God's Country

Spring turned almost imperceptibly to summer. People say there are no seasons in Southern California, but there are. They’re just more subtle, they require attunement to the precise shades of flawless blue sky, the mild rise and dip in median temperature, a refined sense of when it’s time for the hills to catch fire, and when they will turn to mud and slide away, when the earthquakes come and when to expect the few annual drops of rain.

Miranda rather quickly cleared out her grandmother’s apartment, giving away most things to her friends and neighbors, donating some to charity, keeping very little – just a few photos, journals, important papers – which she filed with hers and her mother’s in an old accordion file, tied with a blue ribbon, and some pieces of jewelry.

It took her longer to clear out her mother’s things. They were so much a part of the house, it seemed wrong to move them, but eventually she did. She borrowed a truck from her neighbor, Troy, and hauled a bunch of ancient, useless crap down to the dump. She got rid of furniture, even, and those ugly ceramic statuettes of shepherds and angels she’d always hated. She took down pictures and ripped up carpet, ready for an overhaul.

Over the course of several months, she painted the kitchen, all the cupboards, inside and out, and nailed patterned copper sheets to the ceiling, giving the room a warm new glow. She changed all the light fixtures – no more fluorescent light. She didn’t have the heart to junk the old kitchen table, but she did get a bright new blue and yellow tablecloth and had the vinyl chair seats redone with a durable woven cane. She threw out all the old plastic Big Gulp cups and mismatched china, and reorganized the cabinets to get all the spices and small appliances off the counter. Except, of course, for the coffeemaker. But she bought a new one, white and shiny, with a reusable gold filter.

She didn’t have a lot of money, but Lupe had left her a little, and so had Nadine. Plus, she didn’t have a house payment or a car payment, and no more out-of-pocket medical expenses, so her salary went a long way. She had enough to put down a thick Berber carpet throughout the house, to repaint the living room a pale lemon yellow, to paper the bathrooms and fix a few persistent drips. She bought new rugs and accent pillows, and pinned several lengths of extraordinary woven cloth she’d found at the bottom of Nadine’s sewing things onto the living room wall, over the couch, which she’d had slipcovered.

Soon, the inside of the house was nearly unrecognizable. The big step was moving from her own bedroom into Nadine’s. She took a long time to make the decision, but as the house slowly became more and more hers, it felt right to her to take ownership of the master suite.

She bought a new bed and a cushy double mattress, leaving her twin bed in what was now the guest bedroom. She redid both bedrooms, top to bottom, the new master suite in cool greens and whites, her old one in a warm brown and yellow motif. New linens, with faint palm trees over an abstract background. New white curtains, breezy and sheer, with blinds behind them, so she could let in as much or as little light as she wanted. She contemplated cutting in a skylight, but felt that would be too extravagant.

She still didn’t feel ready to do more than barely maintain the yard, but she began to feel as though at some point, she might want to get some new animals and liven the place back up. Now warm, clean and cozy on the inside, it still looked a bit desolate at first approach.

She did buy a pre-made lattice arcade, which she placed on the front porch, so it arched over the front door. Two potted bougainvilleas went on either side and she started training them up so they would bloom in hot pink bursts right around her door. She put a little jasmine in with them, so that she would pass that lovely fragrance each time she entered or exited.

She felt only a dim sort of satisfaction from her activities, her beautification of her home. But it was hard work, and she slept well, dreaming rarely, if at all.

And so it went, Miranda moving through her waking dream, slowly bringing her house into alignment with the person she believed she was, doing her job in the way that someone who looked and acted like Miranda Ruth would do it.

And that was all.

Until that Saturday in June, 1985, the day we started out with, the day where Miranda is driving down the dusty road to Paco Ano, most particularly not thinking about the plight of the Indians. The typical June gloom, a thick marine layer that doesn’t burn off until afternoon, prevailed, leaving her to drive in 60-degree weather under an oddly bright gray sky. She has, by this time, become inured to the sights and smells of the res. She accepts it, like she accepts her mother’s death. Just part of the landscape of her life, nothing particular to be seen, to be remarked upon. Plus, she is hungover. She had rented a movie to watch on her new VCR called Romancing the Stone, starring Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas, and drunk nearly a whole bottle of merlot. She hadn’t meant to, but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, each glass slipping down easier and easier as Kathleen and Michael kept getting in deeper and deeper.

In addition to all that, she is in a bad mood, because the horrible Sandy is apparently back in town, and the idiotic Rick is still excited to see her. So perhaps she wouldn’t have noticed her surroundings much in any event.

The house was utterly deserted for once, a rarity.

“I see you’ve managed to get rid of everyone so you can have some alone time with Sandy,” she said grumpily, as soon as she walked into Rick’s bedroom. He rolled his eyes at her but didn’t bother to reply, pulling himself up so he could rip his shirt off and help her get started.

“I’m guessing you’ll want to wash your hair, too.” She dropped her supplies in a hard plastic chair and huffed when her box of gloves fell to the floor. She pulled some from her pocket and left it where it was, ripping open a new package of gauze with savage overenthusiasm.

“You shouldn’t drink if you can’t handle it,” he said, his irritation set off by hers.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she said, then half-smiled, hearing herself sound like a truculent three-year-old. “All right,” she said, “I’m hungover and in a bad mood. You’re right, I shouldn’t drink too much, because I definitely can’t handle it.”

“Damn right,” he said, but he relaxed. They made it through the bath and the bedchanging, the wound care. Miranda helped him into his chair, his arm draped around her neck, groaning slightly when his weight bore fully down on her for a moment.

“You been gaining weight?” she asked, rubbing her back.

“Yeah, gettin’ a pot belly from all the good feedin’ up here,” he said, slapping his gaunt abdomen. She wheeled him into the kitchen for his hair wash, running back to get the shampoo and an extra towel while he maneuvered himself into the cushioned chair.

“Do you want me to cut it for you?” she asked, as she saw the mass of hair coiled around the bottom of the sink.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I mean, it’s gorgeous, but you’re practically sitting on it. I can take at least six inches off and it will still be below the middle of your back.”

“Yeah, all right,” he said. Miranda sat him back up straight and dragged the chair around away from the sink. She found the sharp scissors she used to cut bandages, and combed his hair down straight. She had to sit on the floor to cut it properly, letting the severed hair fall to the tile. She cut off nearly a foot, to where it had been when she first started seeing him nearly a year ago. She could see the muscles on either side of his spine now, through the open back of the chair. He shook his head and the hair moved in front of her face like a black satin curtain. She stared at the raven lengths, scattered on the floor around her, and gathered them up carefully, tucking them into a plastic grocery bag, which she put with her other things, back in his room. She swept up the rest of the hair and proceeded with the wash.

It was much easier with the shorter length, but still long enough for the luscious sweep that she loved, combing her fingers through from scalp to ends. Her normal mood was soon restored, the soothing motions lulling her hangover into temporary submission.

She left him in his room, in his chair, his clean hair shining down his back. She pulled out and headed on to her next patient, a Mrs. Glooming, over in Vista. Hip replacement. Just released on Friday, so she had to be seen on a Saturday. She drove nearly all the way back to the reservation entrance before she remembered the box of gloves that had fallen to the floor. She had forgotten to pick them up, to put them back in her bag. She’d have to go get them – she only had one more pair in her tunic pocket – not enough to get her through the day.

She cussed herself out – her bad mood leading her to careless behavior – and pulled a u-turn when the sparse traffic cleared. She pulled back into the driveway. Another car was there, an ancient blue Chevy Impala with a peeling white vinyl roof. Sandy must have arrived. Crap. The last thing she wanted to do was walk in on those two again.

She put her hand on the front door, drawing breath to give a loud shout to let them know she was back, when she heard a loud report. Her brain froze, but her body acted, yanking open the door and pelting down the hallway. She dropped to the ground on one side of the closed door to Rick’s room. She’d seen enough cop shows to know not to rush through the door.

“Are you all right?” she shouted, cowering as a gunshot tore through the door at about her eye-level, had she been standing in front of it.

“Don’t come in here!” shouted Rick. She heard sounds of struggle, another report. She snuck one hand up to the doorknob, turning it slowly. Nothing happened so she pushed it open, keeping well to one side. She gasped as an arm flung across her vision, but she held still and nothing else moved.

“Rick?” she shouted. “Can you hear me?” She heard a noise, but not actual words. Cautiously, she peeked in the room, prepared for instant withdrawal. Blood puddled on the floor and splashed on the bed and several walls. Sandy lay on the ground in front of the door, arms flung wide, her chest a mass of blood and blasted bone, her beautiful eyes already glazing with death. Rick sat hunched over in his chair, breathing heavily, his gun in his right hand, his left clenched over his guts, which appeared to be dripping out in long ropes. Miranda’s eyes kept traveling around the room. A knife, covered in gore, sat on the floor near his chair.

She got to her feet and ran to Rick, skirting the body. A cold part of her mind told her to put on her gloves, so she did, yanking them from her pocket and sliding them over her sweaty hands with practiced precision. She checked Rick’s pulse and examined him quickly for wounds other than the wicked slash to the abdomen.

“Rick, talk to me. Stay awake, do you hear me? I’m going to call an ambulance. You’re going to be okay. Just hang on.” She tried to pry his hand away from his stomach so she could wrap the wound, but he resisted.

“Baby,” he said, making a small motion with the gun. Miranda looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, Sandy’s baby was wrapped in a small bundle, lying quietly on one of the chairs.

“Ok, ok, I’ll check him. Hang on.” She leaped over Sandy and picked up the child, who lay far too still. It had been dead for some time, its little face cold and gray, its body stiff. She laid it back down gently as it had been, draping the edge of the blanket over its face. She rushed back to Rick.

“I’m sorry, Rick, the baby’s gone. You’re the only one I can help. Please, let me help you.” Part of her mind was screaming, but the other part, the cold part, was holding her together. Get some pressure on the bleeding, call the cops, was the refrain going through her mind. She’d worry about shock in a minute.

“Goddamn,” he whispered weakly, falling farther over to one side. “Goddamn.” He fought her off again when she tried to move his hands.

“Rick, don’t fight me. I have to stop this bleeding,” she said. “Please, let me be your friend, Rick. Let me save you.” She was crying now, obliviously, only noticing when she couldn’t seem to see straight. “I need to get the big bandages from my car. Can you hang on for 30 seconds? Please?”

He looked her in the eye and nodded shortly. She stood and walked around Sandy to the doorway. Something made her turn and look back. Rick had raised the gun, his shaking hand holding it to his heart.

“Oh God, Rick, no,” she whispered. “Please, no. Don’t do it.”

“I shot her,” he said weakly. “She killed that fucking baby, Miranda, she killed it.” His eyes filled and he coughed, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. “She went nuts, she cut me. I had to.”

“Rick, don’t. Please,” she dropped to her knees, feeling the jar from the cold tile.”

“Love’s crazy, ain’t it?” he said, releasing the wound and pushing the gun harder against his chest with both hands. He put his head back and took a deep breath. Miranda could see the deep red of his blood flowing over his lap, trickling down the clean pair of khakis she’d helped him put on that morning. He raised his head and said, “I’m sorry. You been a good friend,” and pulled the trigger.

Miranda didn’t look away for one second. She saw the bullet tear through his chest, ripping open his heart muscle. She saw him jerk, the gun falling out of his hand, coming to rest in his blood-soaked lap. His head dropped back over his chair, the clean black hair a shining waterfall.

“Goddamn, you, Rick,” she said, in a guttural voice that seemed to hurt her chest. “You were supposed to live.” The cold part of her brain was still in charge. She crossed to Rick and picked up the gun. She knelt beside Sandy and wrapped it in her dead hand. She pulled off the gloves, inside out so all the blood would be trapped inside, and stuffed them in her pocket. She bent over him, briefly kissing his slightly open mouth, but otherwise leaving him untouched. She crossed and picked up the box of gloves she’d originally come back for, untouched against the wall beneath one of the chairs. She walked out the door, but then turned and came back in, searching the shelves of the closet. She found Rick’s sketch books – there were three of them now – and took them. She walked through the living room as calmly as if she were simply leaving on any other day. A small noise caught her attention. She turned her head and saw little Lily, standing on the couch. Miranda held out her hand.

“Come with me, Lily,” she said calmly, and the little girl jumped down and came around, reaching up trustingly. She walked Lily out to the car and belted her into the back seat. She got in and left, driving straight to Mrs. Glooming’s house. She left Lily in the car with a bottle of water to sip on, and a cautionary word not to make any noise.

She checked herself over before getting out of the car. Yep, she was clean. Amazingly, not one drop of blood on her. She greeted old Mr. Glooming cheerfully and went in to check on his fat wife. The surgery had gone well, but her rehabilitation was going slowly, because her weight was so great that normal exercise was placing too great a strain on the joint. She was seeing a physical therapist, so Miranda was just there to check on the wound and make sure there was no infection. Everything looked fine, so she finished up quickly and got back into her car. Lily was asleep, half fallen over in the seat belt, reminding her of Rick, slumped over in his chair, bleeding his life out. She drove home, not aware of where she was until she discovered that the car was no longer moving and she was staring at her own front door.

She got out and pulled Lily out as well. She took her inside, gave her some yogurt, and threw her in the bathtub. She’d been dying to clean the child for a year now. She soaped up the little body and washed her thick black hair, smiling when Lily smiled, toweling her dry and bundling her into the guest bedroom. She appeared to be completely toilet trained, so perhaps she was older than she looked.

She put one of her smallest t-shirts on the child and tucked her into bed, telling her it was naptime. Lily hadn’t made a sound the whole time, just accepted whatever happened to her. She obediently shut her eyes, and Miranda left the room, shutting the door behind her. She sank down onto a chair in the kitchen and put her hands over her eyes.

What the hell was she doing? Why hadn’t she called the cops? Why had she moved the gun? Taken the child? Seen another patient? It was like she was watching someone else make all these decisions. She knew she should call – someone. Anyone. But she didn’t. She sat at her kitchen table and shook, spine-deep shivers that took her mind away. In her mind, she saw it over and over, the girl’s body on the floor, the baby’s body in the corner, Rick’s finger tightening on the trigger, the moment that Death snatched him up, took him away from her for good. She’d seen it, she’d seen his soul fly, the way she’d seen Nadine’s, seeing it, watching every second and still missing it. Far too fast for her merely human eye to follow, but her heart had certainly known.

The call, when it came, was from Carmen, Rick’s mother. She sounded the same as usual, worn and long-suffering. No sign of tears in her voice, just a slightly heavier weight.

“Rick’s gone,” she said.

“What do you mean?” said Miranda, asking for an explanation what she’d seen.

“That Sandy, she shot him,” said Carmen. Miranda waited for Carmen to ask if she’d been there, if she’d seen it. If she had Lily. “You were good to him, Miss Miranda. I thought you should know, so you didn’t show up tomorrow morning, expecting to see him here.”

“Yes, I…thank you. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fuentes, this is such a horrible shock.” She paused, decided to say something. “Sandy,” she said, but Carmen interrupted her.

“Blew herself away after, that’s what the cops said,” she said heavily. “Couldn’t live with herself.”

“Is there anything you need?” Miranda said idiotically.

“The Lord taketh away,” Carmen replied, and hung up. Miranda stared at the phone in her hand. Surely someone would notice, sooner or later. Surely it was only a matter of time.

She woke Lily and fed her some dinner, making a mental note to buy milk and cereal and fruit. Her own clothes were nearly dry, so Miranda put her back in them.

“Can you watch TV for awhile?” she said, and Lily nodded, curled up on the sofa. “I’ll be back in a little while. Just stay here and be good.” She got in her car with misgivings. She knew Lily was accustomed to being left alone for long periods of time and was unlikely to get into trouble or hurt herself, but it went against her grain to leave a tiny child unsupervised. Then again, she really couldn’t take her out. No one knew she had the child, and she damn well wasn’t going to tell until someone asked.

She drove down to Poway and found a kids’ clothing store. She bought several outfits, down to shoes, socks and underwear, and picked up a small, soft brown teddy bear. She stopped in a major grocery store for extra food and other items that she thought a little girl might need to make her stay more comfortable, like bubble bath.

It’s not as if I’m going to keep her, she said to herself, several times, as she drove home.

She kept waiting for the cops to call her, to ask what she might have seen the morning of the crime. It was obvious that she had been there, Rick was dressed and up in his chair, after all. But weeks went by and no one ever called, not the cops, not Rick’s family, not even Michael. She searched the papers in vain for any mention of the story, but it never appeared. No death notice, no indication of any sort of funeral.

They probably had the dogs dig him a hole in the backyard, she thought bitterly, brushing out Lily’s hair and clipping in little plastic barettes to keep it out of her eyes. It made her think of something and she went out to her car, rummaging in her work bag.

There it was, the plastic bag with Rick’s hair clippings, gathered the day he died. She brought it inside, with his sketchbooks, which she’d nearly forgotten. She pulled out the hair, matching it up strand by strand until she had a thick hank of it. She buried her nose in it. It still smelled of him – a hint of stale smoke, antiseptic, the unique aroma of his skin. She carefully dipped one end in glue and then plaited it into a braid, tying it off with a piece of red yarn. She laid it gently in her single remaining box of keepsakes, the few things that had made it through her house purge. She’d give it to Lily someday, when she was older.

The sketchbooks she left until Lily was asleep, later that night. She flipped through them. Some were familiar, most were new, and colorful. She’d bought him some pastel pencils for Christmas last year. It looked as though he’d used them.

She was surprised to see how often her own face showed up. There were several wonderful studies of Lily as well. She closed the books halfway through the second one, unable to look any further. She’d been unable to cry about Rick, the hard pain in her chest too thick to get through, the remembrance of ultimate violence too recent for her to fully absorb. She put the books in her keepsake box as well, hoping she wouldn’t have to give them back.

She went in her bedroom to watch Lily sleep – something that had quickly become one of her favorite pastimes. Acting on a sudden impulse, she slid in next to her, feeling the small warm body cuddle up against her. She put her head on the pillow, breathing in the sweet scent of clean-little-girl. Before she knew it, the sun was in her eyes.