God's Country

Brenda had agreed to see Rick for a few weeks. Miranda had hated giving him up. Somehow, seeing him had become an anchor, a tie to what she thought of as her real life. The life of calm and order and helpfulness, competence. Control. Not the ragged nightmare that was her home, her dying mother. Rick she could take care of. It was in her power to heal him, at least his skin, if not his nerves.

So the morning that Nadine died, Miranda didn’t go to see Rick, though she badly wanted to. She wanted to run her fingers over his skin, through his hair. It calmed and soothed her. Even his sullen silences or rude requests seemed right to her. He just was. He was a fact. He could be relied upon.

She left her mother’s bedside and made three phone calls. One to the funeral home where Nadine wished to be cremated. She had ascertained weeks ago that they would take care of notifying all necessary officials, all the paperwork. Nadine had even prepaid, it turned out. More than ten years prior. At least she had always known exactly how it was going to go. The only thing she hadn’t known was when.

One call to Lupe, who cried briefly, but in a slow, resigned way. She had lost four children, outlived them all. Her sorrow was too heavy to find relief from such tiny trickles of water. If she had been capable of producing a torrent, a cataract, a waterfall, it might have been enough. But she was old, terribly old, and all her wells had gone dry.

One call to Roberta, to tell her it was over. That she needed Wednesday off, but she would be ready to take patients again by Thursday. Roberta told her Monday would be soon enough, but Miranda insisted on at least taking back Rick and Mrs. Brown.

"I’m sure Brenda will happily turn over Rick," conceded Roberta, "but Mrs. Brown finally kicked over the
traces," she finished, almost cheerfully.

Strangely enough, that made Miranda cry.

When Bradley got home that night, he found Miranda out on the back porch, rocking slowly. A shawl around her shoulders, watching the sunset like a pioneer woman. He crouched in front of her, pulling her distant gaze back to earth.

"She’s gone," said Miranda, her voice cold. Bradley put his head in her lap and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"I would have come home, darlin’, why didn’t you call me?"

"There was nothing you could have done," said Miranda. Bradley sucked in his breath hard, hurt. He lifted his head and pulled her tighter.

"Not even this?"

"I called Grandma, and the funeral home. It was easy. I took care of it."

"Of course you did." He stood and walked to the edge of the porch, trying hard to see what she was seeing. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"No. Thank you."

"When is the funeral?"

"Sunday."

"Right. You wouldn’t want to have to miss work," he said.

"No."

He left her alone on the porch for awhile. Eventually, he pulled her inside and made her eat some soup. She lay on the couch like a zombie, watching blurry pictures fade in and out, making no sense. Bradley turned the TV off and went to bed, but she refused to come. He shook his head and left her there. She knew she wasn’t being fair to him, but she had no comfort to give him. She couldn’t share her tears, her grief. This was the last day she’d had with her mother. She didn’t want to waste it in sleeping.

She got up around 4:00 am and stepped quietly into her room. Careful not to wake Bradley, she pulled the papers out of her bedstand drawer, the ones Grandma Lupe had given her the other day. Shivering, because January nights were chilly, even in Southern California, she tiptoed back to the kitchen. She sat at the kitchen table and looked them over.

Unsurprisingly, one was her birth certificate, the other her certification as a member of the Navajo Nation. She examined them, wondering why Nadine hadn’t wanted to give them to her. Too late to ask her now. She wasn’t sure why she had never pursued it. She could always ask Lupe. She smoothed the papers. These, the house, and the battered Civic, were all she had in the world. Her birthright. She gave a short laugh. Some catch. She put the papers in her purse and forgot about them again.

She made coffee. She drank it. At about 5:30 a.m., Bradley got up and came out yawning to greet the dawn with her. She poured him some coffee, too. She walked around to the back of his chair and wrapped her arms around his lean shoulders.

"I’m sorry," she said, resting her cheek against his. "It’s just really hard."

"I know, darlin’," he said, sliding his warm, callused hands over her arms. "I’ll miss her, too."

He pulled her into his lap and she let him, holding on as though it meant something. But inside, she didn’t feel anything at all.

He took the next day off of work and went with her to the funeral home to sign all the papers and make final arrangements for the service on Sunday. She spent most of the rest of the day making calls to Nadine’s friends and acquaintances, letting them all know. Afterwards, she vomited. Bradley put her in bed and made her eat saltines and drink ginger ale until she felt better.

The next morning she set off for Rick’s, early, around 7:00 a.m. It was a good hour earlier than usual, but the front door was never locked, and Rick was always awake, no matter what time she got there. He didn’t seem to sleep much.

The sun was up, but not very far, painting the dusty valley pale yellow and gold, diffused sunlight covering the worst of the eyesores, bringing out the latent dewdrop sparkle in the sparse grasses. A couple of anemic cows seemed to fill out, looking prosperous, almost happy, if cows ever felt that much of anything. It was almost a pretty morning, even out here.

The house was quiet. Tootie was snoring on the living room couch, so she snuck past and down the hallway with extra care. She opened Rick’s door. The covers flung back. She got a glimpse of bare arm, silky brown hair, red, flushed lips. It was Sandy, in bed with Rick. They had flattened the hospital bed, and she was sprawled atop him. She sat up, straddling him, letting the sheet fall away from her dark-tipped breasts. She stared arrogantly at Miranda, a satisfied smile tugging the corners of her lips. Rick started up onto his elbows, his dark eyes wide with surprise.

"Miranda," he said.

"Bitch, don’t you knock?" Sandy said, shaking her hair down her back and stretching to show off her lush nudity. Miranda eyed her clinically. She had certainly been blessed with a perfect figure, her waist snapped back to youthful narrowness, not a single stretch mark in evidence. Flawless, honey-colored skin, just a hint of red in her hair.

Rick’s hand came out from under the covers and smacked her across the face, hard. She went flying out of the bed and landed on the cold tile floor, hard. Miranda didn’t react, just watched her fall. Sandy stood up, blood trickling from her lip. She didn’t bother looking back at Rick. Perhaps she was accustomed to that type of treatment. She didn’t try to cover herself, but instead drew herself up haughtily, showing off her natural assets in front of the older woman. Miranda was surprised to see that Sandy only came up to her shoulder.

"You look taller lying down," she said involuntarily. Rick laughed and Sandy grew angry. She pulled back her arm as if to hit Miranda, but Miranda stepped into her and grabbed her chin.

"Put some ice on that," she said, and released her. She walked past her, over to Rick’s bed. Sandy made a noise of fury, grabbing her clothes up off a chair, and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Miranda heard the front door close as well. She looked down at Rick, completely exposed, the sheet carried off to one side with Sandy’s fall from grace. She bent down to pick up the sheet and covered him with it, putting the bed back into its normal semi-raised position, tucking in the corners, putting everything back into place.

"I’m sorry, I should have called first," she said, vaguely remembering her manners. Her mind seemed to be several steps behind. She kept seeing Sandy’s pretty face, soft with frank lust, twisting to contempt, then to anger. It was like watching a wax figure melt.

"I’m just glad it wasn’t Brenda," said Rick. Miranda smiled by reflex, thinking of Brenda being confronted with that situation.

"Brenda would have called first," she said, her smile fading.

"Come here," said Rick, patting the side of his bed. She sat woodenly. He took her hand and held it between both of his. His hands were not warm like Bradley’s, she thought. They were strong, though, and cool.

"Did your mom die?" he asked bluntly. She nodded, staring at his messy bedstand. A couple of beer bottles and a filthy ashtray battled for space with his big bottle of Vaseline lotion, the conditioning shampoo she’d bought him, some tissue.

"Brenda can keep seeing me for awhile," he said awkwardly. "Until you feel better."

"No!" she said fiercely, suddenly focusing on his face. "She doesn’t see you! I see you! Only me, do you understand me?" She was shaking. Too much coffee, she thought vaguely. Not enough food.

He drew her into him, slowly and carefully, as though she might break. She leaned like a fence post until her nose touched the side of his neck. He smelled like soap, and beer, and sex. She relaxed against him suddenly and he folded his arms around her, rocking her and shushing her as if she were little Lily. His hair slid over one shoulder and across his chest and she wrapped her fist in it. Her body was taken over by spastic shudders and deep sobs wrenched her gut. She convulsed with it, with holding in the screams of grief that tore at her insides like a trapped wildcat clawing to get out.

Rick held on and started to sing to her in a low, cracked voice. A song she didn’t know, syllables she didn’t understand. But it didn’t matter, the deep thrum inside Rick’s chest slowly lulling her away from the hard black rocks of her sorrow. She subsided into more normal weeping, less agonizing tears. She heard the door open and shut behind her, whoever it was obviously shooed away. It brought her back to the moment, made her aware of her extremely unprofessional conduct, wrapped around one of her patients like a mink stole. She stayed put one extra minute, listening to his heart beat, to his quiet breath pulling in and out. But finally she pulled away, sitting up and grabbing for the box of tissue. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose while Rick rubbed her back in soothing circles.

"I’m so sorry," she said eventually, rising and walking over to pick up her supplies. "Sure didn’t mean for that to happen." She shook out one of the blue-backed pads.

"It’s ok," Rick said gruffly. "I can take care of you, sometimes." She took a few deep breaths then turned and walked back to the bed. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips.

"Thank you," she whispered, stroking the back of her hand across his cheek. "I’ll never forget it." And got back to work.

"Rick," she said hesitantly, right before she left. "You really shouldn’t hit her. It’s not right."

He held her gaze and slowly nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said.