God's Country

Miranda sat on the edge of the cheap, squishy motel bed. She stripped the red nail polish from her fingers and toes, creating a small mound of red-stained cotton on the brown shag carpet. The stench of nail polish remover overpowered even the stench of old cigarettes that lingered in paint, carpet and drapes. Lily rolled back and forth on the other bed, clutching her teddy bear, watching TV and holding her nose.

For just a minute, she missed Boo Radley with a sharp pang. She wanted to tell him about Doreen, and being mistaken for a hooer. She could hear his deep, appreciative laugh as though he were there in the room with her. Some things she just couldn’t share with Lily. She finished her nails with a last swipe and dumped the soaked cotton in the bathroom, where she could open the window and shut the door.

She looked at herself in the mirror. That shocking red hair. She needed a haircut and professional dye job. She checked her watch. It was only 5:30pm and Lily wasn’t hungry yet. There was time. She put on a more typical Miranda outfit – jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers – and put Lily back in the Escort, which she planned to trade in the morning. She drove past three or four mini-malls until she found one with a Supercuts. There was a 15 minute wait, so she flipped through magazines, looking for a good hairstyle. She had no idea what might look good on her.

“I need to get this color out,” she said, settling into the cold vinyl chair, a plastic bib cinched tight around her throat.

“Hon, there are three things you can do: grow it out, cut it off, or dye over it.” The thin young man had colorful spiked hair and artful holes cut in his acid-washed jeans. He cracked his gum at her. “What do you want?”

“Uh, dye it black, I guess,” she said. “And then cut it off.”

He looked at her skeptically, plastic comb poised. “All this gorgeous hair? Right off? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess. Hon, what I don’t want is you, tomorrow morning, marching back in here and screaming that I butchered you. You understand me?” Miranda thought the man might be older than he looked. There was a weariness of experience in his voice that made her think the youthful punk act was just…an act.

“I understand. I just want a big change. Something pretty dramatic.”

“If you’re sure, then.” He walked around, looking at her consideringly, pulling her hair back from her face. “How do you feel about like a retro pixie cut?”

“As long as it looks reasonably professional,” she said.

“Professional what, hon? Wrestler?” He had a loud honking laugh.

She smiled slightly. Don’t piss off the man with scissors in his hand. “Nurse, actually.” She saw no harm in telling the truth. Pursuing cops were unlikely to canvass every salon in Phoenix.

“Really? Well, I’m sure you restarted a few hearts with this color!” He honked again, then got to work. He chopped her hair off raggedly at the neck, which startled Miranda.

“Normally, you color before you cut, because the new ends soak up extra color. But there’s no point in coloring this whole crazy mess of hair, hon, and I’ll be cutting off lots more, so don’t you worry. I won’t leave you like this!” He bustled into the back and came back with a wheeled tray. His butterfly hands fluttered over the various implements and powders, mixing something thick and green-looking in a bowl and then painting it onto her hair in broad strokes. Lily sat on the floor of the waiting area, staring at Miranda with a curiously adult interest on her little face.

“You said black, right?” Honk. “Cuz you know that dyed black never looks like natural black. Of course, if you change your mind…too late!!” Honk, honk.

“It’s ok. Unnatural black is fine.”

The man glanced over at the waiting area, where Lily was still fixed on Miranda.

“Is that your little boy?”

“Yes. Um, what’s your name?”

“Sorry, hon, forgot to introduce myself! Where’s my brain? I’m Harrison. And you?”

“Sabrina,” she said, almost naturally.

“Oh, what a great name! I loved Bewitched!” He rolled on , chattering about 70s TV shows and the fashion habits of celebrities, including, of course, a critique of their hairstyles. It didn’t require much from Miranda, who was not permitted even to nod, as it changed the careful angle of her head. She tried to do as she was told, breathing shallowly as the dye fumes penetrated the air around her. Why was beauty such a smelly business?

She sat under a plastic cap for what seemed like forever while Harrison chopped away at someone else’s problems. A slow drip around her hairline drove her crazy and she surreptitiously swiped at it with a tissue. Harrison came by to check on her and swatted her hand as she moved it involuntarily to adjust the cotton wadding that protected her ears and forehead.

“It’s fine, hon, just leave it,” he said. She kept glancing over at Lily, worrying that she was bored, that she was breathing these terrible fumes and damaging her growing brain. That she would walk out the door and run into the street. But she just watched Miranda and the other patrons. She flipped through magazines. After awhile, she curled up on the hard red sofa and went to sleep. No child could be so well-behaved. Miranda then worried that she would grow up to be a serial killer.

“All righty, rinse and condition!” Miranda was taken to a sink where pleasantly warm water was poured over her head and ears, while Harrison’s surprisingly strong fingers pulled and squeezed out the dye. She shut her eyes, thinking of how she used to do this for Rick. Harrison slathered something minty-smelling in her shorn locks and left her again. This was taking longer than she’d thought. It had only taken her about half an hour to put the red in. It was already almost an hour since she’d arrived, and she hadn’t even started getting her hair actually cut yet. Maybe she didn’t really need much of a haircut.

But then she saw herself in a mirror. The black was harsh against her skin, making her look paler, her eyes looking a haunting honey-gold color instead of their usual brown. The ragged ends of her hair made her look like a witch. She sighed and resigned herself to more time in the chair as he turned her back away from the mirror. Which is good, because in fact it took forever. Harrison was a perfectionist. And short hair, as he said, was much more challenging than long hair, because you could really see the cut. From all angles.

So she tilted her head back and forward while he pumped her up and down in the chair, chattering all the while. She felt the cold slice of metal as he slid the scissors next to her ear, down the side of her cheek, across her forehead, on the back of her neck. Her head felt strange, light. She could feel the push of the air-conditioning against her scalp and started to worry.

Lily was still fast asleep, which was a blessing, but also meant she’d be up late tonight. Her sleep schedule was all awry anyway, what with sleeping in the car and all. It didn’t matter. They’d be there tomorrow. She could get her back into a routine. Everything would be fine.

“There, hon, didn’t I tell you everything would be fine?” Harrison turned her around with a flourish, handing her a hand-mirror.

Miranda stared at herself. She looked different, all right. Her hair was cut sleekly to her head, long bangs sweeping her forehead, leaning to one side. It was black and stark, but extremely sophisticated. She looked like a city woman, who would wear long winter coats, and scarves, and boots with skinny heels.
It was in some ways a boyish haircut, but somehow, it pointed up Miranda’s delicate feminine features. Her weight loss had made the bones in her face more prominent, her eyes bigger, her round cheeks slightly hollowed.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s fantastic.” She couldn’t imagine looking less like herself.

She tipped Harrison generously, which made him smile, showing off a broken tooth, which actually seemed to make him slightly more attractive.

“Come back in about 6 weeks, hon,” he said. “Haircut like that requires regular maintenance!”

She laughed and promised, picking up the sleeping Lily without waking her. She had promised her a restaurant dinner, though, and took her to one, a nice-looking steak place not far from the motel. She felt a little silly in her fancy haircut, wearing jeans and sneakers, but what the heck. Lily clung sleepily to her hand.

The maitre d’ sat them at an out of the way table behind a large plant, which suited Miranda just fine. She ordered a steak, and some grilled chicken and vegetables for Lily, requesting that it be diced in the kitchen, which they happily agreed to. Toddlers wielding steak knives seemed to make them nervous.

Miranda even sipped a glass of chardonnay, which she knew was the wrong thing to drink with steak, but she liked it. She enjoyed a rare moment of well-being, watching Lily/Louie eat careful little bites from her plate with her fingers. Miranda knew she’d have to teach her proper utensil use at some point, but she was so neat about the way she ate with her hands that it simply hadn’t presented much of a problem. Even the waiters smiled at her as she perched on her booster seat, looking both solemn and hungry, focusing intently on the food.

Miranda stared regretfully at the last sip of wine in her glass. “All gone,” she said to Lily in a mock-mournful tone. “All gone.”

“I’d be happy to buy you another,” said an amused male voice. Miranda turned, flushing. A handsome fortyish man stood by her table, apparently trapped in the aisle by an overloaded waiter. He had dark olive skin and the thick black hair she associated with Rick and his family.

“Are you an Indian?” she blurted, then put out her hands as his face hardened. “No, I mean, I’m sorry. I’m part Navajo and I’m on my way to the reservation. I just thought….”

He looked at her thoughtfully, then extended his hand. “Paul Mendoza,” he said. “I am Navajo.”

“Sa…Miranda…Gonzalez,” she said awkwardly, wishing she had thought out this whole name issue ahead of time. “Please, if you aren’t with someone,” she indicated the empty seat at their table, still flushing.

He sat carefully. “Thank you.” He waved down the waiter and ordered a shrimp appetizer and a glass of wine. “And another for the lady, as well.”

“Oh, no,” said Miranda, covering her glass with her hand. “I have to drive the little one home, I’m fine, really.” She frowned, hoping he wasn’t thinking she was coming on to him.

“And who is this?” he said, waving his hand at Lily, who, surprisingly, waved back.

“That’s Louie,” she said shortly. “So, Paul, what are you doing in Phoenix?” She had been so excited at the opportunity to question an actual Navajo that she had forgotten how awkward talking to a complete stranger can be. And how dangerous. She couldn’t screw up now, because she might very well run into this man again. Any lies she told could turn against her. Any truths, as well. She suddenly wished she had allowed him to buy her another glass of wine.

“I’m in town on business.”

“Do you live on the reservation?”

“Most of the time. And what about you?” he turned the conversation smoothly towards her. “Why are you going there?”

“Oh, my grandmother was Navajo, she grew up there. She died recently, and she always wanted me to visit. This turned out to be a convenient time, so….” True enough.

Paul’s food arrived. He took a sip of wine before responding. “So you’re not planning to stay.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” she said, smiling. He moved on to other topics. Miranda wanted desperately to ask him all sorts of technical questions about the reservation and Navajo law, but she slowly realized exactly how telling most of her questions would be. Paul seemed nice, but she didn’t know him at all. She couldn’t trust anyone. Maybe she’d stay an extra day in Phoenix and make use of the public library.

He finished his shrimp just as she took her last sip of coffee. He paid the whole check, refusing her offer to pay their share. “No, no. I wasn’t expecting company and you have both been delightful. Thank you so much for asking me to join you.”

“Thank you so much for dinner,” she said. They stood and shook hands.

“I hope to see you again soon,” said Paul, escorting her and Lily towards the door. “What did you say you did again?”

“Oh, I’m a nurse,” she said.

He pulled a card out of his pocket and wrote a number on the back of it. “Here’s my card, and the number on the back is my sister Rosalie’s number. She works at the clinic in ____. Give her a call, if you’re looking for a job. And give me a call when you get settled. I’ll be glad to know you’re doing well.”

“Thank you again,” said Miranda, shifting Lily to the opposite hip to take the card. They parted ways cordially. Miranda suddenly felt hopeful as she belted Lily into the car seat. She had a contact, a job lead. A way in.

A grueling day’s drive got them to Phoenix. Brown desert, brown hills. No clouds, but the distant mountains were somehow mistier than they should have been. Miranda felt she should be able to see everything in this empty summer land with utter clarity, the pure desert air acting like a magnifying glass, but it wasn’t that way. These constant little disappointments, she thought.

Lily began to cry quietly.

“You hungry, baby?” Miranda asked, checking in the rearview mirror for her nod or shake of the head. Lily just stared out the window, snuffling, tears pouring down her little cheeks. Miranda sighed. No towns in sight, just the desert, stretching out for miles and miles, dotted with those cartoon cacti, the ones like in the RoadRunner cartoons, with the arms that stuck in the air like a man being held up at gunpoint.

As soon as she could, she changed lanes, carefully inserting the Escort between the near-continuous chain of semis bulling their way down the 10. She eased over onto the shoulder and stopped, making sure she was well away from the traffic. She pulled Lily out of the carseat and let her walk around in the dry dirt. She immediately stopped crying and bent over, pulling at the dry leaves of various plants. Miranda sat down, resting her back against the hot, dusty car. Poor little thing just wasn’t used to being so cooped up for such long periods of time. Six hours a day was too much. Miranda would have to slow her journey down. Four hours a day, tops, with a good long break for lunch in between. It would be all right. They didn’t have that much farther to go, she thought. She suddenly realized that she wasn’t exactly sure where the Navajo Nation was. Mostly in northern Arizona, she thought, maybe a little bit into New Mexico. But where was the headquarters? Where could she apply for asylum?

She folded her arms on top of her knees and and dug in her chin. Christ, she was so ignorant. Could she even ask for asylum? She was thinking of the Navajo as though they were an embassy, their ground not subject to American laws. But was that even correct? They were Americans, after all. Maybe this wouldn’t work at all. Maybe she should turn south and head to Mexico. Find her grandfather’s family in Guadalajara. She shook her head. She didn’t even speak Spanish. And she knew her grandparents had barely scratched their living out of the dirt in Mexico. That wasn’t the life she wanted to give Lily.

Lily was running now, in ever-increasing spirals. Nowhere near the freeway, nowhere near danger.

“Watch out for snakes!” Miranda said anyway. It was summertime, after all, and the desert. Weren’t there rattlesnakes? Or Gila monsters? Scorpions? She shuddered at all the invisible threats. She would let Lily run for just a couple more minutes, then give her some water before they continued on. This sun was simply painful.

She resolved: she’d continue to the Navajo, but she wouldn’t just go and spill her guts, throwing herself on their mercy, as she’d planned. She’d present herself as a member of the tribe, wishing to come home and establish herself in the land of her grandmother’s people. Lily would be her cousin’s daughter. Son. Her cousin’s son. Not a tribal member, but hopefully allowed to live there with her as a guest. She’d get a job, do some research. Decide whether to stay or go on someplace else. She’d heard the Canadians were nice. She had a moment of utter desolation, that alien feeling of not belonging anywhere. Each second, the sun was burning her skin a darker shade of brown, yet she felt the chill of human isolation. She watched the little girl running, her arms outstretched, her chin lifted. Only Lily was real. Only Lily mattered. She felt herself settle again. Centered and focused.

There were all kinds of troubles ahead. But at least they’d be in Phoenix tonight. A good place to exchange the car. To find a map of the Navajo lands. A good place to be anonymous. She could only deal with one problem at a time. She rose and stretched, running out to catch Lily, spinning around with her until she laughed and laughed. Miranda loved that sound, still too rarely heard. She clutched her close for a moment.

“We’re almost ready to stop for the night, Lily. Louie, I mean.” She’d have to get better at this if she expected the child to respond to her new name. “Can you hold on just a little longer? We’ll stay somewhere with a pool, so you can swim, then we’ll go out to a restaurant for supper. How does that sound?” Lily nodded, her eyes large. Miranda made a mental note to pick up some swim trunks for her.
“Good girl!” she said, loading her back in the car, making her drink from a sippy cup full of cool water and giving her a little hardbound book to play with. “We’ll be there soon, I promise!”

Talking to Lily made her feel more in charge, more certain. Was this what motherhood really felt like? A constant stream of worry and fear, interspersed with moments of playacting that everything was all right, and then having to go on and act as though that were true? She had a horrible feeling it was just like that. That if she kept Lily. No ifs. I am keeping Lily, she said sternly to herself. That she would feel this way forever, and that it didn’t have that much to do with Rick and Sandy’s murders, or her taking the child. It was just the way of things, when you let yourself love a child.

“I love you, Lily,” she said, wanting to say it as soon as she realized it, her eyes watching the rearview mirror. Lily met her gaze, and blew her a sudden kiss, so spontaneous and sincere Miranda lost her breath and her sense, nearly plowing right into the back of the huge Ford pickup truck she was pulling out behind. She recovered, putting the Escort firmly into its proper place in the long march of cars, but her eyes watered and her heart bloomed, excruciating little petals unfolding one by one.

The desert may not appear to be much of a place for a mermaid, or for Princess TigerLily, but it had its own subtle beauty, she decided right then.

She pulled off the freeway that night and drove quite far toward the city center. She didn’t want to make it too easy on her pursuers by staying only in motels with signs that could be seen from the interstate. There wasn’t really much of a city center, she discovered, just a huge sprawl of mini-malls and half-built houses. She eventually found a motel with a pool. It seemed that most motels here had pools. So she checked in and then took Lily shopping. They bought swimsuits and two big beach towels with bright red stripes. Sunglasses and tanning lotion. Flipflops. She even bought Lily an inflatable tube with an elephant head on the front, its green plastic ears huge and limp.

They went back and jumped in the pool, Lily hanging onto her tube for dear life, shrieking and giggling as Miranda towed her back and forth. Miranda herself was breathless from swimming and laughing, and pretending to be a sea monster coming up from below while Lily kicked and screamed. They got out eventually and laid on their towels, drying quickly in the sun, even though it was now very close to sunset.

“Your son is adorable,” said a voice next to her. Miranda opened her eyes. A lady with poofy red hair sat on a lounge chair, wearing a tight suit with a little skirt and a stacked bra that was probably popular in the sixties. Varicose veins crept up the sickly white of her legs. She was wearing a thick layer of makeup, which sat heavily atop her sweating, rosy skin, and didn’t do a thing to disguise the signs of approaching old age.

“Thank you,” Miranda said shortly and shut her eyes again, keeping one hand protectively on Lily’s little arm. She felt overexposed suddenly in the skimpy black bikini that she’d decided went best with her disguise.

“I’m Noreen,” said the voice. “Me & Bert, we been RV-ing all the hell over the place, and I finally said to him, Bert, I need a real damn shower! So here we are. And that old sweet thing got me a pool and everything. Ain’t it heaven?”

Miranda nodded non-committally, not opening her eyes.

“My momma would say that is one sinful suit you’re wearing there, but I personally envy you the figure to carry it off,” she continued. Miranda gritted her teeth. She had to stay in character, she reminded herself. What would Sabrina Lloyd do? She liked the name she’d chosen. Sabrina Lloyd. It was sort of exotic and movie star, and trashy as well. She wouldn’t be able to use it on the reservation, of course, because all her tribal paperwork was in her real name. She was still trying to think of a way to get around that.

Noreen had rattled on while she was still thinking of a response to the last comment. “We’re from Ohio, originally, but Bert retired with a good bit of cash, he was in insurance you know, good business, that, and so I told him I was tired of staying in one place, I wanted to just get out and travel a bit. Old Bert, he did me right. Bought us a 24-footer, all plushed out, and we been drivin’ ever since!”

Lucky you, thought Miranda sarcastically. “You’re so lucky,” she said out loud, being careful of her tone.

“Oh, you got that right, honey. Old Bert is a darn good catch for an old hooer like me!” she cackled while Miranda tried to translate “hooer.” “He probly won’t last too much longer but hey, I’ve had a good run!”

“Oh?” Miranda said, trying to seem interested. It was plenty to keep her going.

“You betcha. Bert took me off the streets of Philly when I was just a young ‘un, couldn’t have been any older than you, and twice as pretty, if I do say so myself. He had himself a struggle, cuz I was making good money for the first time ever, and I didn’t want to get out of the game. It wasn’t rough then like it is now, I’m sure you know what I mean. The johns just came and did their business. No violence, no funny stuff. No drugs. Just a couple of drinks, a lay or a gobble, then they’d pay up and go back to their wives.”

It slowly dawned on Miranda that Noreen thought she was a prostitute. She stifled an urge to giggle hysterically. Well, she had gone for the trashy look. Perhaps she’d have to rethink her disguise before she hit the reservation. That wasn’t quite the impression she wanted to give. Instead she merely nodded knowingly. Noreen would remember more about her if she got up in a huff and stalked away than if she just listened. She was just another piece of furniture right now, and she didn’t want to do anything memorable. On the other hand, she could be trapped here for hours, listening to this old “hooer” maunder on.

“Say, I don’t suppose you’d do me a favor, hon,” said Noreen, lifting her glasses to show blue eyes, puffy and old, outlined in thick eyeliner and layers of flaking black mascara. Miranda lifted her eyebrows inquiringly, barely moving her head. “If I were to watch your little boy for awhile this evening, I don’t suppose you’d, you know, take care of Old Bert for me. I mean, the old boy hasn’t had a treat in a good long time, if you know what I’m saying, and I want to do something special for him.”

Oh God. She couldn’t be serious. Miranda sat up slowly, turning away from Lily. “I’d pay you, of course, honey. Professional courtesy and all,” Noreen looked at her expectantly. Something about her made Miranda feel almost bad for refusing.

“I’m so sorry, Noreen, but I don’t work when I have my kid,” she said. “Gotta separate work and family, if you know what I mean,” she winked at Noreen, feeling a little sick. Turns out being in disguise wasn’t quite as fun as it had once seemed.

Noreen sat back with a sigh. “Of course, of course. Can’t blame you, really. Guess I’ll just have to think of something else.”

Roberta, of course, had just shaken her head when she’d heard about Rick.

“I’m sorry to hear it, but Miranda, you couldn’t have expected anything else,” she said, walking away down the hall. The other nurses expressed sympathy, but they really didn’t understand her grief. Miranda didn’t have to pretend distress over losing Rick. She missed him horribly, and continued to drop weight. Since her mother’s death, she had lost nearly 20 pounds, becoming someone frail, vulnerable. Someone she barely recognized.

Lily provided her only bright spot. Every morning, Miranda would wake up, resolving to return the little girl to her family. But then Lily would giggle, and she would think “just one more day.” She didn’t really mean to keep her – but she couldn’t have left her alone in that house, could she?

Of course not. You should have driven her straight to the sheriff’s station, the stern voice in her head replied, when you went in to report the crime. But she hadn’t done it. She didn’t have the heart. Not to turn Lily over to the authorities. Not to tell anyone that Sandy had somehow killed her own baby. Sandy was dead – that should be enough. I want her, she argued with herself. I can take care of her, and I want to give her a good life. No one on the res has even missed her. No one is looking for her. Even if they had her, they wouldn’t take care of her. I couldn’t do anything for Rick, but I was his friend, and I can save his daughter.

Somehow, that argument kept winning, even though Miranda herself could see the gaping holes in it.

She continued to leave Lily alone during the day, although she arranged her schedule to come home at lunchtime, and did most of her paperwork at home now, instead of in the office. The little girl never got into trouble. As far as Miranda could tell, she never left the house. She would play with her teddy bear and the cars and dolls Miranda had gotten for her. She watched TV. She fed herself sparsely from the healthy snacks Miranda left out. She used the toilet. She was a silent, unnatural child, clearly understanding what was said to her, but not ever speaking.

Miranda began to fantasize that this really could last forever. She could raise this lovely child in isolation, and no one would ever know. Lily was truly Princess TigerLily, the Indian princess from Neverland, being hidden from her enemies by a kindly fairy. She would grow up in ignorance of her true heritage, but when she became a teenager, all would be revealed. She would marry a prince and go to Harvard and live happily ever after.

But one of her enemies found her first. Miranda had stopped at a 7-11 in Vallejo to call one of her patients and let her know she was running late. A couple of guys were hanging around near the dumpster, laughing and not-so-surreptitiously sniffing paint. Their eyes followed her as she crossed the parking lot to the payphone.

“Hey, nursey!” one of them called out. She turned her head reflexively and recognized Donny Fuentes. His hair was tangled and his eyes glazed over. He looked like he'd been living in the dumpster that he was leaning against. He pushed off and staggered in her direction.

“Donny,” she said calmly. “You look like shit.”

“Nursey,” he said in the same tone, “You look like lunch.” He ran his tongue lasciviously over cracked lips. She turned and kept walking toward the phone. He lurched after her. “How come you don’t visit us no more?”

She turned back around. “Because your brother is dead. Or hadn’t you heard?”

“I fucking found him, bitch!” He leaned towards her menacingly. “Fucking guts pouring outta his body.”
She lowered her gaze to the ground and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember. “That bitch Sandy, she fucked him up good.” He planted his legs in a firmer stance and took a deep breath. “My baby’s dead, too, did you know ‘bout that?”
She hadn’t really thought of it that way, that Donny had lost not only a brother, but a son. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Yeah, I bet. You didn’t even come to the fucking funeral!” His face was red, small blood vessels broken in his eyes, and around his nose.

“I didn’t know about it. No one told me,” she said. “I would have come.”

He stared over her head. “Michael was supposed to take care of everything, but he fucking left.” He sat down suddenly on the pavement, sniveling. Miranda felt the first stab of true pity for him. He was so pathetic, so lost.

“Where did Michael go?” she said.

“I don’t know. Some goddamn college, in New Hampshire. Starts with a ‘D.’”

“Dartmouth?” she said, surprised. She had mentioned their Indian scholarship program to him at the coffee shop that night.

“I guess. Some shit like that. Fucking bastard, ran out on his family.”

She crouched down to get closer to his level. “Does this mean you’re the oldest son left at home, Donny?” He stared up at her angrily.

“Shut the fuck up.”

She stood and went to the phones. Two of his friends came over and picked him up off the ground, dragging him back to the dumpster. She ignored them, made her phone call, and got back in her car. No wonder he was so trashed. He was responsible for the family now.

She decided to go home first, to check on Lily before seeing her next two patients. She hurried, thinking about how she could streamline her visits to get home sooner. She pulled into her driveway and opened the front door with a lighter heart, striding inside.

“Where’s my girl?” Little footsteps came pounding down the hall and Lily threw herself into Miranda’s open arms. She picked her up and hugged her tight, whirling her in a little circle. The whirling came to a quick stop when she saw a shape looming in the doorway. Donny stood there, still impaired, leering.

“You’ve got her! I fucking knew you were there. I told the cops you were there. They didn’t give a shit – two more Indians, killing each other off. Open and shut. No big deal.” He advanced towards her while she backed away, Lily gone quiet in her arms. “Did you watch Sandy blow my brother away?”

“No,” she whispered. “I saw him, in the morning, but he was all alone. I knew Sandy was coming over, but I left before she got there.” He sneered at her.

“That’s why you took my niece? Because everything was totally normal?” He made a grab for Lily, but Miranda evaded him. She set Lily down and whispered to her, “go into my room and lock the door. Don’t let anyone in until I tell you it’s ok. Go!” Lily ran down the hall and slammed the door, locking it. Miranda searched the room for a weapon while Donny tried to circle around her. He was tall, and tough, even if he was high and in bad shape. She knew she wouldn’t have any chance in a fair fight. She backed toward the coatrack, as if she were heading out the door. He lunged, and she snatched an umbrella off the stand, dropping abruptly to her knees. He missed, and while his weight was thrown forward, she whacked him in the back of the knees, sending him to the ground. He cussed, and she kept whacking at him, hearing him cry out each time a blow landed. He threw his arms up, tried to grab it from her, but his coordination was way off. He tried to roll into her legs, to bring her down as well, but she was too agile. She landed one good hit on the side of his head, and he slumped, unconscious. She checked him quickly. to make sure she hadn’t seriously injured him, but his breathing was regular. She got some thick twine out of the kitchen and tied his wrists tightly behind his back, then did the same to his feet. He’d break it eventually, but not easily. She left him on the floor and ran to get Lily. She put the little girl in the car, strapping her with shaking hands into the car seat she’d bought for her. She ran back in the house, and pulled out a couple of big duffel bags, packing frantically. Lily’s things didn’t take up much room, so she concentrated on her own, all the clothes she could reasonably bring, toiletries, sheets and blankets, extra food. She loaded up the car, running back and forth, filling up the back seat when the trunk got full. She grabbed the accordion file of important paperwork, her box of keepsakes, her purse. The photo albums. All her jewelry. A portable radio. Extra batteries. Her mind seemed to be operating on super-speed. Everything valuable, irreplaceable, practical.

Finally, she seemed to be done. She went back into the house. Donny was still out – alcohol and paint fumes doing as much or more than her blow to the head to keep him unconscious. She put her hands under his arms and dragged him through the kitchen and out to the back porch. She didn’t want him in her house, but she didn’t want to leave him in front, either, where Troy or another neighbor might inconveniently run across him. She closed all the windows and locked up the house, taking one last wistful look around. She picked up the umbrella, her weapon, and her good coat, and got in the car, peeling out.

Everything needs to look normal, she thought. So she went to her next two patients, completing her visits efficiently and notating their charts. She stopped by the office, parking far away so no one would look inside her car and ask about Lily, or what the heck she was doing, packing her entire household around. It was nearly deserted, luckily, except for the secretary, who was practically napping in the late morning quiet. She left every chart she had on her desk, as well as all equipment belonging to the agency. Then she wrote Roberta a quick note, asking for a leave of absence. She apologized for the lack of notice, saying that she had just located her father and he was very ill, so she was going out to visit him. She promised to be in touch, and left the envelope on Roberta’s desk, grateful to be escaping without having to answer to her sharp-eyed presence.

She took Lily by McDonald’s for a pee break and some food, then scooted onto the 15 north, heading up towards Los Angeles.

She was tense, nervous, but also relieved. It was over, finally. The fake life she’d been living – every piece of it. She wanted the child, and she was taking her. No more justifications. It was wrong, but she was doing it anyway. Everything else had been taken from her, but Lily, she would keep.

She pulled over for another rest stop near Corona, which reeked of steer manure. She went to the local Bank of America and virtually emptied her bank account, telling the teller she was going to live in Europe for a year.

“And who’s this little precious?” the teller exclaimed over Lily, who was quietly holding Miranda’s hand.

“My cousin’s daughter,” she lied easily. “I’m taking her back to her mom.” Stupid! She cursed herself. When Donny sends the police after me, they’ll find out I emptied my accounts here, they’ll interview this teller, and she’ll tell them I have Lily. Too late to worry now. She hustled Lily back into the car and kept going.

I won’t get too far if I keep making obvious mistakes like that. No credit cards, cash only. Gotta change the car asap. Wouldn’t hurt to do a littledisguising, either. She struggled through late afternoon LA traffic, and made it onto the 10 heading east, a little before sunset. Lily never complained, just rode, big-eyed and silent, through all the strange sights and sounds. She pulled off the freeway around 7 pm, somewhere near Rancho Cucamonga. She found a Motel 6 and paid cash for a room on the ground floor, unloading everything in the car.

First, the car. She asked the clerk for a used car lot, which wasn’t too far away. She left Lily in the room and went to check it out. Luckily, it was still open – late hours in the summertime. She checked out the selection in her price range, haggling for a better trade-in price for her Civic, a lower price for the replacement car. She ended up driving off in a fairly new green Ford Escort wagon. It would take the cops awhile to find where she had traded in the Civic. She intended to trade at least once more before reaching her destination.

Next, she found a drugstore and a cheap clothing store. She brought her purchases back to the room, along with Taco Bell for dinner. Over the next couple of hours, she transformed herself, and Lily. She cut Lily’s hair short and dressed her in boy’s clothes, then dyed her own hair a brilliant shade of red, even dyeing her eyebrows, although the directions said not to. She painted on some bright red lipstick, pasted on fake nails, and put on the tight, lowcut shirt she’d bought. She didn’t want to look like a nurse anymore. She sure didn’t. She looked like a Mexican whore. She shrugged. That would work.

They watched TV for awhile, then fell asleep. Miranda awoke before dawn. She showered and got Lily cleaned up, then loaded up the car. They drove for two hours before stoppping for breakfast. She ordered oatmeal and fruit, a big glass of milk for Lily (Louie) and several cups of black coffee for herself. It seemed normal, somehow. She was on the road, on a new road, with Rick’s daughter. At first, she hadn’t known where she was going, she was just running, away from Donny, from her former life, from death and grief and violence and desertion. But now she knew. She would go where no one would expect her to go. She would go to a place where she could find refuge, a place she belonged, even though she had never been there. Sipping her coffee and slicing apples for Lily, Miranda knew she was running into the arms of the Navajo Nation.

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.

Miranda lay back on the sand, shielding her eyes from the dim-bright sun. She felt the sand shifting beneath her, hollowing out under her hips, lifting to fill in the line of her spine. A sand bed, that’s what I need, she thought, wiggling her shoulder blades deeper in.

It was so easy to forget how close the ocean really was to her secluded valley. No more than half an hour, without much traffic. Few of her patients were this far west. She worked mostly north and south on the I-15, up as far as Temecula, south as far as Mira Mesa. Lots of patients in Escondido, Vista, San Marcos, Rancho Bernardo, and Poway. She knew the winding back roads as well as any county road worker, but the ocean, so close, was an infrequent refuge.

She remembered Nadine bringing her here, sometimes with Lupe, when she was just a little kid. The water was so cold, even in midsummer, and the massive chunks of kelp that washed ashore had frightened her, lying like stinking carcasses, rotting under the hot sun. But she had liked the sand, and the heat, and dipping her toes in the water. She would dig for hours, constructing elaborate crumbling edifices that never had shape for anyone but her. Nadine would grill hot dogs on the hibachi, and sometimes skewers of marinated beef. There would be fruit and cold water in the little styrofoam cooler. Her mother had had an elaborate system for making sure that no grains of wayward sand ever ended up in the food. Part of the system ensured that Miranda herself most often ended up coated in sand, from her efforts to stay off the blanket and away from the cooking food. Then she would have to trot down to the ocean and wash off her hands before eating, holding them out in front of her chubby brown body on the way back, shaking them dry.

Her favorite swimsuit had been a red and white striped sailor suit, with a tiny blue skirt and a square white collar with anchors embroidered on the corners. She felt like a Rockette in it, and would do high kicks in the water, sending the chilly spray tossing in sparkling arcs, while her mother cheered and laughed. In the photograph of her mind, she saw her mother clapping, a lit cigarette dangling from one slender hand.

She inched farther away from the water as she felt it lick at her calves, and turned over onto her stomach, hiking up her t-shirt so the sun could stroke her lower back. I am all alone, she thought. My family is dead or gone, my boyfriend left me, and my only remaining friend belted me to the ground. She snuggled her hurt face into the sand, seeking the coolness hiding beneath the warm top layer. She knew she should put ice on it, but she didn’t want to. She wanted a souvenir. This was the first time in memory she had been struck by another human being. She felt the memory of violence in her bones and wanted the physical evidence to remain with her awhile.

It didn’t feel so bad, this aloneness. There was a pleasant numbness to it, a cessation of feeling that she found soothing. Like the cold seeping into her feet from their intermittent bathing in the spring-cold ocean. Bradley had been an annoyance, a grain of gritty sand in her hot dog, constantly urging her to feel something, to take some sort of action on her own behalf. Rick, too, had inspired her to feel things, for him, or about him. Protective things, worry things. But not anymore.

The chill seeped up into the rest of her body, starting a series of unpleasant shivers. She stayed on for awhile anyway. She was a mermaid, after all, and the cold water her born element. But soon enough, her stomach grumbled, and that was enough to finally get her moving. The body is no respecter of emotional pain, or the desperate run therefrom. It just keeps its own cycles, ingesting, digesting and shitting out the waste, no matter what else is going on.

She wandered up the strand and got a couple of tacos from a stand she was sure hadn’t been there the last time she was here. Oceanside had such a temporary feel about it, as though it had been built by two of the Three Little Pigs. Eateries in falling-down shacks, a couple of flaking apartment buildings, too many liquor stores. Despite the massive presence of military personnel, perhaps even because of it, the place wasn’t safe, especially after dark. Too many eighteen-year-old Marines from places like Tennessee and Nebraska, stationed up in Camp Pendleton, living down here because it was close and affordable. Too green to have any self-control, trained up to be strong and tough. Bad combination. Miranda shook her head. They should keep them on the base, she thought, until they grew up a little. Like reservations, for the immature.

The next day was Saturday, and then Sunday. Miranda did not go to Paco Ano. She did not see Rick. She puttered around the house, chopping at the weeds in the orchard, scrubbing the kitchen floor, and both bathrooms. She even rehabilitated the henhouse, thinking she might get herself a chicken or two. She missed the fresh eggs. But then she’d have to get a dog, to protect the chickens, and she didn’t know if she could take care of a dog right now. It would want her to love it.

Her face turned a deep purple, her mouth so swollen she was reduced to eating soup and yogurt for two days. It finally started to go down and turn that sickly yellow color on the third day. She put a little makeup on it, but that seemed to make it look worse, so she washed it off.

On Monday, she went on her rounds, and ended up in the office around 2pm, doing paperwork. She had her head down, paying no attention to various comings and goings around her, until she heard a throat clearing just over her head. She looked up and saw a huge bouquet of brilliant red poppies.

The delivery guy, a skinny boy of about nineteen or twenty years, said, “Miranda Ruth?” She nodded. He popped his gum and handed over his clipboard. “Sign here.”

She signed and he disappeared, dropping a large white envelope on her desk next to the poppies. Her first thought was that they were from Bradley, trying again to make up with her. But then she opened the envelope. There were three sketches inside, all in charcoal, but so vivid she felt as though she were seeing in full color, like the really good old black and white movies. They were torn down one side, yanked right out of Rick’s sketch book.

The first sketch showed a legless warrior, hands open and dripping with blood, while an ice storm swirled around him. The second showed a squaw, wrapped in what she knew was a brilliantly colored patterned blanket, huddled on the ground under a tree, with icy boughs threatening to drop ice on her black head. The squaw unmistakably wore Miranda’s face. The third showed them together, blood dripping off the warrior’s hands as he touched the fingers of the reaching squaw, the first signs of spring breaking through the snowdrifts around them.

It was a stunning apology.

The other nurses clustered around, so she quickly bundled the sketches away and brushed off their inquiries with a knowing smile that left them all chuckling, but Roberta, who had been standing behind her, called her into her office.

“What are you getting into, Miranda?” she demanded, as soon as the door was shut.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that massive bruise near your mouth, which you should have taken better care of, and those flowers from this agency’s least favorite patient.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” said Miranda. It wasn’t much use to try to lie to Roberta.

“Miranda, honey.” Miranda was startled to hear the endearment, wrung from Roberta’s tough old mouth. “You’ve been warned about Rick. Don’t let all our predictions come true.”

“I won’t.”

“So you say. But all the other nurses I sent out there at least had the good sense to detest him. They were…better protected. But you, you with your incredibly compassionate and generous heart, you are not protected. You are totally vulnerable, and I am worried sick about you. I have a mind to make Brenda take him back.”

“You will not,” said Miranda. “He’s mine.” She heard her own tone, and turned away, not meeting Roberta’s canny old eyes.

“And that is exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve…I don’t know. You’ve adopted him, somehow. You’re identifying with him, and that’s downright dangerous. Look in the mirror, Miranda. He’s already hurt you, and he’ll hurt you more. Please, at least let me get some of the other nurses to spell you, so you can get a little more distance. You’re too involved, and it’s not healthy.”

“Roberta, I’ve lost my whole family in six months,” she said, hating to drag out this personal stuff in front of her boss. “Rick is what I have left. Don’t take him from me. This,” she indicated her face, “shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t, not ever again. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Roberta stared at her and sighed, then nodded. “All right, for now. But I swear, Miranda, if I see one more danger sign, I’m taking you off him faster than a stripper gets naked for a hundred dollar bill.”

“Got it,” said Miranda, exiting swiftly.

She went to see Rick first thing Tuesday morning, figuring he would be a terrible mess, and it would take twice as long as usual. But he was in pretty good shape. Someone had been caring for him, if not quite as well as Miranda, far better than when she had first arrived on the job.

“Good morning,” she said calmly, pulling on her latex gloves and setting to work without further comment.

“G’morning,” he said cautiously. They went through most of the routine nearly silently.

“The flowers were pretty,” she said finally.

“I just wanted something red.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Seemed to fit you.” She nodded and rolled him to one side for the wound care. “Did you like the pictures?” he said to the wall.

“They were beautiful,” she said shortly.

“I’m sorry, Miranda.” She cut him off.

“You’ve already said. With the pictures. I forgive you.” She swabbed A&D ointment over the wounds, nearly closed now, wrapped them in bandages, and rolled him back onto his back. “But I won’t forgive you again, Rick, not for something like that, no matter how many pictures you draw, or how many flowers you send.”

“Yeah,” he said heavily. “I know.”

Miranda turned away from the bed with the basin full of dirty water and nearly tripped over Lily, who had opened the door silently and stood just inside, fingers stuck in her mouth, a sad-looking Barbie dangling from her other hand.

“She likes to play in here,” said Rick. “Can she stay?”

“Sure, as long as she’s in the corner and not in the medical supplies.”

“C’mere,” said Rick, in as soft a tone as Miranda had ever heard from him. The little girl ran over to him. He tickled her sides and she giggled, a sound Miranda hadn’t been sure she could make. She looked up at him with glowing eyes as he directed her to sit over in the corner and play with her dollie.
“I didn’t see Sandy,” said Miranda, coming back in with a fresh bowl of water.

“She ain’t here. She went to Mexico with her mom.” Miranda hid a satisfied grin.

“So Lily’s staying with you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes strayed to his daughter, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“She’s a cutie pie.”

“She’s an okay little kid,” he replied, never taking his eyes off her. Lily held the Barbie awkwardly in her arms, cradling it, stroking its tattered blonde hair. She never made a sound, and after awhile, Miranda forgot she was there.

Miranda imagined she was happy. At least, there wasn’t so much active pain anymore. She got up, went to work, and spent most of the rest of her time with Bradley, who was still living with her and seemed content enough. The chilly gray season passed and spring arrived, complete with the very first two macadamia nuts. She and Bradley divided them up carefully with a sharp knife, and ate them at the kitchen table, exclaiming over each buttery morsel.

“Darlin’, my job’s almost over here,” Bradley said, reaching for her hand. You’re in my mother’s chair, she thought.

“But it’s not even close to finished.”

“Closer than you think. Besides, my job was to supervise major construction, which really is just about done. Now it’s mostly finish work, and they’ll want Harry to supervise that.”

She picked at the formica table top with her fingernail. “So, are you leaving?” She almost felt something, like a glacier overtaking her in slow degrees, but the cold didn’t bother her much since she had already been lying frozen on the ground for months. The weight of it, however, was crushing.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon. A week or two.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve been offered a position in Pennsylvania, building a mall. It’s a good job – great pay for finishing early.”

“I’m glad for you,” she said. The words came from a faraway place. Not her throat. Not her brain.

“Mir, come with me.”

She jerked to her feet, crossing awkwardly to the coffee machine. “What? No, I can’t.”

“Why not? You’re a nurse. Every place needs nurses. I’m positive you could get a good job.”

“I live here. This is my home.” She started putting coffee in the machine, even though it was 9:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, and neither of them would want to be up all night.

He got up and put his arms around her from behind, stilling her hands. “Home isn’t a place.”

“For me it is.” His arms dropped away and he turned from her. “I thought you loved me, Miranda.”

“I’ve never said so.” She could practically watch the words coming out of her mouth, like cartoon bubbles, etched in ice.

“Oh, don’t I know it. The famous, self-sufficient Miranda Ruth would never admit to loving anybody. But Mir, we’ve been living together more than six months now. I’ve been with you through every single awful thing you’ve been through this year. For Pete’s sake, Miranda, doesn’t that count for something?”

“I’m…grateful,” she said stiffly, not turning away from the counter.

“So when you make love to me in your bed, when you reach for me in the middle of the night, is that because you’re grateful?” he said bitterly. “You’re just paying me off because I’m so nice to you? Shit, if I knew that’s what it was, I’d have driven a harder bargain.”

“I tried to break up with you,” she said weakly. “You wouldn’t leave.”

“Oh, I see. So you tried to throw me out because you didn’t love me or need me, but I was just such a bully I stayed and you couldn’t do anything about it.”

That did sound stupid, when he put it like that.

“I told you I wasn’t what you needed.”

“But that wasn’t true. You are what I need. Everything I need. The only family, the only home I want. But apparently, what you’re telling me is that I’m not what you need. In fact, you don’t need. You don’t need anyone.”

She stared at the floor. “Yes,” she said, nearly inaudibly.

“Say it again, Miranda. Look me in the eye and tell me again. Loud, so I can hear it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she were back in the creek, or in the orchard with her back against a tree, or even driving down a yellow, dusty road. Anywhere she felt strong. Not here. Not here.

“This is my home,” she said, staring into his angry blue eyes. “You are not.” The words burned her throat, coming up like tiny chunks of icy vomit. His neck snapped as if she had slapped him.

“I tried to love you, Mir, I tried as hard as any man could.” He left the room, and Miranda heard him packing in the other room.

“I know,” she whispered to herself. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” But a part of her wasn’t. Some dark, nasty inner part of Miranda was glad he was going. Breathed easier.

She went to the kitchen door when she heard him in the living room. “You won’t see me again, Miranda,” he said, struggling under several heavy bags.

“What if I find something you’ve left?” she asked.

“Sell it. Toss it. I don’t give a fuck.” He slammed out the door, banging his bags on the doorframe and nearly throwing himself to the ground. He threw the bags in the back of his car. “Can’t you even say goodbye?” he shouted.

“No,” she said, and turned and went inside, locking the door behind her. She heard his car peel out, wheels spinning in the gravelly dirt. When he was gone, she made herself a cup of tea and sat out on the front porch, listening to the crickets and frogs, watching the patch of dead grass just within the circle of the porch light. Nothing moved in it. She was the biggest thing alive out here, but for the silent trees.

She sipped her tea – cinnamon – and enjoyed the peace. She slept soundly that night, alone in her bed, the scent of Bradley already fading from the sheets, his brief appearance in her life already fading from her mind. He was temporary. Unimportant. She was eternal, part of things. She would continue on and on here. Just like her mother.

The next morning, she ate a bowl of cereal with fruit in her quiet kitchen. After breakfast, before she left for the day, she retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her mother’s secret stash and smoked one out on the back porch. She emptied the ashtray as soon as she was done, as though someone might catch her. She brushed her teeth thoroughly, and stuck a piece of gum in her mouth. Then she got in her car, and went to see Rick, out on Paco Ano.

“You been smoking?” he said, as she bent over him.

“You weren’t supposed to notice.”

“You’re chewing gum, and your clothes smell like smoke.” He laughed, delighted to have caught her out in bad behavior.

“Okay, Mom, you got me,” she said, smiling against her will. “Am I grounded?”

“You shouldn’t smoke,” he said. “That shit’ll kill you.” She pulled a half pack of cigarettes off his bedside table and waved it at him.

“Neither should you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, “I’m half dead anyway.”

“No, you damn well aren’t,” she said, yanking the sheet from under him while he pulled up on his bar.

“Easy!” he said, as the sheet caught on one of his legs, dragging it halfway off the bed. She stopped and put him back into alignment, bundling the sheet more carefully.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong with you? Shit. I didn’t do nothing.”

“No. It’s not you.” She unfolded the new sheet and worked it under him as he shifted from side to side. She blew out a breath. “I broke up with my boyfriend last night.”

“That redneck dude Michael saw you with?”

She snorted. “Yeah, I guess.”

“He’ll be happy.”

Miranda rounded on him, fists on her hips. “What do you mean by that?”

Rick grinned slyly. “Michael told me what happened in the parking lot. You like him.”

“He kissed me,” said Miranda flatly. “I told him not to, but he did anyway. That was it.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, but he kept grinning. Miranda growled to herself, irritated with him in a way far beyond the usual.

“Why do you keep seeing that Sandy, anyway?” she demanded, ready to spread her anger around.

“What’s wrong with her?” he stopped grinning, immediately on the defensive.

“Oh, nothing. Except that she left you once you became paralyzed and fucked your brother and had his baby.”

“Shut up!” he said, red-faced. “You don’t know shit about it. We had a fight and it was my fault!” He jammed his finger into his own chest, practically spitting. “I was lucky she came back to me, do you hear me?”

“She’s lucky!” Miranda shouted back, just as fiercely. “She’s goddamn lucky you took her back! She doesn’t love you, Rick! She loves your money. This whole fucking house is in love with your money. You deserve better.”

“Better? What, better? I’m a fucking cripple, Miranda, who in the world would have me except the mother of my fucking daughter? I’m glad she wants my money, because otherwise I would be sitting in this bed all alone, all the goddamn time, having fantasies about the next time you were coming over to give me a fucking bath.”

She glared at him. “That would be better than sitting back here, waiting for your brother to finish with her so she’ll come back and fuck you after.”

A loud sound rang out. It took Miranda awhile to realize that she had been smacked hard across the face and was now lying on the floor, more than halfway across the room. She noticed the layer of dirt on the tile under her face, not too thick, but gritty. She sat up slowly, testing her jaw for movement. A deep ache started in the left side of her face. She got to her feet.

“Damn, Miranda, I’m sorry,” he said, pleading.

“You just called me Miranda,” she said, and laughed, stopping and wincing at the instant pain that shot through her jaw. She approached the bed. “Friends tell each other the truth, Rick, even when it hurts, even when it’s not what they want to hear. I’m the only friend you have. I thought that you were my friend, too, but I can see that’s not true. I’m leaving now.” And she turned for the door, leaving him unwashed, his bandages unchanged.

“You can’t leave me like this.”

“I could have you arrested for battery,” she said, the words coming hard from her rapidly swelling mouth.

“Are you coming back?”

“That’s up to you.” And she left. Damned if she’d give him step by step instructions on how to make this right. She got in her car. She reached a 7-11 in Vallejo and stopped to call Roberta and let her know she was unable to finish her patients for the day. She thought about going home, but instead, she just kept driving. She hit the I-15 and went south, then west on the 78. She kept going until she felt the ocean breeze. She exited and went north to Oceanside, parking on a little back street and heading down to the water. It wasn’t crowded, too early in the season to be hot enough for the sunlovers. She took off her shoes and socks and wandered right in, crouching down to lift a handful of cool seawater to her hot face. It was swelling up into quite a lump. She sat, her butt in the dry sand, her feet in the wet, watching the tiny waves wash over her toes. A few salmon-colored clouds hung in the sky, the sea a strange steely color stretching out and out.

Miranda wondered if she had deserved it. She had been angry, and not exactly tactful. She had been provoking him, quite deliberately, to avoid talking about Bradley. Or Michael. All right, she had been cruel. She could admit that. But no one deserved to be hit. She did believe that, quite firmly. Not even Sandy, as she’d already told him. But somehow, she couldn’t help feeling somewhat guilty. She was the adult. She knew who he was, what he was. She knew he was violent. She was the one who had been unprofessional, who had stuck a pole into the den of a wild animal. Wasn’t it her own fault that she got bit?

And so it was that Bradley stood with her, not just at her mother’s funeral, but at Lupe’s. At least he looks good in a suit, she thought, as the little ladies from Lupe’s knitting circle came and clasped her hands, one after the other.

The morning after her car had broken down, he had unpacked his bag and made her breakfast, taken her to the mechanic and made sure the car was set to be towed and repaired, her work schedule rearranged, before he left her for the day. There had been no discussion. He was a force of nature, and she simply didn’t have the wherewithal to resist him.

Lupe had lingered for a few days, fading a little more each time Miranda saw her, like a morning glory at mid-afternoon. She seemed to brighten when Bradley visited, even working up a little energy to wink and flirt, but soon she disappeared to a place where even he couldn’t reach her. She went quietly, slipping out of life in the middle of a busy hospital afternoon. Miranda wasn’t with her at the time, she was with Rick, helping him with his release paperwork. His fever was over, the random infection cured with the miracle of intravenous antibiotics. Michael stood over her impatiently, waiting to take Rick home. They were both pestering her like four-year-olds, impatient to get out of that white, sterile place and back to the gritty world they knew.

Miranda’s pager went off. She checked it and took off running without a backward glance. She skidded to a stop in front of Lupe’s room. An angel-faced young nurse was sitting with Lupe.

“She went just now,” the nurse said to her quietly. “In peace. Would you like a few moments alone?” Miranda nodded mutely.

She noted it again, instantly, that difference between life and not-life. She held Lupe’s hand, but it felt now like the shell it was. She was gone, migrated back to where she’d started, this tiny sack of yellowed, waxy flesh uninhabited.

“Good hunting, Grandma,” she whispered. She didn’t stay long, just long enough to pick up Lupe’s few possessions – her eyeglasses on a ribbon, a small bottle of Grandma-scented powder. The tears didn’t even try with her this time. She was dried up, as dusty inside as the summer road to Paco Ano. Rick and Michael had alaready gone when she checked back on their floor, so she left and finished up her patients for the day, telling no one about Lupe.

After her last patient, she went to the Civic Center site. The suite of buildings – a new City hall, a large, modern theater, a library, and several other facilities – was going up fast. She could see its pretty bones rising, surprisingly graceful for a suburban administration building. She asked around among the construction crew, ignoring the whistles that followed her over to a small mobile trailer. Bradley was inside, bent over a set of architectural plans with several other weathered men in safety helmets and an attractive woman in a nicely tailored suit who was apparently the architect.

“Hey, darlin’ – wait for me one sec?” he said, ignoring the sharp elbows and sharper grins of his co-workers. She sat down on a lumpy couch in a corner and stared out the filthy aluminum window while he wrapped up his meeting. “Now if y’all will excuse me,” he drawled in his southernmost accent, “my lady awaits.” The crew shuffled out with frank glances in her direction while the woman shook his hand and left, pulling a pair of expensive sunglasses from her trendy handbag and climbing into a BMW. She made Miranda feel very much the blue-collar worker in her jeans and sneakers, her hair drawn back in its usual coated rubber band.

“So, scrumptious, what brings you here?” He sat beside her and stretched his arm across the back of the sofa. He leaned over to nuzzle her neck, but she put a hand on his chest.

“It’s Grandma. She died this afternoon.” He froze.

“Oh, lord. Poor Lupe. Were you with her?”

“No, they paged me after,” she said, omitting the fact that she’d been at the hospital, with Rick.

He hugged her tight. Miranda accepted it, but then got to her feet quickly, pacing the small trailer.

“How can you work in here?” she asked. “It’s so small, and dark.”

“Most of the time, I’m out there,” he said, pointing towards the site. “This is just so the plans don’t get so dirty we can’t read ‘em, and for meetings. Also, as foreman, I get to use the trailer instead of the honey bucket."

She looked at him blankly, then followed his gaze to the line of portable toilets just outside. “Honey buckets. Nice.”

“You all right?” he said, giving her a peculiar look.

“Yeah,” she said, digging at the hard, dark carpet with her sneaker. “She was ready.”

“What about you?”

“I’m never ready, but there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“How ‘bout I take you out for dinner tonight. And even, big step here, a movie.” She smiled. He was trying so hard. He was so kind.

“Sure. That sounds great.” He smiled back, pleased that she was letting him take care of her. “I’ll let you get back to work,” she said.

“Good idea. Those cretins will be making all sorts of lewd suggestions about what we’re doing in here.” He gave her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be taking notes for later.” He winked at her. “Meet you at home.”

“Meet you at home,” she responded automatically. As they stepped outside, she suddenly turned to Bradley and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a huge kiss. Whistles and catcalls went up all across the site.

“What was that for?” he said, both surprised and a little bit pleased at her public display.

“Nothing at all,” she said, and strolled off. She might not always be certain how she felt about Bradley, but she sure didn’t want that lady architect to have any doubts as to what on this job site was not hers to touch.

Lupe’s funeral was both horrible and cathartic, in the way of most funerals. Nadine’s had been colder – she had fewer friends, was more isolated from her community, and it had shown in the lack of personal touches. Lupe’s was like a coffee klatch, with tears and laughter and gossip and unwanted advice thrown around all in roughly equal measure. One of Lacey Green’s homemade blankets was spread across the closed casket. It would be spread over her knees and buried with her after. No burning for Lupe, she wanted the feel of solid earth around her.

“You’ll still come by to visit us, won’t you, dear?” said little Yolanda Gomez. “And bring your young man,” she added, craning her neck to look all the way up at Bradley.

“Of course,” she said. “How’s your granddaughter’s knitting coming?”

“She’s doing well,” Yolanda said proudly. “She’s more patient than some little girls I know.” She gave Miranda a pointed glance. “Lacey is teaching her some special stitches.”

“That’s wonderful. Please tell her I said hello.”

Blind Marlena Perkins came by, her hand on her solid son’s arm. “You’ve met my little William, Miranda,haven’t you?”

“Little” William was well over 200 pounds, his suit jacket straining to close over his massive chest and belly. He rolled his eyes under his mop of wild black curls.

“Yes, many times. Good to see you, William. This is Bradley, I don’t think you’ve met.” The pleasantries continued for hours as what seemed like every single resident of Sunshine Gardens came by.

“She touched a lot of people,” Bradley murmured in her ear.

“They probably all owe her money and are happy that she won’t be around to collect.”

“Miranda!” Bradley laughed in startlement.

“You never played poker with her,” she replied meaningfully. He grew thoughtful and began scanning the crowd more closely, looking for signs of relief on the faces of the mourners. She turned away, hiding a smile. Sometimes he was so gullible.

But the smile faded as the mourners left. She sat down in the front row of chairs, slumped against Bradley.

“She was the last of my family,” she said quietly. “Now I’ve got no one.”

“You and me both, darlin’” he said, his cheek resting on her hair. “Gets tiresome, I’ll tell you.”

“What happened to your family, Bradley? I know you don’t have any, but you’ve never really said.”

“You want to hear about that? Now?”

“Yes. Please.”

He heaved a sigh and settled her more firmly into his shoulder. “It’s a pretty boring, pathetically cliched story, but you want to hear it. Well, like many southern white trash families, I had a momma who got pregnant with me when she was just fifteen. She married my daddy, a boy from down the street who went to the same high school, and they moved into some tiny shack and tried to make it. But there was too much responsibility and not enough money and not one single adult in the house. Daddy left early – I don’t remember him at all, and we never heard from him.”

“Like me, sort of.”

“Yes, sort of. At least your momma was in her twenties, and had her momma around to help out. My poor momma was on her own. Her parents threw her out when they found out about me, and refused to help her at all. They died a few years later, cancer I think, I don’t really know. But they left the little they had to my momma’s older brother. Who later died in Vietnam.”

“So it was just you and your Ma.”

“Yes, for awhile. She got a job at a sugar mill and made enough to get us by.”

“Who took care of you?”

“Neighbors, sometimes, but a lot of times, I was alone.”

“Oh my God.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t the only one like that, by any means. By the time I was six, there was a whole gang of us little kids used to run around the streets during the day. But we weren’t alone that long. My momma, she was young, and lonely. She had boyfriends. Some of them moved in, and some of them even sort of took care of me. One of them got her pregnant again. I had a little sister for awhile. Precious, pretty little thing she was. Amanda.” His face grew tight. She said nothing, letting him take his time.

“One night, one of the boyfriends, not her father, another guy, got drunk and smacked her across the room. She hit her head on the sharp edge of a countertop and her brains spilled out all over the floor. I was fourteen, and I beat the living shit out of him – put him in the hospital.”

“She died,” Miranda said, feeling tired.

“She did indeed. And I went to juvenile hall for three years. My momma committed suicide while I was in there.”

“That’s…awful.” She put her hand on his thigh, feeling his warmth through the wool of his pants. “What was it like, in juvy?”

“Shit, darlin’, that’s not a story for pretty ears to hear. Juvy in rural Louisiana ain’t no joke. It was rough, and I didn’t exactly come out of there with a college-ready education. But I did have a lot of time to myself, and the library was mostly unused. I read a lot. That’s about all I want to say about it.”

“Were you angry with your mother?”

“Not much point. She was just a poor, messed-up little girl.”

The afternoon light faded around them, shafts of mote-filled sunlight striking to the floor.

“Do you have any regrets?”

“I used to think I regretted not killing him. But now I don’t think that’s true. I’d never have my life now if I had done that, and his piece of trash of a life was not worth mine. But I do have a regret. I wish, with all my heart, that before any of that ever happened, I had taken my little sister, and run.”