.

"Is that your mother in the living room?"

"Yeah."

"Where’s your dad?"

"Dead. Shot in his car. We have a blood feud with the Palas."

"I’m sorry," Miranda said, out of her depth. "I met your brother Donny yesterday," she continued after a short pause, spreading lotion on his legs. "And one of the guys who just left looks just like you. Is that your brother, too?"

"Yeah. Michael. My twin brother. And the little fat one is my brother Tooter."

"Who were those other guys?"

"The big fat one is my cousin, Gus. And then Randy, he lives just down the way."

"There was a girl out in the kitchen, very pretty and very pregnant."

"That’s Sandy, my girlfriend," he said. Miranda fought to control her face and not ask rude questions. "We’re in a fight cuz she fucked Donny." Ah.

"And the little girl?"

"My daughter, Lily." His face softened.

Christ, she thought. Sandy didn’t look like she could be more than 17. Miranda smoothed the sheet and moved to his backside wounds, which were unfortunately bathed in a bad case of diarrhea.

"It’s the drinking and the pot that does this to your system," she said objectively.

"I know," he said, both defensive and embarrassed. "I don’t like it." He hesitated. "But if I don’t, the guys think I’m a pussy. I gotta be a man," he said.

"Is that why you have the gun?" Miranda said.

"Self-defense." His long-fingered hands fumbled in the sheet, keeping it over the front of his lap.

"Blood feuds."

"Something like that." He laughed, a short, ugly sound. "It’s fucking violent here. Not like your nice little housey."

"What do you know about where I live?"

"Nothin’."

"Right."

She left him in bed, at his request, not dressed, but under a clean sheet. It was August hot, and he didn’t want to have more layers on than necessary. She spent a few minutes setting up the fan for him and cleaning up his room. She came across a sketchbook on a lower shelf of the bedstand.

"What’s this?" she asked, holding it up.

"Oh, nothin. Just mine." He held out his hand for it.

"Can I see?" His hand dropped.

"I guess." She sat down in his wheelchair and thumbed through it. Strong charcoal sketches of the family, the house. Farther back in the book, the sketches grew more abstract, more whimsical. Strange spirit creatures and curiously flattened perspectives. She grew absorbed in them, going through the pages more and more slowly.

"These are wonderful," she said. "You’re very talented." She stood up and handed him the book, which he tucked under the covers and out of sight. He ducked his head away and didn’t reply.

"See you tomorrow," she said. He jerked his chin but didn’t meet her eyes.

Most of the nurses were out on their rounds by the time she made it into the office, but Brenda was there doing some paperwork between patients.

"So, how was it?" she said, her drawn-on eyebrows lifted.

"Rick? He’s fine," Miranda said, pulling out her patient roster and schedule for the week.

"Fine."

"That’s what I said."

Brenda shook her head and settled her plump rear more comfortably into the barely padded chair, bending back over her desk. "I’ll ask you again in a month."

Miranda smiled and went into her supervisor Roberta’s office. Roberta was sixty and spare, with cropped gray hair and a nun’s manner.

"Sorry to keep saddling you with all the bad ones, Mir," she said. "It’s just that you’re so good with them."
"I don’t mind," said Miranda, meaning it. "I enjoy a challenge." She paused. "Although even I won’t cry when Mrs. Brown finally goes."

"I check the obits daily, praying for God’s great mercy." She shuffled some papers. "I think you’re pretty full up now, aren’t you?"

"Yes, especially if I’m seeing Rick every day."

"What’s he doing on weekends?"

"What? Oh, I haven’t asked him. You know he lives really close to me. I could probably take him as a private, if he wants to do it that way."

"You’re going to see Rick Fuentes seven days a week?" Roberta folded her arms. "How’s your mom doing, Mir?"

"She’s been smoking for 40 years, Roberta. Do the math."

"You’re going to take on her care, too, aren’t you?"

"I’m taking her to the doctor on Friday," said Miranda. "Will you sign off on my schedule?" Roberta took the paper and signed it without looking.

"Mir, you’re one of my best nurses. I don’t want you burning yourself out. Promise me you’ll only see Rick six days a week at most. And please let me know if you need help with your mother. We’ll work something out for you."

"I’m grateful, Roberta, but we’ll be fine." She walked back to her own cubicle, filing the charts of patients she wasn’t going to be seeing again this week, updating the community records on those patients whose charts she was keeping. She had a couple of hours before her next patient, a respiratory case over in Poway, so she was able to bring herself completely up to date and even get a jump on the next few days.

At some point she realized she was hungry. She wandered over to the vending machines for a cookie, digging in her jeans for some change. A scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it.
"B. Radley," it said. "619.729.8840." Looked like an Escondido number. She cursed and stuffed it back into her pocket. She wasn’t calling him. But maybe she didn’t need a cookie after all.

Brenda had gone and Roberta was in her office with the door shut. Miranda stared down at her paperwork, seeing only black shapes on white, a dance of blurry hieroglyphics. She was 30 years old, why shouldn’t she call up a man for a date? He’d been interested enough to give her his number. But weren’t you supposed to wait a few days to call or something, so as not to look desperate? I fucking am desperate, she thought, pulling out the napkin, picking up the phone and dialing with firm punches. It rang. And rang. She started to relax, thinking she’d either get his machine or no answer at all. But he picked up.

"Hello?" No mistaking that accent.

"This is Miranda," she blurted.

"Well, Miss Miranda. It’s nice to hear from you."

"It is?" Oh Lord. What a thing to say.

"Why, yes," she could hear him smiling. "I was afraid you wouldn’t call, after the rather unfortunate way we met."

"I, yes. Well." She floundered.

"Perhaps we could continue this conversation over dinner?" he inserted smoothly. "Joe’s, 7:30pm?"

"Oh, tonight?"

"Or tomorrow."

"No, tonight’s good."

"Should I pick you up?"

"No! I mean, no, it’s not on your way at all, I live way out in Vallejo. I’ll meet you there."

"All right then. See you tonight, Miranda."

"Yes, see you...." She couldn't bring herself to call him Boo. She hung up with numb fingers. She shook them around, restoring feeling, then dialed again.

"Coxbury Insurance."

"Sherry Lannis, please."

"One moment."

"This is Sherry, how can I help you?"

"I called him."

"You called him?!" Sherry squealed. "Oh my God! Good for you! What did he say?"

"He really couldn’t have been nicer. I was a total idiot. We’re having dinner at Joe’s tonight." Joe’s was the only decent restaurant in three cities, without going out to the coast or down to San Diego proper. Family-owned, authentic northern Italian cuisine, moderately priced.

"Good choice," she approved. Miranda heard a loud background chatter. "I have to go," Sherry whispered. "Call me later!"

Miranda held the dead receiver until the buzzing noise finally penetrated her consciousness. She hung it up. All her world-weariness of the night before fell away. She felt like a teenager, raw and awkward. How long had it been since she’d hoped for anything at all?

Karina breezed into the office just then. Miranda called her over.

"You have to help me," she said.

"Of course, Miranda, problem with a patient?"

"Worse. A date."

Karina smiled. "What to wear?" Miranda nodded humbly and filled her in. "You need a summer dress with a light sweater. What have you got?"

"A dress?"

"You don’t have a dress?"

"I have a dress for church holidays. Not a summer dress. I don’t even know if it still fits."

"Don’t panic. Do you have any time today?"

Miranda consulted her schedule. "I have to leave in about ten minutes but I only have two more patients after that."

"I’ll take you shopping. Meet me back here at 4pm."

"Thanks, Karina. Really." Karina patted her on the shoulder.

"You’ve helped me out plenty, Mir. I’m glad to find out that there’s something I know more about than you."

By 6:00 p.m., Miranda had a dress, a sweater, sandals, a little straw bag, and even some makeup. There wasn’t time to go all the way home so she called Nadine and let her know she wouldn’t be back until late. Karina volunteered her house, and she helped Miranda put on some minimal makeup, just a touch of mascara and a light lip gloss. She also did something to her hair so that it fell down her back in soft waves.

"You look great. Off you go!" Karina hustled her out and into her car. Miranda drove off with a wave of thanks and gripped the wheel with her freshly painted fingernails. She felt sort of pretty and stupid at the same time.