ShawshankRedemption the_bean_trees
 

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1. Take 30 quotes from the book ˂The Bean Trees˃, DON′T TAKE QUOTES FROM THE MOVIE. 2. Each quotes need to have 2-4 lines of notes.Pay attention to thematic development, literary techniques, character analysis—their actions, morals, decisions, motivations, impacts–critical plot elements, moral issues, cause and effect relationships etc. Include your own reflective statements concerning what you′ve noticed, thought, felt, etc. Integrate your observations and analysis with the textual evidence (quotes) Think about why things are written the way they are, why characters do what they do, what choices the author makes and why, think about worldview, choices 3. You must have page numbers for quotes and illustrations 4. No points for plot summary 5. right down the similarity between the book The Bean Trees and the book Shawshank Redemption.

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Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank RedemptionRita Hayworth and the Shawshank RedemptionRita Hayworth and the Shawshank RedemptionRita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption
There’s a guy like me in every state and federal prison in America, I guess–I’m
the guy who can get it for you. Tailor made cigarettes, a bag of reefer if you’re
partial to that, a bottle of brandy to celebrate your son or daughter’s high
school graduation, or anything else within reason, that is. It wasn’t always that way.

I came to Shawshank when I was just twenty, and I am one of the few people in
our happy little family willing to own up to what he did. I committed murder. I
put a large insurance policy on my wife — who was three years older than I was —
and then I fixed the brakes on the Chevrolet coupe her father had given us as a
wedding present. It worked out exactly as I had planned — except I hadn’t planned
on her stopping to pick up the neighbor woman and the neighbor woman’s infant son
on their way down Castle Hill and into town. The brakes let go and the car
crashed through the bushes at the edge of the town common, gathering speed.
Bystanders said it must have been doing fifty or better when it hit the base of
the Civil War statue and burst into flames.

I also hadn’t planned on getting caught, but caught I was. I got a season’s pass
into this place. Maine has no death-penalty, but the District Attorney saw to it
that I was tried for all three deaths and given three life sentences, to run one
after the other. That fixed up any chance of parole I might have for a long,
long time. The judge called what I had done “a hideous, heinous crime,” and it
was; but it is also in the past now. You can look it up in the yellowing files
of the Castle Rock Call, where the big headlines announcing my conviction look
sort of funny and antique next to the news of Hitler and Mussolini and FDR’s
alphabet soup agencies.

Have I rehabilitated myself, you ask? I don’t even know what that word means, at
least as far as prisons and corrections go. I think it’s a politician’s word. It
may have some other meaning, and it may be that I will have a chance to find
out, but that is the future – something cons teach themselves not to think
about. I was young, good-looking, and from the poor side of town. I knocked up a
pretty, sulky, headstrong girl who lived in one of the fine old houses on
Carbine Street. Her father was agreeable to the marriage if I would take a job
in the optical company he owned and “work my way up.” I found out that what he
really had in mind was keeping me in his house and under his thumb, like a
disagreeable pet that has not quite been housebroken and which may bite. Enough
hate eventually piled up to cause me to do what I did. Given a second chance, I
would not do it again, but I’m not sure that means I am rehabilitated.
Anyway, it’s not me I want to tell you about; I want to tell you about a guy
named Andy Dufresne. But before I can tell you about Andy, I have to explain a
few other things about myself. It won’t take long.

As I said, I’ve been the guy who can get it for you here at Shawshank for damn
near forty years. And that doesn’t just mean contraband items like extra

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cigarettes or booze, although those items always top the list. But I’ve gotten
thousands of other items for men doing time here, some of them perfectly legal
yet hard to come by in a place where you’ve supposedly been brought to be
punished. There was one fellow who was in for raping a little girl and exposing
himself to dozens of others; I got him three pieces of pink Vermont marble and
he did three lovely sculptures out of them – a baby, a boy of about twelve, and a
bearded young man. He called them The Three Ages of Jesus, and those pieces of
sculpture are now in the parlor of a man who used to be governor of this state.
Or here’s a name you may remember if you grew up north of Massachusetts-Robert
Alan Cote. In 1951 he tried to rob the First Mercantile Bank of Mechanic Falls,
and the holdup turned into a bloodbath – six dead in the end, two of them members
of the gang, three of them hostages, one of them a young state cop who put his
head up at the wrong time and got a bullet in the eye. Cote had a penny
collection. Naturally they weren’t going to let him have it in here, but with a
little help from his mother and a middleman who used to drive a laundry truck, I
was able to get it for him. I told him, Bobby, you must be crazy, wanting to
have a coin collection in a stone hotel full of thieves. He looked at me and
smiled and said, I know where to keep them. They’ll be safe enough. Don’t you
worry. And he was right. Bobby Cote died of a brain tumor in 1967, but that coin
collection has never turned up.

I’ve gotten men chocolates on Valentine’s Day; I got three of those green
milkshakes they serve at McDonald’s around St. Paddy’s Day for a crazy Irishman
named O’Malley; I even arranged for a midnight showing of Deep Throat and The
Devil in Miss Jones for a party of twenty men who had pooled their resources to
rent the films . . . although I ended up doing a week in solitary for that
little escapade. It’s the risk you run when you’re the guy who can get it.
I’ve gotten reference books and fuck-books, joke novelties like hand-buzzers and
itching powder, and on more than one occasion I’ve seen that a long-timer has
gotten a pair of panties from his wife or his girlfriend . . . and I guess
you’ll know what guys in here do with such items during the long nights when
time draws out like a blade. I don’t get all those things gratis, and for some
items the price comes high. But I don’t do it just for the money; what good is
money to me? I’m never going to own a Cadillac car or fly off to Jamaica for two
weeks in February. I do it for the same reason that a good butcher will only
sell you fresh meat: I got a reputation and I want to keep it. The only two
things I refuse to handle are guns and heavy drugs. I won’t help anyone kill
himself or anyone else. I have enough killing on my mind to last me a lifetime.
Yeah, I’m a regular Neiman-Marcus. And so when Andy Dufresne came to me in 1949
and asked if I could smuggle Rita Hayworth into the prison for him, I said it
would be no problem at all. And it wasn’t.

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II

When Andy came to Shawshank in 1948, he was thirty years old. He was a short,
neat little man with sandy hair and small, clever hands. He wore gold-rimmed
spectacles. His fingernails were always clipped, and they were always clean.
That’s a funny thing to remember about a man, I suppose, but it seems to sum
Andy up for me. He always looked as if he should have been wearing a tie. On the
outside he had been a vice-president in the trust department of a large Portland
bank. Good work for a man as young as he was, especially when you consider how
conservative most banks are . . . and you have to multiply that conservatism by
ten when you get up into New England, where folks don’t like to trust a man with
their money unless he’s bald, limping, and constantly plucking at his pants to
get his truss around straight. Andy was in for murdering his wife and her lover.

As I believe I have said, everyone in prison is an innocent man. Oh, they read
that scripture the way those holy rollers on TV read the Book of Revelation.
They were the victims of judges with hearts of stone and balls to match, or
incompetent lawyers, or police frame-ups, or bad luck. They read the scripture,
but you can see a different scripture in their faces. Most cons are a low sort,
no good to themselves or anyone else, and their worst luck was that their
mothers carried them to term.

In all my years at Shawshank, there have been less than ten men whom I believed
when they told me they were innocent. Andy Dufresne was one of them, although I
only became convinced of his innocence over a period of years. If I had been on
the jury that heard his case in Portland Superior Court over six stormy weeks in
1947-48, I would have voted to convict, too.

It was one hell of a case, all right; one of those juicy ones with all the right
elements. There was a beautiful girl with society connections (dead), a local
sports figure (also dead), and a prominent young businessman in the dock. There
was this, plus all the scandal the newspapers could hint at. The prosecution had
an open-and-shut case. The trial only lasted as long as it did because the DA
was planning to run for the U.S. House of Representatives and he wanted John Q.
Public to get a good long look at his resume. It was a crackerjack legal circus,
with spectators getting in line at four in the morning, despite the subzero
temperatures, to assure themselves of a seat.

The facts of the prosecution’s case that Andy never contested were these: that
he had a wife, Linda Collins Dufresne; that in June of 1947 she had expressed an
interest in learning the game of golf at the Falmouth Hills Country Club; that
she did indeed take lessons for four months; that her instructor was the
Falmouth Hills golf pro, Glenn Quentin; that in late August of 1947 Andy learned
that Quentin and his wife had become lovers; that Andy and Linda Dufresne argued
bitterly on the afternoon of September 10th, 1947. that the subject of their

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argument was her infidelity.

He testified that Linda professed to be glad he knew; the sneaking around, she
said, was distressing. She told Andy that she planned to obtain a Reno divorce.
Andy told her he would see her in hell before he would see her in Reno. She went
off to spend the night with Quentin in Quentin’s rented bungalow not far from
the golf course. The next morning his cleaning woman found both of them dead in
bed. Each had been shot four times.

It was that last fact that militated more against Andy than any of the others.
The DA with the political aspirations made a great deal of it in his opening
statement and his closing summation. Andrew Dufresne, he said, was not a wronged
husband seeking a hot-blooded revenge against his cheating wife; that, the DA
said, could be understood, if not condoned. But this revenge had been of a much
colder type. Consider! the DA thundered at the jury. Four and four! Not six
shots, but eight! He had fired the gun empty . . . and then stopped to reload so
he could shoot each of them again! FOUR FOR HIM AND FOUR FOR HER, the
Portland Sun blared. The Boston Register dubbed him the “Even-Steven Killer.”

A clerk from the Wise Pawnshop in Lewiston testified that he had sold a six-shot
.38 Police Special to Andrew Dufresne just two days before the double murder. A
bartender from the country club bar testified that Andy had come in around seven
o’clock on the evening of September 10th, had tossed off three straight whiskeys
in a twenty-minute period-when he got up from the bar-stool he told the
bartender that he was going up to Glenn Quentin’s house and he, the bartender,
could “read about the rest of it in the papers.” Another clerk, this one from
the Handy-Pik store a mile or so from Quentin’s house, told the court that
Dufresne had come in around quarter to nine on that same night. He purchased
cigarettes, three quarts of beer, and some dishtowels. The county medical
examiner testified that Quentin and the Dufresne woman had been killed between
11:00 P.M. and 2:00 A.M. on the night of September 10th- 11th. The detective
from the Attorney General’s office who had been in charge of the case testified
that there was a turnout less than seventy yards from the bungalow, and that on
the afternoon of September 11th, three pieces of evidence had been removed from
that turnout: first item, two empty quart bottles of Narragansett Beer (with the
defendant’s fingerprints on them); second item, twelve cigarette ends (all
Kools, the defendant’s brand); third item, a plaster cast of a set of tire
tracks (exactly matching the tread-and-wear pattern of the tires on the
defendant’s 1947 Plymouth).

In the living room of Quentin’s bungalow, four dishtowels had been found lying
on the sofa. There were bullet-holes through them and powder-burns on them. The
detective theorized (over the agonized objections of Andy’s lawyer) that the
murderer had wrapped the towels around the muzzle of the murder-weapon to muffle
the sound of the gunshots.

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Andy Dufresne took the stand in his own defense and told his story calmly,
coolly, and dispassionately. He said he had begun to hear distressing rumors
about his wife and Glenn Quentin as early as the last week in July. In late
August he had become distressed enough to investigate a bit. On an evening when
Linda was supposed to have gone shopping in Portland after her golf lesson, Andy
had followed her and Quentin to Quentin’s two-story rented house (inevitably
dubbed “the love-nest” by the papers). He had parked in the turnout until
Quentin drove her back to the country club where her car was parked, about three
hours later.

“Do you mean to tell this court that you followed your wife in your brand-new
Plymouth sedan?” the DA asked him on cross examination.

“I swapped cars for the evening with a friend,” Andy said, and this cool
admission of how well-planned his investigation had been did him no good at all
in the eyes of the jury.

After returning the friend’s car and picking up his own, he had gone home. Linda
had been in bed, reading a book. He asked her how her trip to Portland had been.
She replied that it had been fun, but she hadn’t seen anything she liked well
enough to buy. “That’s when I knew for sure,” Andy told the breathless
spectators. He spoke in the same calm, remote voice in which he delivered almost
all of his testimony.

“What was your frame of mind in the seventeen days between then and the night
your wife was murdered?” Andy’s lawyer asked him.

“I was in great distress,” Andy said calmly, coldly. Like a man reciting a
shopping list he said that he had considered suicide, and had even gone so far
as to purchase a gun in Lewiston on September 8th.

His lawyer then invited him to tell the jury what had happened after his wife
left to meet Glenn Quentin on the night of the murders. Andy told them . . . and
the impression he made was the worst possible.

I knew him for close to thirty years, and I can tell you he was the most
self-possessed man I’ve ever known. What was right with him he’d only give you a
little at a time. What was wrong with him he kept bottled up inside. If he ever
had a dark night of the soul, as some writer or other has called it, you would
never know. He was the type of man who, if he had decided to commit suicide,
would do it without leaving a note but not until his affairs had been put neatly
in order. If he had cried on the witness stand, or if his voice had thickened
and grown hesitant, even if he had started yelling at that Washington-bound
District Attorney, I don’t believe he would have gotten the life sentence he

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wound up with. Even if he had’ve, he would have been out on parole by 1954. But
he told his story like a recording machine, seeming to say to the jury: This is
it. Take it or leave it. They left it.

He said he was drunk that night, that he’d been more or less drunk since August
24th, and that he was a man who didn’t handle his liquor very well. Of course
that by itself would have been hard for any jury to swallow. They just couldn’t
see this coldly self-possessed young man in the neat double-breasted three-piece
woolen suit ever getting falling-down drunk over his wife’s sleazy little affair
with some small-town golf pro. I believed it because I had a chance to watch
Andy that those six men and six women didn’t have.

Andy Dufresne took just four drinks a year all the time I knew him. He would
meet me in the exercise yard every year about a week before his birthday and
then again about two weeks before Christmas. On each occasion he would arrange
for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He bought it the way most cons arrange to buy
their stuff-the slave’s wages they pay in here, plus a little of his own. Up
until 1965 what you got for your time was a dime an hour. In ’65 they raised it
all the way up to a quarter. My commission on liquor was and is ten per cent,
and when you add on that surcharge to the price of a fine sippin’ whiskey like
the Black Jack, you get an idea of how many hours of Andy Dufresne’s sweat in
the prison laundry was going to buy his four drinks a year.

On the morning of his birthday, September 20th, he would have himself a big
knock, and then he’d have another that night after lights-out. The following day
he’d give the rest of the bottle back to me, and I would share it around. As for
the other bottle, he dealt himself one drink Christmas night and another on New
Year’s Eve. Then that bottle would also come to me with instructions to pass it
on. Four drinks a year-and that is the behavior of a man who has been bitten
hard by the bottle. Hard enough to draw blood.

He told the jury that on the night of the tenth he had been so drunk he could
only remember what had happened in little isolated snatches. He had gotten drunk
that afternoon-“I took on a double helping of Dutch courage” is how he put
it-before taking on Linda.

After she left to meet Quentin, he remembered deciding to confront them. On the
way to Quentin’s bungalow, he swung into the country club for a couple of quick
ones. He could not, he said, remember telling the bartender he could “read about
the rest of it in the papers,” or saying anything to him at all. He remembered
buying beer in the Handy-Pik, but not the dishtowels. “Why would I want
dishtowels?” he asked, and one of the papers reported that three of the lady
jurors shuddered.

Later, much later, he speculated to me about the clerk who had testified on the

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subject of those dishtowels, and I think it’s worth jotting down what he said.
“Suppose that, during their canvass for witnesses,” Andy said one day in the
exercise yard, “they stumble on this fellow who sold me the beer that night. By
then three days have gone by. The facts of the case have been broadsided in all
the papers. Maybe they ganged up on the guy, five or six cops, plus the dick
from the Attorney General’s office, plus the DA’s assistant. Memory is a pretty
subjective thing, Red. They could have started out with ‘Isn’t it possible that
he purchased four or five dishtowels?’ and worked their way up from there. If
enough people want you to remember something, that can be a pretty powerful
persuader.”

I agreed that it could.

“But there’s one even more powerful,” Andy went on in that musing way of his. “I
think it’s at least possible that he convinced himself. It was the limelight.
Reporters asking him questions, his picture in the papers . . . all topped, of
course, by his star turn in court. I’m not saying that he deliberately falsified
his story, or perjured himself. I think it’s possible that he could have passed
a lie detector test with flying colors, or sworn on his mother’s sacred name
that I bought those dishtowels. But still . . . memory is such a goddam
subjective thing.

“I know this much: even though my own lawyer thought I had to be lying about
half my story, he never bought that business about the dishtowels. It’s crazy on
the face of it. I was pig-drunk, too drunk to have been thinking about muffling
the gunshots. If I’d done it, I just would have let them rip.”

He went up to the turnout and parked there. He drank beer and smoked cigarettes.
He watched the lights downstairs in Quentin’s place go out. He watched a single
light go on upstairs . . . and fifteen minutes later he watched that one go out.
He said he could guess the rest.

“Mr. Dufresne, did you then go up to Glenn Quentin’s house and kill the two of
them?” his lawyer thundered.

“No, I did not,” Andy answered. By midnight, he said, he was sobering up. He was
also feeling the first signs of a bad hangover. He decided to go home and sleep
it off and think about the whole thing in a more adult fashion the next day. “At
that time, as I drove home, I was beginning to think that the wisest course
would be to simply let her go to Reno and get her divorce.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dufresne.”

The DA popped up.

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“You divorced her in the quickest way you could think of, didn’t you? You
divorced her with a .38 revolver wrapped in dishtowels, didn’t you?”

“No sir, I did not,” Andy said calmly.

“And then you shot her lover.”

“No, sir.”

“You mean you shot Quentin first?”

“I mean I didn’t shoot either one of them. I drank two quarts of beer and smoked
however many cigarettes the police found at the turnout. Then I drove home and
went to bed.”

“You told the jury that between August twenty-fourth and September tenth you
were feeling suicidal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suicidal enough to buy a revolver.”

“Yes.”

“Would it bother you overmuch, Mr. Dufresne, if I told you that you do not seem
to me to be the suicidal type?”

“No,” Andy said, “but you don’t impress me as being terribly sensitive, and I
doubt very much that, if I were feeling suicidal, I would take my problem to
you.”

There was a slight tense titter in the courtroom at this, but it won him no
points with the jury.

“Did you take your thirty-eight with you on the night of September tenth?”

“No; as I’ve already testified-”

“Oh, yes!” The DA smiled sarcastically. “You threw it into the river, didn’t
you? The Royal River. On the afternoon of September ninth . ”

“Yes, sir.”

“One day before the murders.”

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“Yes, sir.”

“That’s convenient, isn’t it?”

“It’s neither convenient nor inconvenient. Only the truth.”

“I believe you heard Lieutenant Mincher’s testimony?” Mincher had been in charge
of the party which had dragged the stretch of the Royal near Pond Road Bridge,
from which Andy had testified he had thrown the gun. The police had not found
it.

“Yes, sir. You know I heard it.”

“Then you heard him tell the court that they found no gun, although they dragged
for three days. That was rather convenient, too, wasn’t it?”

“Convenience aside, it’s a fact that they didn’t find the gun,” Andy responded
calmly. “But I should like to point out to both you and the jury that the Pond
Road Bridge is very close to where the Royal River empties into the Bay of
Yarmouth. The current is strong. The gun may have been carried out into the bay
itself.”

“And so no comparison can be made between the riflings on the bullets taken from
the bloodstained corpses of your wife and Mr. Glenn Quentin and the riflings on
the barrel of your gun. That’s correct, isn’t it, Mr. Dufresne?”

“Yes. ”

“That’s also rather convenient, isn’t it?”

At that, according to the papers, Andy displayed one of the few slight emotional
reactions he allowed himself during the entire six-week period of the trial. A
slight, bitter smile crossed his face.

“Since I am innocent of this crime, sir, and since I am telling the truth about
throwing my gun into the river the day before the crime took place, then it
seems to me decidedly inconvenient that the gun was never found.”

The DA hammered at him for two days. He re-read the Handy-Pik clerk’s testimony
about the dishtowels to Andy. Andy repeated that he could not recall buying
them, but admitted that he also couldn’t remember not buying them.

Was it true that Andy and Linda Dufresne had taken out a joint insurance policy
in early 1947 ? Yes, that was true. And if acquitted, wasn’t it true that Andy
stood to gain fifty thousand dollars in benefits? True. And wasn’t it true that

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he had gone up to Glenn Quentin’s house with murder in his heart, and wasn’t it
also true that he had indeed committed murder twice over? No, it was not true.
Then what did he think had happened, since there had been no signs of robbery?

“I have no way of knowing that, sir,” Andy said quietly.

The case went to the jury at 1:00 P.M. on a snowy Wednesday afternoon. The
twelve jurymen and -women came back in at 3:30. The bailiff said they would have
been back earlier, but they had held off in order to enjoy a nice chicken dinner
from Bentley’s Restaurant at the county’s expense. They found him guilty, and
brother, if Maine had the death-penalty, he would have done the air dance before
that spring’s crocuses poked their heads out of the snow.

The DA had asked him what he thought had happened, and Andy slipped the
question-but he did have an idea, and I got it out of him late one evening in
1955. It had taken those seven years for us to progress from nodding
acquaintances to fairly close friends- but I never felt really close to Andy
until 1960 or so, and I believe I was the only one who ever did get really close
to him. Both being long-timers, we were in the same cellblock from beginning to
end, although I was halfway down the corridor from him.

“What do I think?” He laughed-but there was no humor in the sound. “I think
there was a lot of bad luck floating around that night. More than could ever get
together in the same short span of time again. I think it must have been some
stranger, just passing through. Maybe someone who had a flat tire on that road
after I went home. Maybe a burglar. Maybe a psychopath. He killed them, that’s
all. And I’m here.”

III

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As simple as that. And he was condemned to spend the rest of his life in
Shawshank – or the part of it that mattered. Five years later he began to have
parole hearings, and he was turned down just as regular as clockwork in spite of
being a model prisoner. Getting a pass out of Shawshank when you’ve got murder
stamped on your admittance-slip is slow work, as slow as a river eroding a rock.
Seven men sit on the board, two more than at most state prisons, and every one
of those seven has an ass as hard as the water drawn up from a mineral-spring
well. You can’t buy those guys, you can’t sweet-talk them, you can’t cry for
them. As far as the board in here is concerned, money don’t talk, and nobody
walks. There were other reasons in Andy’s case as well . . . but that belongs a
little further along in my story.

There was a trusty, name of Kendricks, who was into me for some pretty heavy
money back in the fifties, and it was four years before he got it all paid off.
Most of the interest he paid me was information-in my line of work, you’re dead
if you can’t find ways of keeping your ear to the ground. This Kendricks, for
instance, had access to records I was never going to see running a stamper down
in the goddam plate-shop.

Kendricks told me that the parole board vote was 7-0 against Andy Dufresne
through 1957, 6-1 in ’58, 7-0 again in ’59, and 5-2 in ’60. After that I don’t
know, but I do know that sixteen years later he was still in Cell 14 of
Cellblock 5. By then – 1975 – he was fifty-seven. They probably would have gotten
big-hearted and let him out around 1983. They give you life, and that’s what
they take-all of it that counts, anyway. Maybe they set you loose someday, but .
. . ..
Well, listen: I knew this guy, Sherwood Bolton, his name was, and he had
this pigeon in his cell. From 1945 until 1953, when they let him out, he had
that pigeon. He wasn’t any Birdman of Alcatraz; he just had this pigeon. Jake,
he called him. He set Jake free a day before he, Sherwood, that is, was to walk,
and Jake flew away just as pretty as you could want. But about a week after
Sherwood Bolton left our happy little family, a friend of mine called me over to
the west corner of the exercise yard, where Sherwood used to hang out. A bird
was lying there like a very small pile of dirty bed-linen. It looked starved. My
friend said: “Isn’t that Jake, Red?” It was. That pigeon was just as dead as a
turd.

I remember the first time Andy Dufresne got in touch with me for something; I
remember like it was yesterday. That wasn’t the time he wanted Rita Hayworth,
though. That came later. In that summer of 1948 he came around for something
else.

Most of my deals are done right there in the exercise yard, and that’s where

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this one went down. Our yard is big, much bigger than most It’s a perfect
square, ninety yards on a side. The north side is the outer wall, with a
guard-tower at either end. The guards up there are armed with binoculars and
riot guns. The main gate is in that north side. The truck loading-bays are on
the south side of the yard. There are five of them. Shawshank is a busy place
during the work week-deliveries in, deliveries out. We have the license-plate
factory, and a big industrial laundry that does all the prison wet-wash, plus that
of Kittery Receiving Hospital and the Eliot Nursing Home. There’s also a big
automotive garage where mechanic inmates fix prison, state, and municipal
vehicles-not to mention the private cars of the screws, the administration officers . . .
and, on more than one occasion, those of the parole board.

The east side is a thick stone wall full of tiny slit windows. Cellblock 5 is on
the other side of that wall. The west side is Administration and the infirmary.
Shawshank has never been as overcrowded as most prisons, and back in ’48 it was
only filled to something like two-thirds capacity, but at any given time there
might be eighty to a hundred and twenty cons on the yard- playing toss with a
football or a baseball, shooting craps, jawing at each other, making deals. On
Sunday the place was even more crowded; on Sunday the place would have looked
like a country holiday . . . if there had been any women.

It was on a Sunday that Andy first came to me. I had just finished talking to
Elmore Armitage, a fellow who often came in handy to me, about a radio when Andy
walked up. I knew who he was, of course; he had a reputation for being a snob
and a cold fish. People were saying he was marked for trouble already. One of
the people saying so was Bogs Diamond, a bad man to have on your case. Andy had
no cellmate, and I’d heard that was just the way he wanted it, although people
were already saying he thought his shit smelled sweeter than the ordinary. But I
don’t have to listen to rumors about a man when I can judge him for myself.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Andy Dufresne.” He offered his hand and I shook it. He
wasn’t a man to waste time being social; he got right to the point. “I
understand that you’re a man who knows how to get things . ”

I agreed that I was able to locate certain items from time to time.

“How do you do that?” Andy asked.

“Sometimes,” I said, “things just seem to come into my hand. I can’t explain it.
Unless it’s because I’m Irish.”

He smiled a little at that. “I wonder if you could get me a rock hammer. ”

“What would that be, and why would you want it?”

Andy looked surprised. “Do you make motivations a part of your business?” With

13

words like those I could understand how he had gotten a reputation for being the
snobby sort, the kind of guy who likes to put on airs-but I sensed a tiny thread
of humor in his question.

“I’ll tell you,” I said. “If you wanted a toothbrush, I wouldn’t ask questions.

I’d just quote you a price. Because a toothbrush, you see, is a non-lethal sort
of an object.”

“You have strong feelings about lethal objects?”

“I do.”

An old friction-taped baseball flew toward us and he turned, cat-quick, and
picked it out of the air. It was a move Frank Malzone would have been proud of.
Andy flicked the ball back to where it had come from-just a quick and
easy-looking flick of the wrist, but that throw had some mustard on it, just the
same. I could see a lot of people were watching us with one eye as they went
about their business. Probably the guards in the tower were watching, too. I
won’t gild the lily; there are cons that swing weight in any prison, maybe four
or five in a small one, maybe two or three dozen in a big one. At Shawshank I
was one of those with some weight, and what I thought of Andy Dufresne would
have a lot to do with how his time went. He probably knew it, too, but he wasn’t
kowtowing or sucking up to me, and I respected him for that.

“Fair enough. I’ll tell you what it is and why I want it. A rock hammer looks
like a miniature pickaxe-about so long.” He held his hands about a foot apart,
and that was when I first noticed how neatly kept his nails were. “It’s got a
small sharp pick on one end and a flat, blunt hammerhead on the other. I want it
because I like rocks.”

“Rocks, ” I said.

“Squat down here a minute,” he said.

I humored him. We hunkered down on our haunches like Indians.
Andy took a handful of exercise yard dirt and began to sift it between his neat
hands, so it emerged in a fine cloud. Small pebbles were left over, one or two
sparkly, the rest dull and plain. One of the dull ones was quartz, but it was
only dull until you’d rubbed it clean. Then it had a nice milky glow. Andy did
the cleaning and then tossed it to me. I caught it and named it.

“Quartz, sure,” he said. “And look. Mica. Shale. Silted granite. Here’s a place
of graded limestone, from when they cut this place out of the side of the hill.”
He tossed them away and dusted his hands. “I’m a rockhound. At least . . . I was

14

a rockhound. In my old life. I’d like to be one again, on a limited scale.”

“Sunday expeditions in the exercise yard?” I asked, standing up. It was a silly
idea, and yet . . . seeing that little piece of quartz had given my heart a
funny tweak. I don’t know exactly why; just an association with the outside
world, I suppose. You didn’t think of such things in terms of the yard. Quartz
was something you picked out of a small, quick-running stream.

“Better to have Sunday expeditions here than no Sunday expeditions at all,” he
said.

“You could plant an item like that rock-hammer in somebody’s skull,” I remarked.

“I have no enemies here,” he said quietly.

“No?” I smiled. “Wait awhile.”

“If there’s trouble, I can handle it without using a rock hammer. ”

“Maybe you want to try an escape? Going under the wall? Because if you do-”
He laughed politely. When I saw the rock-hammer three weeks later, I understood
why.

“You know,” I said, “if anyone sees you with it, they’ll take it away. If they
saw you with a spoon, they’d take it away. What are you going to do, just sit
down here in the yard and start bangin’ away?”

“Oh, I believe I can do a lot better than that.”

I nodded. That part of it really wasn’t my business, anyway. A man engages my
services to get him something. Whether he can keep it or not after I get it is
his business.

“How much would an item like that go for?” I asked. I was beginning to enjoy his
quiet, low-key style. When you’ve spent ten years in stir, as I had then, you
can get awfully tired of the bellowers and the braggarts and the loud-mouths.
Yes, I think it would be fair to say I liked Andy from the first.

“Eight dollars in any rock-and-gem shop,” he said, “but I realize that in a
business like yours you work on a cost-plus basis-”

“Cost plus ten per cent is my going rate, but I have to go up some on a dangerous
item. For something like the gadget you’re talking about, it takes a little more
goose-grease to get the wheel turning. Let’s say ten dollars.’

15

“Ten it is.”

I looked at him, smiling a little. “Have you got ten dollars?”

“I do,” he said quietly.

A long time after, I discovered that he had better than five hundred. He had
brought it in with him. When they check you at this hotel, one of the bellhops
is obliged to bend you over ant take a look up your works-but there are a lot of
works, and, not to put too fine a point on it, a man who is really determined
can get; fairly large item quite a ways up them-far enough to be out o sight,
unless the bellhop you happen to draw is in the mood to pull on a rubber glove
and go prospecting.

“That’s fine, ” I said. “You ought to know what I expect if you get caught with
what I get you.”

“I suppose I should,” he said, and I could tell by the slight change in his gray
eyes that he knew exactly what I was going to say. It was a slight lightening, a
gleam of his special ironic humor

“If you get caught, you’ll say you found it. That’s about the long and short of
it. They’ll put you in solitary for three or you weeks . . . plus, of course,
you’ll lose your toy and you’ll get black mark on your record. If you give them
my name, you and will never do business again. Not for so much as a pair of
shoelace or a bag of Bugler. And I’ll send some fellows around to lump you up. I
don’t like violence, but you’ll understand my position. I can’ allow it to get
around that I can’t handle myself. That would sure finish me.”

“Yes. I suppose it would. I understand, and you don’t need to worry. ”

“I never worry,” I said. “In a place like this there’s no percentage in it.”

He nodded and walked away. Three days later he walked u] beside me in the
exercise yard during the laundry’s morning break He didn’t speak or even look my
way, but pressed a picture of the Honorable Alexander Hamilton into my hand
as neatly as a good magician does a card-trick. He was a man who adapted fast.
I got him his rock-hammer. I had it in my cell for one night, and it was just as he described
it. It was no tool for escape (it would have taken a man just about six hundred years to
tunnel under the wall using that rock-hammer, I figured), but I still felt some misgivings. If
you planted that pickaxe end in a man’s head, he would surely never
listen to Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio again. And Andy had already begun having
trouble with the sisters. I hoped it wasn’t them he was wanting the rock-
hammer for.

16

In the end, I trusted my judgment. Early the next morning, twenty minutes before
the wake-up horn went off, I slipped the rock-hammer and a package of Camels to
Ernie, the old trusty who swept the Cellblock 5 corridors until he was let free
in 1956. He slipped it into his tunic without a word, and I didn’t see the
rock hammer again for nineteen years, and by then it was damned near worn away to
nothing.

The following Sunday Andy walked over to me in the exercise yard again. He was
nothing to look at that day, I can tell you. His lower lip was swelled up so big
it looked like a summer sausage, his right eye was swollen half-shut, and there
was an ugly washboard scrape across one cheek. He was having his troubles with
the sisters, all right, but he never mentioned them. “Thanks for the tool,” he
said, and walked away.

I watched him curiously. He walked a few steps, saw something in the dirt, bent
over, and picked it up. It was a small rock. Prison fatigues, except for those
worn by mechanics when they’re on the job, have no pockets. But there are ways
to get around that. The little pebble disappeared up Andy’s sleeve and didn’t
come down. I admired that . . . and I admired him. In spite of the problems he
was having, he was going on with his life. There are thousands who don’t or
won’t or can’t, and plenty of them aren’t in prison, either. And I noticed that,
although his face looked as if a twister had happened to it, his hands were
still neat and clean, the nails well-kept.

I didn’t see much of him over the next six months; Andy spent a lot of that time
in solitary.

IV

17

A few words about the sisters.

In a lot of pens they are known as bull queers or jailhouse susies-just lately
the term in fashion is “killer queens.” But in Shawshank they were always the
sisters. I don’t know why, but other than the name I guess there was no
difference.

It comes as no surprise to most these days that there’s a lot of buggery going
on inside the walls-except to some of the new fish, maybe, who have the
misfortune to be young, slim, good-looking, and unwary-but homosexuality, like
straight sex, comes in a hundred different shapes and forms. There are men who
can’t stand to be without sex of some kind and turn to another man to keep from
going crazy. Usually what follows is an arrangement between two fundamentally
heterosexual men, although I’ve sometimes wondered if they are quite as
heterosexual as they thought they were going to be when they get back to their
wives or their girlfriends.

There are also men who get “turned” in prison. In the current parlance they “go
gay,” or “come out of the closet. ” Mostly (but not always) they play the
female, and their favors are competed for fiercely.

And then there are the sisters.

They are to prison society what the rapist is to the society outside the walls.
They’re usually long-timers, doing hard bullets for brutal crimes. Their prey is
the young, the weak, and the inexperienced . . . or, as in the case of Andy
Dufresne, the weak-looking. Their hunting grounds are the showers, the cramped,
tunnel-like areaway behind the industrial washers in the laundry, sometimes the
infirmary. On more than one occasion rape has occurred in the closet-sized
projection booth behind the auditorium. Most often what the sisters take by
force they could have had for free, if they wanted it that way; those who have
been turned always seem to have “crushes” on one sister or another, like teenage
girls with their Sinatras, Presleys, or Redfords. But for the sisters, the joy
has always been in taking it by force . . . and I guess it always will be.

Because of his small size and fair good looks (and maybe also because of that
very quality of self-possession I had admired), the sisters were after Andy from
the day he walked in. If this was some kind of fairy story, I’d tell you that
Andy fought the good fight until they left him alone. I wish I could say that,
but I can’t. Prison is no fairy-tale world.

The first time for him was in the shower less than three days after he joined
our happy Shawshank family. Just a lot of slap and tickle that time, I
understand. They like to size you up before they make their real move, like

18

jackals finding out if the prey is as weak and hamstrung as it looks.

Andy punched back and bloodied the lip of a big, hulking sister named Bogs
Diamond-gone these many years since to who knows where. A guard broke it up
before it could go any further, but Bogs promised to get him-and Bogs did.
The second time was behind the washers in the laundry. A lot has gone on in that
long, dusty, and narrow space over the years; the guards know about it and just
let it be. It’s dim and littered with bags of washing and bleaching compound,
drums of Hexlite catalyst, as harmless as salt if your hands are dry, murderous
as battery acid if they’re wet. The guards don’t like to go back there. There’s
no room to maneuver, and one of the first things they teach them when they come
to work in a place like this is to never let the cons get you in a place where
you can’t back up.

Bogs wasn’t there that day, but Henley Backus, who had been washroom foreman
down there since 1922, told me that four of his friends were. Andy held them at
bay for awhile with a scoop of burning Hexlite, threatening to throw it in their eyes if
they came any closer, but he tripped trying to back around one of the big Washex
fourpockets. That was all it took. They were on him.

I guess the phrase gang-rape is one that doesn’t change much from one generation
to the next. That’s what they did to him, those four sisters. They bent him over
a gear-box and one of them held a Phillips screwdriver to his temple while they
gave him the business. It rips you up some, but not bad-am I speaking from
personal experience, you ask?-I only wish I weren’t. You bleed for awhile. If
you don’t want some clown asking you if you just started your period, you wad up
a bunch of toilet paper and keep it down the back of your underwear until it
stops. The bleeding really is like a menstrual flow; it keeps up for two, maybe
three days, a slow trickle. Then it stops. No harm done, unless they’ve done
something even more unnatural to you. No physical harm done but rape is rape,
and eventually you have to look at your face in the mirror again and decide what
to make of yourself.

Andy went through that alone, the way he went through everything alone in those
days. He must have come to the conclusion that others before him had come to,
namely, that then are only two ways to deal with the sisters: fight them and get
taken or just get taken.

He decided to fight. When Bogs and two of his buddies cam after him a week or so
after the laundry incident (“I heard ya go broke in,” Bogs said, according to
Ernie, who was around at the time), Andy slugged it out with them. He broke the
nose of fellow named Rooster MacBride, a heavy-gutted farmer who was is for
beating his stepdaughter to death. Rooster died in here, I’m happy to add.

They took him, all three of them. When it was done, Rooster and the other egg-it

19

might have been Pete Verness, but I’m no completely sure-forced Andy down to his
knees. Bogs Diamond stepped in front of him. He had a pearl-handled razor in
those day with the words Diamond Pearl engraved on both sides of the grip He
opened it and said, “I’m gonna open my fly now, mister man and you’re going to
swallow what I give you to swallow. And when you done swallowed mine, you’re
gonna swallow Rooster’s. I guess you done broke his nose and I think he ought to
have something to pay for it.”

Andy said, “Anything of yours that you stick in my mouth you’re going to lose
it.”

Bogs looked at Andy like he was crazy, Ernie said.

“No,” he told Andy, talking to him slowly, like Andy was stupid kid. “You didn’t
understand what I said. You do anything like that and I’ll put all eight inches
of this steel into your ear. Get it?”

“I understood what you said. I don’t think you understood me. I’m going to bite
whatever you stick into my mouth. You can put that razor into my brain, I guess,
but you should know that sudden serious brain injury causes the victim to
simultaneously urinate, defecate . . . and bite down.”

He looked up at Bogs, smiling that little smile of his, old Ernie said, as if
the three of them had been discussing stocks and bonds with him instead of
throwing it to him just as hard as they could. Just as if he was wearing one of
his three-piece bankers’ suits instead of kneeling on a dirty broom-closet floor
with his pants around his ankles and blood trickling down the insides of his
thighs.

“In fact,” he went on, “I understand that the bite-reflex is sometimes so strong
that the victim’s jaws have to be pried open with a crowbar or a jackhandle.”
Bogs didn’t put anything in Andy’s mouth that night in late February of 1948,
and neither did Rooster MacBride, and so far as I know, no one else ever did,
either. What the three of them did was to beat Andy within an inch of his life,
and all four of them ended up doing a jolt in solitary. Andy and Rooster
MacBride went by way of the infirmary.

How many times did that particular crew have at him? I don’t know. I think
Rooster lost his taste fairly early on — being in nosesplints for a month can do
that to a fellow — and Bogs Diamond left off that summer, all at once.

That was a strange thing. Bogs was found in his cell, badly beaten, one morning
in early June, when he didn’t show up in the breakfast nose-count. He wouldn’t
say who had done it, or how they had gotten to him, but being in my business, I
know that a screw can be bribed to do almost anything except get a gun for an

20

inmate. They didn’t make big salaries then, and they don’t now. And in those
days there was no electronic locking system, no closed-circuit TV, no
master-switches which controlled whole areas of the prison. Back in 1948, each
cellblock had its own turnkey. A guard could have been bribed real easy to let
someone-maybe two or three someones-into the block, and, yes, even into
Diamond’s cell.

Of course a job like that would have cost a lot of money. Not by outside
standards, no. Prison economics are on a smaller scale. When you’ve been in here
awhile, a dollar bill in your hand looks like a twenty did outside. My guess is
that, if Bogs was done, it cost someone a serious piece of change-fifteen bucks,
we’ll say, for the turnkey, and two or three apiece for each of the lump-up
guys.

I’m not saying it was Andy Dufresne, but I do know that he brought in five
hundred dollars when he came, and he was a banker in the straight world-a man
who understands better than the rest of us the ways in which money can become
power.

And I know this: after the beating-the three broken ribs, the hemorrhaged eye,
the sprained back, and the dislocated hip-Bogs Diamond left Andy alone. In fact,
after that he left everyone pretty much alone. He got to be like a high wind in
the summertime, all bluster and no bite. You could say, in fact, that he turned
into a “weak sister.”

That was the end of Bogs Diamond, a man who might eventually have killed Andy if
Andy hadn’t taken steps to prevent it (if it was him who took the steps). But it
wasn’t the end of Andy’s trouble with the sisters. There was a little hiatus,
and then it began again, although not so hard or so often. Jackals like easy
prey, and there were easier pickings around than Andy Dufresne.

He always fought them, that’s what I remember. He knew, I guess, that if you let
them have at you even once without fighting, it got that much easier to let them
have their way without fighting next time. So Andy would turn up with bruises on
his face every once in awhile, and there was the matter of the two broken
fingers six or eight months after Diamond’s beating. Oh yes-and sometime in late
1949, the man landed in the infirmary with a broken cheekbone that was probably
the result of someone swinging a nice chunk of pipe with the business-end
wrapped in flannel. He always fought back, and as a result, he did his time in
solitary. But I don’t think solitary was the hardship for Andy that it was for
some men. He got along with himself.

The sisters was something he adjusted himself to-and then, in 1950, it stopped
almost completely. That is a part of my story that I’ll get to in due time.

21

V

In the fall of 1948, Andy met me one morning in the exercise yard and asked me
if I could get him half a dozen rock-blankets.

“What the hell are those?” I asked.

He told me that was just what rockhounds called them; they were polishing cloths
about the size of dishtowels. They were heavily padded, with a smooth side and a
rough side-the smooth side like fine-grained sandpaper, the rough side almost as
abrasive as industrial steel wool (Andy also kept a box of that in his cell,
although he didn’t get it from me-I imagine he kited it from the prison
laundry).

I told him I thought we could do business on those, and I ended up getting them
from the very same rock-and-gem shop where I’d arranged to get the rock-hammer.
This time I charged Andy my usual ten per cent and not a penny more. I didn’t
see anything lethal or even dangerous in a dozen 7″ x 7″ squares of padded
cloth. Rock-blankets, indeed.

It was about five months later that Andy asked if I could get him Rita Hayworth.
That conversation took place in the auditorium, during a movie-show. Nowadays we
get the movie-shows once or twice a week, but back then the shows were a monthly
event. Usually the movies we got had a morally uplifting message to them, and
this one, The Lost Weekend, was no different. The moral was that it’s dangerous
to drink. It was a moral we could take some comfort in.

Andy maneuvered to get next to me, and about halfway through the show he leaned
a little closer and asked if I could get him Rita Hayworth. I’ll tell you the
truth, it kind of tickled me. He was usually cool, calm, and collected, but that
night he was jumpy as hell, almost embarrassed, as if he was asking me to get
him a load of Trojans or one of those sheepskin-lined gadgets that are supposed
to “enhance your solitary pleasure,” as the magazines put it. He seemed
overcharged, a man on the verge of blowing his radiator.

“I can get her,” I said. “No sweat, calm down. You want the big one or the
little one?” At that time Rita was my best girl (a few years before it had been
Betty Grable) and she came in two sizes. For a buck you could get the little
Rita. For two-fifty you could have the big Rita, four feet high and all woman.
“The big one,” he said, not looking at me. I tell you, he was a hot sketch that

22

night. He was blushing just like a kid trying to get into a kootch show with his
big brother’s draft-card. “Can you do it?”

“Take it easy, sure I can. Does a bear shit in the woods?” The audience was
applauding and catcalling as the bugs came out of the walls to get Ray Milland,
who was having a bad case of the DT’s

“How soon?”

“A week. Maybe less.”

“Okay. ” But he sounded disappointed, as if he had been hoping had one stuffed
down my pants right then. “How much?”

I quoted him the wholesale price. I could afford to give him this one at cost;
he’d been a good customer, what with his rock-hammer and his rock-blankets.
Furthermore, he’d been a good boy-o more than one night when he was having his
problems with Bogs Rooster, and the rest, I wondered how long it would be before
h used the rock-hammer to crack someone’s head open.

Posters are a big part of my business, just behind the booze an, cigarettes,
usually half a step ahead of the reefer. In the sixties the business exploded in
every direction, with a lot of people wanting funky hang-ups like Jimi Hendrix,
Bob Dylan, that Easy Rider poster. But mostly it’s girls; one pin-up queen after
another.

A few days after Andy spoke to me, a laundry driver I did business with back
then brought in better than sixty posters, most of them Rita Hayworths. You may
even remember the picture; sure do. Rita is dressed-sort of-in a bathing suit,
one hand behind her head, her eyes half-closed, those full, sulky red lips
parted. They called it Rita Hayworth, but they might as well have called it
Woman in Heat.

The prison administration knows about the black market, in case you were
wondering. Sure they do. They probably know almost much about my business as I
do myself. They live with it because they know that a prison is like a big
pressure-cooker, and there has to be vents somewhere to let off steam. They make
the occasion; bust, and I’ve done time in solitary a time or three over the year
but when it’s something like posters, they wink. Live and let live And when a
big Rita Hayworth went up in some fishie’s cell, the assumption was that it came
in the mail from a friend or a relative. Of course all the care-packages from
friends and relatives are opened and the contents inventoried, but who goes back
and rechecks the inventory sheets for something as harmless as a Rita Hayworth
or Ava Gardner pin-up? When you’re in a pressure cooker you learn to live and let
live or somebody will carve you a brand-new mouth just above the Adam’s apple.

23

You learn to make allowances.

It was Ernie again who took the poster up to Andy’s cell, 14, from my own, 6.
And it was Ernie who brought back the note, written in Andy’s careful hand, just
one word: “Thanks.”

A little while later, as they filed us out for morning chow, I glanced into his
cell and saw Rita over his bunk in all her swimsuited glory, one hand behind her
head, her eyes half-closed, those soft, satiny lips parted. It was over his bunk
where he could look at her nights, after lights-out, in the glow of the arc
sodium lights in the exercise yard.

But in the bright morning sunlight, there were dark slashes across her face-the
shadow of the bars on his single slit window.

24

VI

Now I’m going to tell you what happened in mid-May of 1950 that finally ended
Andy’s three-year series of skirmishes with the sisters. It was also the
incident which eventually got him out of the laundry and into the library, where
he filled out his work-time until he left our happy little family earlier this
year.

You may have noticed how much of what I’ve told you already is hearsay-someone
saw something and told me and I told you. Well, in some cases I’ve simplified it
even more than it really was, and have repeated (or will repeat) fourth- or
fifth-hand information. That’s the way it is here. The grapevine is very real,
and you have to use it if you’re going to stay ahead. Also, of course, you have
to know how to pick out the grains of truth from the chaff of lies, rumors, and
wish-it-had-beens.

You may also have gotten the idea that I’m describing someone who’s more legend
than man, and I would have to agree that there’s some truth to that. To us
long-timers who knew Andy over a space of years, there was an element of fantasy
to him, a sense, almost, of myth-magic, if you get what I mean. That story I
passed on about Andy refusing to give Bogs Diamond a head-job is part of that
myth, and how he kept on fighting the sisters is part of it, and how he got the
library job is part of it, too . . . but with one important difference: I was
there and I saw what happened, and I swear on my mother’s name that it’s all
true. The oath of a convicted murderer may not be worth much, but believe this:
I don’t lie.

Andy and I were on fair speaking terms by then. The guy fascinated me. Looking
back to the poster episode, I see there’s one thing I neglected to tell you, and
maybe I should. Five weeks after he hung Rita up (I’d forgotten all about it by
then, and had gone on to other deals), Ernie passed a small white box through
the bars of my cell.

“From Dufresne,” he said, low, and never missed a stroke with his push-broom.
“Thanks, Ernie,” I said, and slipped him half a pack of Camels.

Now what the hell was this, I was wondering as I slipped the cover from the box.
There was a lot of white cotton inside, and below that . . .

I looked for a long time. For a few minutes it was like I didn’t even dare touch
them, they were so pretty. There’s a crying shortage of pretty things in the
slam, and the real pity of it is that a lot of men don’t even seem to miss them.

There were two pieces of quartz in that box, both of them carefully polished.
They had been chipped into driftwood shapes. There were little sparkles of iron

25

pyrites in them like flecks of gold. If they hadn’t been so heavy, they would
have served as a fine pair of men’s cufflinks-they were that close to being a
matched set.

How much work went into creating those two pieces? Hours and hours after
lights-out, I knew that. First the chipping and shaping, and then the almost
endless polishing and finishing with those rock-blankets. Looking at them, I
felt the warmth that any man or woman feels when he or she is looking at
something pretty, something that has been worked and made-that’s the thing that
really separates us from the animals, I think-and I felt something else, too. A
sense of awe for the man’s brute persistence. But I never knew just how
persistent Andy Dufresne could be until much later.

In May of 1950, the powers that be decided that the roof of the license-plate
factory ought to be re-surfaced with roofing tar. They wanted it done before it
got too hot up there, and they asked for volunteers for the work, which was
planned to take about a week. More than seventy men spoke up, because it was
outside work and May is one damn fine month for outside work. Nine or ten names
were drawn out of a hat, and two of them happened to be Andy’s and my own.
For the next week we’d be marched out to the exercise yard after breakfast, with
two guards up front and two more behind . . . plus all the guards in the towers
keeping a weather eye on the proceedings through their field-glasses for good
measure.

Four of us would be carrying a big extension ladder on those morning marches – I
always got a kick out of the way Dickie Betts, who was on that job, called that
sort of ladder an extensible – and we’d put it up against the side of that low,
flat building. Then we’d start bucket-brigading hot buckets of tar up to the
roof. Spill that shit on you and you’d jitterbug all the way to the infirmary.
There were six guards on the project, all of them picked on the basis of
seniority. It was almost as good as a week’s vacation, because instead of
sweating it out in the laundry or the plate-shop or standing over a bunch of
cons cutting pulp or brush somewhere out in the fields, they were having a
regular May holiday in the sun, just sitting there with their backs up against
the low parapet, shooting the bull back and forth.

They didn’t even have to keep more than half an eye on us, because the south
wall sentry post was close enough so that the fellows up there could have spit
their chews on us, if they’d wanted to. If anyone on the roof-sealing party had
made one funny move, it would take four seconds to cut him smack in two with
.45-caliber machine-gun bullets. So those screws just sat there and took their
ease. All they needed was a couple of six-packs buried in crushed ice, and they
would have been the lords of all creation.

One of them was a fellow named Byron Hadley, and in that year of 1950, he’d been

26

at Shawshank longer than I had. Longer than the last two wardens put together,
as a matter of fact. The fellow running the show in 1950 was a prissy-looking
down-east Yankee named George Dunahy. He had a degree in penal administration.
No one liked him, as far as I could tell, except the people who had gotten him his
appointment. I heard that he was only interested in three things: compiling
statistics for a book (which was later published by a small New England outfit
called Light Side Press, where he probably had to pay to have it done), which
team won the intramural baseball championship each September, and getting a
death-penalty law passed in Maine. A regular bear for the death penalty was
George Dunahy. He was fired from the job in 1953, when it came out he was
running a discount auto-repair service down in the prison garage and splitting
the profits with Byron Hadley and Greg Stammas. Hadley and Stammas came out of
that one okay-they were old hands at keeping their asses covered-but Dunahy took
a walk. No one was sorry to see him go, but nobody was exactly pleased to see
Greg Stammas step into his shoes, either. He was a short man with a tight, hard
gut and the coldest brown eyes you ever saw. He always had a painful, pursed
little grin on his face, as if he had to go to the bathroom and couldn’t quite
manage it. During Stammas’s tenure as warden there was a lot of brutality at
Shawshank, and although I have no proof, I believe there were maybe half a dozen
moonlight burials in the stand of scrub forest that lies east of the prison.

Dunahy was bad, but Greg Stammas was a cruel, wretched, cold-hearted man.
He and Byron Hadley were good friends. As warden, George Dunahy was nothing but
a posturing figurehead; it was Stammas, and through him, Hadley, who actually
administered the prison.

Hadley was a tall, shambling man with thinning red hair. He sunburned easily
and he talked loud and if you didn’t move fast enough to suit him, he’d clout you
with his stick. On that day, our third on the roof, he was talking to another
guard named Mert Entwhistle.

Hadley had gotten some amazingly good news, so he was griping about it. That was
his style-he was a thankless man with not a good word for anyone, a man who was
convinced that the whole world was against him. The world had cheated him out of
the best years of his life, and the world would be more than happy to cheat him
out of the rest. I have seen some screws that I thought were almost saintly, and
I think I know why that happens — they are able to see the difference between
their own lives, poor and struggling as they might be, and the lives of the men
they are paid by the State to watch over. These guards are able to formulate a
comparison concerning pain. Others can’t, or won’t.

For Byron Hadley there was no basis of comparison. He could sit there, cool and
at his ease under the warm May sun, and find the gall to mourn his own good luck
while less than ten feet away a bunch of men were working and sweating and
burning their hands on great big buckets filled with bubbling tar, men who had

27

to work so hard in their ordinary round of days that this looked like a respite.
You may remember the old question, the one that’s supposed to define your
outlook on life when you answer it. For Byron Hadley the answer would always be
half empty, the glass is half empty. Forever and ever, amen. If you gave him a
cool drink of apple cider, he’d think about vinegar. If you told him his wife
had always been faithful to him, he’d tell you it was because she was so damn
ugly.

So there he sat, talking to Mert Entwhistle loud enough for all of us to hear,
his broad white forehead already starting to redden with the sun. He had one
hand thrown back over the low parapet surrounding the roof. The other was on the
butt of his .38.

We all got the story along with Mert. It seemed that Hadley’s older brother had
gone off to Texas some fourteen years ago and the rest of the family hadn’t
heard from the son of a bitch since. They had all assumed he was dead, and good
riddance. Then, a week and a half ago, a lawyer had called them long-distance
from Austin. It seemed that Hadley’s brother had died four months ago, and a
rich man at that (“It’s frigging incredible how lucky some assholes can get,”
this paragon of gratitude on the plate-shop roof said). The money had come as a
result of oil and oil-leases, and there was close to a million dollars.
No, Hadley wasn’t a millionaire-that might have made even him happy, at least
for awhile-but the brother had left a pretty damned decent bequest of
thirty-five thousand dollars to each surviving member of his family back in
Maine, if they could be found. Not bad. Like getting lucky and winning a
sweepstakes.

But to Byron Hadley the glass was always half empty. He spent most of the
morning bitching to Mert about the bite that the goddam government was going to
take out of his windfall. “They’ll leave me about enough to buy a new car with,”
he allowed, “and then what happens? You have to pay the damn taxes on the car,
and the repairs and maintenance, you got your goddam kids pestering you to take
’em for a ride with the top down-”

“And to drive it, if they’re old enough,” Mert said. Old Mert Entwhistle knew
which side his bread was buttered on, and he didn’t say what must have been as
obvious to him as to the rest of us: If that money’s worrying you so bad, Byron
old kid old sock, I’ll just take it off your hands. After all, what are friends
for?

“That’s right, wanting to drive it, wanting to learn to drive on it, for
Chrissake,” Byron said with a shudder. “Then what happens at the end of the
year? If you figured the tax wrong and you don’t have enough left over to pay
the overdraft, you got to pay out of your own pocket, or maybe even borrow it
from one of those kikey loan agencies. And they audit you anyway, you know. It

28

don’t matter. And when the government audits you, they always take more. Who can
fight Uncle Sam? He puts his hand inside your shirt and squeezes your tit until
it’s purple, and you end up getting the short end. Christ.”

He lapsed into a morose silence, thinking of what terrible bad luck he’d had to
inherit that thirty-five thousand dollars. Andy Dufresne had been spreading tar
with a big brush less than fifteen feet away and now he tossed it into his
pail and walked over to where Mert and Hadley were sitting.

We all tightened up, and I saw one of the other screws, Tim Youngblood, drag his
hand down to where his pistol was holstered. One of the fellows in the sentry
tower struck his partner on the arm and they both turned, too. For one moment I
thought Andy was going to get shot, or clubbed, or both.

Then he said, very softly, to Hadley: “Do you trust your wife?”

Hadley just stared at him. He was starting to get red in the face, and I knew
that was a bad sign. In about three seconds he was going to pull his billy club
and give Andy the butt end of it right in the solar plexus, where that big bundle
of nerves is. A hard enough hit there can kill you, but they always go for it. If
it doesn’t kill you it will paralyze you long enough to forget whatever cute
move it was that you had planned.

“Boy,” Hadley said, “I’ll give you just one chance to pick up that brush. And
then you’re goin’ off this roof on your head.”

Andy just looked at him, very calm and still. His eyes were like ice. It was as
if he hadn’t heard. And I found myself wanting to tell him how it was, to give
him the crash course. The crash course is you never let on that you hear the
guards talking, you never try to horn in on their conversation unless you’re
asked (and then you always tell them just what they want to hear and shut up
again). Black man, white man, red man, yellow man, in prison it doesn’t matter
because we’ve got our own brand of equality. In prison every con’s a low life, and
you have to get used to the idea if you intend to survive men like Hadley and
Greg Stammas, who really would kill you just as soon as look at you. When you’re
in stir you belong to the State and if you forget it, woe is you. I’ve known men
who’ve lost eyes, men who’ve lost toes and fingers; I knew one man who lost the
tip of his penis and counted himself lucky that was all he lost. I wanted to
tell Andy that it was already too late. He could go back and pick up his brush
and there would still be some big lug waiting for him in the showers that night,
ready to charley-horse both of his legs and leave him writhing on the cement.
You could buy a lug like that for a pack of cigarettes or three Baby Ruths. Most
of all, I wanted to tell him not to make it any worse than it already was.

What I did was to keep on running tar out onto the roof as if nothing at all was

29

happening. Like everyone else, I look after my own ass first. I have to. It’s
cracked already, and in Shawshank there have always been Hadleys willing to
finish the job of breaking it.

Andy said, “Maybe I put it wrong. Whether you trust her or not is immaterial.
The problem is whether or not you believe she would ever go behind your back,
try to hamstring you.”

Hadley got Up. Mert got up. Tim Youngblood got up. Hadley’s face was as red as
the side of a brick house. “Your only problem,” he said, “is going to be how many
bones you still got unbroken. You can count them in the infirmary. Come on,
Mert. We’re throwing this sucker over the side.”

Tim Youngblood drew his gun. The rest of us kept tarring like mad. The sun beat
down. They were going to do it; Hadley and Mert were simply going to pitch him
over the side. Terrible accident. Dufresne, prisoner 81433-SHNK, was taking a
couple of empties down and slipped on the ladder. Too bad.

They laid hold of him, Mert on the right arm, Hadley on the left. Andy didn’t
resist. His eyes never left Hadley’s red face.

“If you’ve got your thumb on her, Mr. Hadley,” he said in that same calm,
composed voice, “there’s not a reason why you shouldn’t have every cent of that
money. Final score, Mr. Byron Hadley thirty-five thousand, Uncle Sam zip.”
Mert started to drag him toward the edge.

Hadley just stood there. For a moment Andy was like a rope between them in a tug-of-war
game. Then Hadley said, “Hold on one second, Mert. What do you mean, boy?”

“I mean, if you’ve got your thumb on your wife, you can give it to her,” Andy
said.

“You better start making sense, boy, or you’re going over.”

“The IRS allows you a one-time-only gift to your spouse,” Andy said. “It’s good
up to sixty thousand dollars.”

Hadley was now looking at Andy as if he had been poleaxed.

“Naw, that ain’t right,” he said. “Tax free?”

“Tax free,” Andy said. “IRS can’t touch cent one.”

“How would you know a thing like that?”

30

Tim Youngblood said: “He used to be a banker, Byron. I s’pose he might-”

“Shut ya head, Trout,” Hadley said without looking at him.

Tim Youngblood flushed and shut up. Some of the guards called him Trout because of
his thick lips and buggy eyes. Hadley kept looking at Andy. “You’re the smart
banker who shot his wife. Why should I believe a smart banker like you? So I can
wind up in here breaking rocks right alongside you? You’d like that, wouldn’t
you?”

Andy said quietly: “If you went to jail for tax evasion, you’d go to a federal
penitentiary, not Shawshank. But you won’t. The tax-free gift to the spouse is a
perfectly legal loophole. I’ve done dozens . . . no, hundreds of them. It’s
meant primarily for people with small businesses to pass on, or for people who
come into one-time-only windfalls. Like yourself.”

“I think you’re lying,” Hadley said, but he didn’t-you could see he didn’t.
There was an emotion dawning on his face, something that was grotesque overlying
that long, ugly countenance and that receding, sunburned brow. An almost obscene
emotion when seen on the features of Byron Hadley. It was hope.

“No, I’m not lying. There’s no reason why you should take my word for it,
either. Engage a lawyer-”

“Ambulance-chasing highway-robbing sob’s!” Hadley cried.

Andy shrugged. “Then go to the IRS. They’ll tell you the same thing for free.
Actually, you don’t need me to tell you at all. You would have investigated the
matter for yourself.”

“You’re right. I don’t need any smart wife-killing banker to show me where the
bears go in the woods.”

“You’ll need a tax lawyer or a banker to set up the gift for you and that will
cost you something,” Andy said. “Or . . . if you were interested, I’d be glad to
set it up for you nearly free of charge. The price would be three beers apiece
for my co-workers-”

“Co-workers,” Mert said, and let out a rusty guffaw. He slapped his knee. A real
knee-slapper was old Mert, and I hope he died of intestinal cancer in a part of
the world where morphine is as of yet undiscovered. “Co-workers, ain’t that
cute? Co-workers! You ain’t got any-”

“Shut your friggin trap,” Hadley growled, and Mert shut. Hadley looked at Andy
again. “What was you saying

31

“I was saying that I’d only ask three beers apiece for my coworkers, if that
seems fair,” Andy said. “I think a man feels more like a man when he’s working
out of doors in the springtime if he can have a bottle of suds. That’s only my
opinion. It would go down smooth, and I’m sure you’d have their gratitude.”

I have talked to some of the other men who were up there that day – Rennie Martin,
Logan St. Pierre, and Paul Bonsaint were three of them – and we all saw the same
thing then . . . felt the same thing. Suddenly it was Andy who had the upper
hand. It was Hadley who had the gun on his hip and the billy in his hand, Hadley
who had his friend Greg Stammas behind him and the whole prison administration
behind Stammas, the whole power of the State behind that, but all at once in
that golden sunshine it didn’t matter, and I felt my heart leap up in my chest
as it never had since the truck drove me and four others through the gate back
in 1938 and I stepped out into the exercise yard.

Andy was looking at Hadley with those cold, clear, calm eyes, and it wasn’t just
the thirty-five thousand then, we all agreed on that. I’ve played it over and
over in my mind and I know. It was man against man, and Andy simply forced
him, the way a strong man can force a weaker man’s wrist to the table in a game
of Indian rasseling. There was no reason, you see, why Hadley couldn’t’ve given
Mert the nod at that very minute, pitched Andy overside onto his head, and still
taken Andy’s advice. No reason. But he didn’t.

“I could get you all a couple of beers if I wanted to,” Hadley said. “A beer
does taste good while you’re working The colossal bastard even managed to sound
magnanimous.

“I’d just give you one piece of advice the IRS wouldn’t bother with,” Andy said.
His eyes were Axed unwinkingly on Hadley’s. “Make the gift to your wife if
you’re sure. If you think there’s even a chance she might double-cross you or
backshoot you, we could work out something else — ”

“Double-cross me?” Hadley asked harshly. “Double-cross me? Mr. Hotshot Banker,
if she ate her way through a boxcar of Ex-Lax, she wouldn’t dare fart unless I
gave her the nod.”

Mert, Youngblood, and the other screws yucked it up dutifully. Andy never
cracked a smile.

“I’ll write down the forms you need,” he said. “You can get them at the post
office, and I’ll fill them out for your signature.”

That sounded suitably important, and Hadley’s chest swelled. Then he glared
around at the rest of us and hollered, “What are you jimmies starin at? Move

32

your asses, goddammit!” He looked back at Andy. “You come over here with me,
hotshot. And listen to me well: if you’re messin’ me somehow, you’re gonna find
yourself chasing your own head around Shower C before the week’s out.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Andy said softly.

And he did understand it. The way it turned out, he understood a lot more than I
did – more than any of us did.

That’s how, on the second-to-last day of the job, the convict crew that tarred
the plate-factory roof in 1950 ended up sitting in a row at ten o’clock on a
spring morning, drinking Black Label beer supplied by the hardest screw that
ever walked a turn at Shawshank State Prison. That beer was warm, but it
was still the best I ever had in my life. We sat and drank it and felt the sun
on our shoulders, and not even the expression of half-amusement, half-contempt
on Hadley’s face-as if he were watching apes drink beer instead of men-could
spoil it. It lasted twenty minutes, that beer-break, and for those twenty
minutes we felt like free men. We could have been drinking beer and tarring the
roof of one of our own houses.

Only Andy didn’t drink. I already told you about his drinking habits. He sat
hunkered down in the shade, hands dangling between his knees, watching us and
smiling a little. It’s amazing how many men remember him that way, and amazing
how many men were on that work-crew when Andy Dufresne faced down Byron Hadley.
I thought there were nine or ten of us, but by 1955 there must have been two
hundred of us, maybe more . . . if you believed what you heard.

So, yeah-if you asked me to give you a flat-out answer to the question of
whether I’m trying to tell you about a man or a legend that got made up around
the man, like a pearl around a little piece of grit-I’d have to say that the
answer lies somewhere in between. All I know for sure is that Andy Dufresne
wasn’t much like me or anyone else I ever knew since I came inside. He brought
in five hundred dollars jammed up his back porch, but somehow that graymeat son
of a bitch managed to bring in something else as well. A sense of his own worth,
maybe, or a feeling that he would be the winner in the end . . . or maybe it was
only a sense of freedom, even inside these goddamned gray walls. It was a kind
of inner light he carried around with him. I only knew him to lose that light
once, and that is also a part of this story.

VII

33

By World Series time of 1950-this was the year the Philadelphia Whiz Kids
dropped four straight, you will remember-Andy was having no more trouble from
the sisters. Stammas and Hadley had passed the word. If Andy Dufresne came to
either of them, or any of the other screws that formed a part of their coterie,
and showed so much as a single drop of blood in his underpants, every sister in
Shawshank would go to bed that night with a headache. They didn’t fight it. As I
have pointed out, there was always an eighteen-year old car thief or a firebug
or some guy who’d gotten his kicks handling little children. After the day on
the plate-shop roof, Andy went his way and the sisters went theirs.

He was working in the library then, under a tough old con named Brooks Hatlen.
Hatlen had gotten the job back in the late twenties because he had a college
education. Brooksie’s degree was in animal husbandry, true enough, but college
educations in institutes of lower learning like The Shank are so rare that it’s
a case of beggars not being able to be choosers.

In 1952 Brooksie, who had killed his wife and daughter after a losing streak at
poker back when Coolidge was President, was paroled. As usual, the State in all
its wisdom had let him go long after any chance he might have had to become a
useful part of society was gone. He was sixty-eight and arthritic when he
tottered out of the main gate in his Polish suit and his French shoes, his
parole papers in one hand and a Greyhound bus ticket in the other. He was crying
when he left. Shawshank was his world. What lay beyond its walls was as terrible
to Brooks as the Western Seas had been to superstitious fifteenth-century
sailors. In prison, Brooksie had been a person of some importance. He was the
librarian, an educated man. If he went to the Kittery library and asked for a
job, they wouldn’t even give him a library card. I heard he died in a home for
indigent old folks up Freeport way in 1953, and at that he lasted about six
months longer than I thought he would. Yeah, I guess the State got its own back
on Brooksie, all right. They trained him to like it inside the shithouse and
then they threw him out.

Andy succeeded to Brooksie’s job, and he was librarian for twenty-three years.
He used the same force of will I’d seen him use on Byron Hadley to get what he
wanted for the library, and I saw him gradually turn one small room (which still
smelled of turpentine because it had been a paint closet until 1922 and had
never been properly aired) lined with Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and
National Geographies into the best prison library in New England.

He did it a step at a time. He put a suggestion box by the door and patiently
weeded out such attempts at humor as More Fuk-Boox Pleeze and Excape in 10 EZ
Lesions. He got hold of the things the prisoners seemed serious about. He wrote
to the major book clubs in New York and got two of them, The Literary Guild and
The Book-of-the-Month Club, to send editions of all their major selections to us

34

at a special cheap rate. He discovered a hunger for information on such small
hobbies as soap-carving, woodworking, sleight of hand, and card solitaire. He
got all the books he could on such subjects. And those two jailhouse staples,
Erie Stanley Gardner and Louis L’Amour. Cons never seem to get enough of the
courtroom or the open range. And yes, he did keep a box of fairly spicy
paperbacks under the checkout desk, loaning them out carefully and making sure
they always got back. Even so, each new acquisition of that type was quickly
read to tatters.

He began to write to the State Senate in Augusta in 1954. Stammas was warden by
then, and he used to pretend Andy was some sort of mascot. He was always in the
library, shooting the bull with Andy, and sometimes he’d even throw a paternal
arm around Andy’s shoulders or give him a goose. He didn’t fool anybody. Andy
Dufresne was no one’s mascot.

He told Andy that maybe he’d been a banker on the outside, but that part of his
life was receding rapidly into his past and he had better get a hold on the
facts of prison life. As far as that bunch of jumped-up Republican Rotarians in
Augusta was concerned, there were only three viable expenditures of the
taxpayers’ money in the field of prisons and corrections. Number one was more
walls, number two was more bars, and number three was more guards. As far as the
State Senate was concerned, Stammas explained, the folks in Thomastan and
Shawshank and Pittsfield and South Portland were the scum of the earth. They
were there to do hard time, and by God and Sonny Jesus, it was hard time they
were going to do. And if there were a few weevils in the bread, wasn’t that just
too fucking bad?

Andy smiled his small, composed smile and asked Stammas what would happen to a
block of concrete if a drop of water fell on it once every year for a million
years. Stammas laughed and clapped Andy on the back. “You got no million years,
old horse, but if you did, I bleeve you’d do it with that same little grin on
your face. You go on and write your letters. I’ll even mail them for you if you
pay for the stamps.”

Which Andy did. And he had the last laugh, although Stammas and Hadley weren’t
around to see it. Andy’s requests for library funds were routinely turned down
until 1960, when he received a check for two hundred dollars-the Senate probably
appropriated it in hopes that he would shut up and go away. Vain hope. Andy felt
that he had finally gotten one foot in the door and he simply redoubled his
efforts; two letters a week instead of one. In 1962 he got four hundred dollars,
and for the rest of the decade the library received seven hundred dollars a year
like clockwork. By 1971 that had risen to an even thousand. Not much stacked up
against what your average small-town library receives, I guess, but a thousand
bucks can buy a lot of recycled Perry Mason stories and Jake Logan Westerns. By
the time Andy left, you could go into the library (expanded from its original

35

paint-locker to three rooms), and find just about anything you’d want. And if
you couldn’t find it, chances were good that Andy could get it for you.

Now you’re asking yourself if all this came about just because Andy told Byron
Hadley how to save the taxes on his windfall inheritance. The answer is yes.
And no. You can probably figure out what happened for yourself.

Word got around that Shawshank was housing its very own pet financial wizard. In
the late spring and the summer of 1950, Andy set up two trust funds for guards
who wanted to assure a college education for their kids, he advised a couple of
others who wanted to take small fliers in common stock (and they did pretty damn
well, as things turned out; one of them did so well he was able to take an early
retirement two years later), and I’ll be damned if he didn’t advise the warden
himself, old Lemon Lips George Dunahy, on how to go about setting up a
tax-shelter for himself. That was just before Dunahy got the bum’s rush, and I
believe he must have been dreaming about all the millions his book was going to
make him. By April of 1951, Andy was doing the tax returns for half the screws
at Shawshank, and by 1952, he was doing almost all of them. He was paid in what
may be a prison’s most valuable coin: simple good will.

Later on, after Greg Stammas took over the warden’s office, Andy became even
more important-but if I tried to tell you the specifics of just how, I’d be
guessing. There are some things I know about and others I can only guess at. I
know that there were some prisoners who received all sorts of special
considerations-radios in their cells, extraordinary visiting privileges, things
like that-and there were people on the outside who were paying for them to have
those privileges. Such people are known as “angels” by the prisoners. All at
once some fellow would be excused from working in the plate-shop on Saturday
forenoons, and you’d know that fellow had an angel out there who’d coughed up a
chunk of dough to make sure it happened. The way it usually works is that the
angel will pay the bribe to some middle-level screw, and the screw will spread
the grease both up and down the administrative ladder.

Then there was the discount auto-repair service that laid Warden Dunahy low. It
went underground for awhile and then emerged stronger than ever in the late
fifties. And some of the contractors that worked at the prison from time to time
were paying kickbacks to the top administration officials, I’m pretty sure, and
the same was almost certainly true of the companies whose equipment was bought
and installed in the laundry and the license-plate shop and the stamping-mill
that was built in 1963.

By the late sixties there was also a booming trade in pills, and the same
administrative crowd was involved in turning a buck on that. All of it added up
to a pretty good-sized river of illicit income. Not like the pile of clandestine
bucks that must fly around a really big prison like Attica or San Quentin, but

36

not peanuts, either. And money itself becomes a problem after awhile. You can’t
just stuff it into your wallet and then shell out a bunch of crumpled twenties
and dog-eared tens when you want a pool built in your back yard or an addition
put on your house. Once you get past a certain point, you have to explain where
that money came from . . . and if your explanations aren’t convincing enough,
you’re apt to wind up wearing a number yourself.

So there was a need for Andy’s services. They took him out of the laundry and
installed him in the library, but if you wanted to look at it another way, they
never took him out of the laundry at all. They just set him to work washing
dirty money instead of dirty sheets He funneled it into stocks, bonds, tax-free
municipals, you name it.

He told me once about ten years after that day on the plate-shop roof that his
feelings about what he was doing were pretty clear, and that his conscience was
relatively untroubled. The rackets would have gone on with him or without him.
He had not asked to be sent to Shawshank, he went on; he was an innocent man who
had been victimized by colossal bad luck, not a missionary or a do-gooder.

“Besides, Red,” he told me with that same half-grin, “what I’m doing in here
isn’t all that different from what I was doing outside. I’ll hand you a pretty
cynical axiom: the amount of expert financial help an individual or company
needs rises in direct proportion to how many people that person or business is
screwing.

“The people who run this place are stupid, brutal monsters for the most part.
The people who run the straight world are brutal and monstrous, but they happen
not to be quite as stupid, because the standard of competence out there is a
little higher. Not much, but a little. ”

“But the pills,” I said. “I don’t want to tell you your business, but they make
me nervous. Reds, uppers, downers, Nembutals- now they’ve got these things they
call Phase Fours. I won’t get anything like that. Never have.”

“No,” Andy said. “I don’t like the pills, either. Never have. But I’m not much
of a one for cigarettes or booze, either. But I don’t push the pills. I don’t
bring them in, and I don’t sell them once they are in. Mostly it’s the screws
who do that.”

“But-”

“Yeah, I know. There’s a fine line there. What it comes down to, Red, is some
people refuse to get their hands dirty at all. That’s called sainthood, and the
pigeons land on your shoulders and crap all over your shirt. The other extreme
is to take a bath in the dirt and deal any goddamned thing that will turn a

37

dollar-guns, switchblades big H. what the hell. You ever have a con come up to
you and offer you a contract?”

I nodded. It’s happened a lot of times over the years. You are, after all, the
man who can get it. And they figure if you can get them batteries for their
transistor radios or cartons of Luckies or lids of reefer, you can put them in
touch with a guy who’ll use a knife. “Sure you have,” Andy agreed. “But you
don’t do it. Because guys like us, Red, we know there’s a third choice. An
alternative to staying simon-pure or bathing in the filth and the slime. It’s
the alternative that grown-ups all over the world pick. You balance off your
walk through the hog-wallow against what it gains you. You choose the lesser of
two evils and try to keep your good intentions in front of you. And I guess you
judge how well you’re doing by how well you sleep at night . . . and what your
dreams are like. ”

“Good intentions,” I said, and laughed. “I know all about that Andy. A fellow
can toddle right off to hell on that road.”

“Don’t you believe it,” he said, growing somber. “This is hell right here. Right
here in The Shank. They sell pills and I tell them what to do with the money.
But I’ve also got the library, and I know of over two dozen guys who have used
the books in there to help them pass their high school equivalency tests. Maybe
when they get out of here they’ll be able to crawl off the shit heap. When we
needed that second room back in 1957, I got it. Because they want to keep me
happy. I work cheap. That’s the trade-off.”

“And you’ve got your own private quarters.”

“Sure. That’s the way I like it.”

The prison population had risen slowly all through the fifties, and it damn near
exploded in the sixties, what with every college-age kid in America wanting to
try dope and the perfectly ridiculous penalties for the use of a little reefer.
But in all that time Andy never had a cellmate, except for a big, silent Indian
named Normaden (like all Indians in The Shank, he was called Chief), and
Normaden didn’t last long. A lot of the other long-timers thought Andy was
crazy, but Andy just smiled. He lived alone and he liked it that way . . . and
as he’d said, they liked to keep him happy. He worked cheap.

Prison time is slow time, sometimes you’d swear it’s stop-time, but it passes. It passes.
George Dunahy departed the scene in a welter of newspaper headlines shouting
SCANDAL and NEST-FEATHERING. Stammas succeeded him, and for the next six
years Shawshank was a kind of living hell. During the reign of Greg Stammas the beds in
the infirmary and the cells in the Solitary Wing were always full.

38

One day in 1958 I looked at myself in a small shaving mirror I kept in my cell
and saw a forty-year-old man looking back at me. A kid had come in back in 1938,
a kid with a big mop of carroty red hair, half-crazy with remorse, thinking
about suicide. That kid was gone. The red hair was going gray and starting to
recede. There were crow’s tracks around the eyes. On that day I could see an old
man inside, waiting his time to come out. It scared me. Nobody wants to grow old
in stir.

Stammas went early in 1959. There had been several investigative reporters
sniffing around, and one of them even did four months under an assumed name, for
a crime made up out of whole cloth. They were getting ready to drag out
SCANDAL and NEST-FEATHERING again, but before they could bring the hammer
down on him, Stammas ran. I can understand that; boy, can I ever. If he had been tried
and convicted, he could have ended up right in here. If so, he might have lasted all
of five hours. Byron Hadley had gone two years earlier. The sucker had a heart
attack and took an early retirement.

Andy never got touched by the Stammas affair. In early 1959 a new warden was
appointed, and a new assistant warden, and a new chief of guards. For the next
eight months or so, Andy was just another con again. It was during that period
that Normaden, the big half-breed Passamaquoddy, shared Andy’s cell with him.
Then everything just started up again. Normaden was moved out, and Andy was
living in solitary splendor again. The names at the top change, but the rackets
never do.

I talked to Normaden once about Andy. “Nice Della,” Normaden said. It was hard
to make out anything he said because he had a harelip and a cleft palate; his
words all came out in a slush. “I liked it there. He never made fun. But he
didn’t want me there. I could tell.” Big shrug. “I was glad to go, me. Bad draft
in that cell. All the time cold. He don’t let nobody touch his things. That’s
okay. Nice man, never made fun. But big draft.”

VIII

39

Rita Hayworth hung in Andy’s cell until 1955, if I remember right. Then it was
Marilyn Monroe, that picture from The Seven-Year Itch where she’s standing over
a subway grating and the warm air is flipping her skirt up. Marilyn lasted until
1960, and she was considerably tattered about the edges when Andy replaced her
with Jayne Mansfield. Jayne was, you should pardon the expression, a bust. After
only a year or so she was replaced with an English actress-might have been Hazel
Court, but I’m not sure. In 1966 that one came down and Raquel Welch went up for
a record breaking six-year engagement in Andy’s cell. The last poster to hang
there was a pretty country-rock singer whose name was Linda Ronstadt.

I asked him once what the posters meant to him, and he gave me a peculiar,
surprised sort of look. “Why, they mean the same thing to me as they do to most
cons, I guess,” he said. “Freedom. You look at those pretty women and you feel
like you could almost . . . not quite but almost . . . step right through and be
beside them. Be free. I guess that’s why I always liked Raquel Welch the best.
It wasn’t just her; it was that beach she was standing on. Looked like she was
down in Mexico somewhere. Someplace quiet, where a man would be able to hear
himself think. Didn’t you ever feel that way about a picture, Red? That you
could almost step right through it?”

I said I’d never really thought of it that way.

“Maybe someday you’ll see what I mean,” he said, and he was right. Years later I
saw exactly what he meant . . . and when I did, the first thing I thought of was
Normaden, and about how he’d said it was always cold in Andy’s cell.

A terrible thing happened to Andy in late March or early April of 1963. I have
told you that he had something that most of the other prisoners, myself
included, seemed to lack. Call it a sense of equanimity, or a feeling of inner
peace, maybe even a constant and unwavering faith that someday the long
nightmare would end.

Whatever you want to call it, Andy Dufresne always seemed to have his act
together. There was none of that sullen desperation about him that seems to
afflict most lifers after awhile; you could never smell hopelessness on him.

Until that late winter of ’63.

We had another warden by then, a man named Samuel Norton. The Mathers, Cotton
and Increase, would have felt right at home with Sam Norton. So far as I know,
no one had ever seen him so much as crack a smile. He had a thirty-year pin from
the Baptist Advent Church of Eliot. His major innovation as the head of our
happy family was to make sure that each incoming prisoner had a New Testament.
He had a small plaque on his desk, gold letters inlaid in teakwood, which said
CHRIST IS MY SAVIOR. A sampler on the wall, made by his wife, read:

40

HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY. HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY. HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY. HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY.

This latter sentiment cut zero ice with most of us.

We felt that the judgment had already occurred, and we would be willing to
testify with the best of them that the rock would not hide us nor the dead tree
give us shelter. He had a Bible quote for every occasion, did Mr. Sam Norton,
and whenever you meet a man like that, my best advice to you would be to grin
big and cover up your balls with both hands.

There were less infirmary cases than in the days of Greg Stammas, and so far as
I know the moonlight burials ceased altogether, but this is not to say that
Norton was not a believer in punishment. Solitary was always well populated. Men
lost their teeth not from beatings but from bread and water diets. It began to
be called grain and drain, as in “I’m on the Sam Norton grain and drain train,
boys.”

The man was the foulest hypocrite that I ever saw in a high position. The
rackets I told you about earlier continued to flourish, but Sam Norton added his
own new wrinkles. Andy knew about them all, and because we had gotten to be
pretty good friends by that time, he let me in on some of them. When Andy talked
about them, an expression of amused, disgusted wonder would come over his face,
as if he were telling me about some ugly, predatory species of bug that was, by
its very ugliness and greed, somehow more comic than terrible.

It was Warden Norton who instituted the “Inside-Out” program you may have read
about some sixteen or seventeen years back; it was even written up in Newsweek.
In the press it sounded like a real advance in practical corrections and
rehabilitation. There were prisoners out cutting pulpwood, prisoners repairing
bridges and causeways, prisoners constructing potato cellars. Norton called it
“Inside-Out” and was invited to explain it to damn near every Rotary and Kiwanis
club in New England, especially after he got his picture in Newsweek. The
prisoners called it “road-ganging,” but so far as I know, none of them were ever
invited to express their views to the Kiwanians or the Loyal Order of Moose.

Norton was right in there on every operation, thirty-year churchpin and all;
from cutting pulp to digging storm-drains to laying new culverts under state
highways, there was Norton, skimming off the top. There were a hundred ways to
do it-men, materials, you name it. But he had it coming another way, as well.
The construction businesses in the area were deathly afraid of Norton’s
Inside-Out program, because prison labor is slave labor, and you can’t compete
with that. So Sam Norton, he of the Testaments and the thirty-year church-pin,
was passed a good many thick envelopes under the table during his sixteen-year
tenure as Shawshank’s warden. And when an envelope was passed, he would either

41

overbid the project, not bid at all, or claim that all his Inside-Outers were
committed elsewhere. It has always been something of a wonder to me that Norton
was never found in the trunk of a Thunderbird parked off a highway somewhere
down in Massachusetts with his hands tied behind his back and half a dozen
bullets in his head.

Anyway, as the old barrelhouse song says, My God, how the money rolled in.
Norton must have subscribed to the old Puritan notion that the best way to
figure out which folks God favors is by checking their bank accounts.

Andy Dufresne was his right hand in all of this, his silent partner. The prison
library was Andy’s hostage to fortune. Norton knew it, and Norton used it. Andy
told me that one of Norton’s favorite aphorisms was One hand washes the other.
So Andy gave good advice and made useful suggestions. I can’t say for sure that
he handtooled Norton’s Inside-Out program, but I’m damned sure he processed the
money for the Jesus-shouting son of a whore. He gave good advice, made useful
suggestions, the money got spread around, and . . . son of a bitch! The library
would get a new set of automotive repair manuals, a fresh set of Grolier
Encyclopedias, books on how to prepare for the Scholastic Achievement Tests.
And, of course, more Erle Stanley Gardners and more Louis L’Amours.

And I’m convinced that what happened happened because Norton just didn’t want to
lose his good right hand. I’ll go further: it happened because he was scared of
what might happen-what Andy might say against him-if Andy ever got clear of
Shawshank State Prison.

I got the story a chunk here and a chunk there over a space of seven years, some
of it from Andy-but not all. He never wanted to talk about that part of his
life, and I don’t blame him. I got parts of it from maybe half a dozen different
sources. I’ve said once that prisoners are nothing but slaves, but they have
that slave habit of looking dumb and keeping their ears open. I got it backwards
and forwards and in the middle, but I’ll give it to you from point A to point Z.
and maybe you’ll understand why the man spent about ten months in a bleak,
depressed daze. See, I don’t think he knew the truth until 1963, fifteen years
after he came into this sweet little hellhole. Until he met Tommy Williams, I
don’t think he knew how bad it could get.

Tommy Williams joined our happy little Shawshank family in November of 1962.
Tommy thought of himself as a native of Massachusetts, but he wasn’t proud; in
his twenty-seven years he’d done time all over New England. He was a
professional thief, and as you may have guessed, my own feeling was that he
should have picked another profession.

He was a married man, and his wife came to visit each and every week. She had an
idea that things might go better with Tommy- and consequently better with their

42

three-year-old son and herself- if he got his high school degree. She talked him
into it, and so Tommy Williams started visiting the library on a regular basis.

For Andy, this was an old routine by then. He saw that Tommy got a series of
high school equivalency tests. Tommy would brush up on the subjects he had
passed in high school-there weren’t many-and then take the test. Andy also saw
that he was enrolled in a number of correspondence courses covering the subjects
he had failed in school or just missed by dropping out.

He probably wasn’t the best student Andy ever took over the jumps, and I don’t
know if he ever did get his high school diploma, but that forms no part of my
story. The important thing was that he came to like Andy Dufresne very much, as
most people did after awhile.

On a couple of occasions he asked Andy “what a smart guy like you is doing in
the joint”-a question which is the rough equivalent of that one that goes
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” But Andy wasn’t the
type to tell him; he would only smile and turn the conversation into some other
channel. Quite normally, Tommy asked someone else, and when he finally got the
story, I guess he also got the shock of his young life.

The person he asked was his partner on the laundry’s steam ironer and folder.
The inmates call this device the mangler, because that’s exactly what it will do
to you if you aren’t paying attention and get your bad self caught in it. His
partner was Charlie Lathrop, who had been in for about twelve years on a murder
charge. He was more than glad to reheat the details of the Dufresne murder trial
for Tommy; it broke the monotony of pulling freshly pressed bedsheets out of the
machine and tucking them into the basket. He was just getting to the jury
waiting until after lunch to bring in their guilty verdict when the trouble
whistle went off and the mangle grated to a stop. They had been feeding in
freshly washed sheets from the Eliot Nursing Home at the far end; these were
spat out dry and neatly pressed at Tommy’s and Charlie’s end at the rate of one
every five seconds. Their job was to grab them, fold them, and slap them into
the cart, which had already been lined with clean brown paper.

But Tommy Williams was just standing there, staring at Charlie Lathrop, his
mouth unhinged all the way to his chest. He was standing in a drift of sheets
that had come through clean and which were now sopping up all the wet muck on
the floor-and in a laundry wetwash, there’s plenty of muck.

So the head bull that day, Homer Jessup, comes rushing over, bellowing his head
off and on the prod for trouble. Tommy took no notice of him. He spoke to
Charlie as if old Homer, who had busted more heads than he could probably count,
hadn’t been there.

43

“What did you say that golf pro’s name was?”

“Quentin,” Charlie answered back, all confused and upset by now. He later said
that the kid was as white as a truce flag. “Glenn Quentin, I think. Something
like that, anyway-”

“Here now, here now,” Homer Jessup roared, his neck as red as a roosters comb.
“Get them sheets in cold water! Get quick! Get quick, by Jesus, you-”

“Glenn Quentin, oh my God,” Tommy Williams said, and that was all he got to say
because Homer Jessup, that least peaceable of men, brought his billy down behind
his ear. Tommy hit the floor so hard he broke off three of his front teeth. When
he woke up he was in solitary, and confined to same for a week, riding a boxcar
on Sam Norton’s famous grain and drain train. Plus a black mark on his report
card.

That was in early February of 1963, and Tommy Williams went around to six or
seven other long-timers after he got out of solitary and got pretty much the
same story. I know; I was one of them. But when I asked him why he wanted it, he
just clammed up.

Then one day he went to the library and spilled one helluva big budget of
information to Andy Dufresne. And for the first and last time, at least since he
had approached me about the Rita Hayworth poster like a kid buying his first
pack of Trojans, Andy lost his cool . . . only this time he blew it entirely.

I saw him later that day, and he looked like a man who has stepped on the
business end of a rake and given himself a good one, whap between the eyes. His
hands were trembling, and when I spoke to him, he didn’t answer. Before that
afternoon was out he had caught up with Billy Hanlon, who was the head screw,
and set up an appointment with Warden Norton for the following day. He told me
later that he didn’t sleep a wink all that night; he just listened to a cold
winter wind howling outside, watched the searchlights go around and around,
putting long, moving shadows on the cement walls of the cage he had called home
since Harry Truman was President, and tried to think it all out. He said it was
as if Tommy had produced a key which fit a cage in the back of his mind, a cage
like his own cell. Only instead of holding a man, that cage held a tiger, and
that tiger’s name was Hope. Williams had produced the key that unlocked the cage
and the tiger was out, willy-nilly, to roam his brain.

Four years before, Tommy Williams had been arrested in Rhode Island, driving a
stolen car that was full of stolen merchandise. Tommy turned in his accomplice,
the DA played ball, and he got a lighter sentence . . . two to four, with time
served. Eleven months after beginning his term, his old cellmate got a ticket
out and Tommy got a new one, a man named Elwood Blatch. Blatch had been busted

44

for burglary with a weapon and was serving six to twelve.

“I never seen such a high-strung guy,” Tommy told me. “A man like that should
never want to be a burglar, specially not with a gun. The slightest little
noise, he’d go three feet into the air . . . and come down shooting, more likely
than not. One night he almost strangled me because some guy down the hall was
whopping on his cell bars with a tin cup.

“I did seven months with him, until they let me walk free. I got time served and
time off, you understand. I can’t say we talked because you didn’t, you know,
exactly hold a conversation with El Blatch. He held a conversation with you. He
talked all the time. Never shut up. If you tried to get a word in, he’d shake
his fist at you and roll his eyes. It gave me the cold chills whenever he done
that. Big tall guy he was, mostly bald, with these green eyes set way down deep
in the sockets. Jeez, I hope I never see him again.

“It was like a talkin jag every night. Where he grew up, the orphanages he run
away from, the jobs he done, the women he fucked, the crap games he cleaned out.
I just let him run on. My face ain’t much, but I didn’t want it, you know,
rearranged for me.

“According to him, he’d burgled over two hundred joints. It was hard for me to
believe, a guy like him who went off like a firecracker every time someone cut a
loud fart, but he swore it was true. Now . . . listen to me, Red. I know guys
sometimes make things up after they know a thing, but even before I knew about
this golf pro guy, Quentin, I remember thinking that if El Blatch ever burgled
my house, and I found out about it later, I’d have to count myself just about
the luckiest motherfucker going still to be alive. Can you imagine him in some
lady’s bedroom, sifting through her jool’ry box, and she coughs in her sleep or
turns over quick? It gives me the cold chills just to think of something like
that, I swear on my mother’s name it does.

“He said he’d killed people, too. People that gave him shit. At least that’s
what he said. And I believed him. He sure looked like a man that could do some
killing. He was just so fucking highstrung! Like a pistol with a sawed-off
firing pin. I knew a guy who had a Smith and Wesson Police Special with a
sawed-off firing pin. It wasn’t no good for nothing, except maybe for something
to jaw about. The pull on that gun was so light that it would fire if this guy,
Johnny Callahan, his name was, if he turned his record-player on full volume and
put it on top of one of the speakers. That’s how El Blatch was. I can’t explain
it any better. I just never doubted that he had greased some people.

“So one night, just for something to say, I go: ‘Who’d you kill?’ Like a joke,
you know. So he laughs and says: ‘There’s one guy doing time up-Maine for these
two people I killed. It was this guy and the wife of the slob who’s doing the

45

time. I was creeping their place and the guy started to give me some shit.’

“I can’t remember if he ever told me the woman’s name or not,” Tommy went on.
“Maybe he did. But in New England, Dufresne’s like Smith or Jones in the rest of
the country, because there’s so many Frogs up here. Dufresne, Lavesque,
Ouelette, Poulin, who can remember Frog names? But he told me the guy’s name. He
said the guy was Glenn Quentin and he was a prick, a big rich prick, a golf pro.
El said he thought the guy might have cash in the house, maybe as much as five
thousand dollars. That was a lot of money back then, he says to me. So I go:
‘When was that?’ And he goes: ‘After the war. Just after the war.’

“So he went in and he did the joint and they woke up and the guy gave him some
trouble. That’s what El said. Maybe the guy just started to snore, that’s what I
say. Anyway, El said Quentin was in the sack with some hotshot lawyer’s wife and
they sent the lawyer up to Shawshank State Prison. Then he laughs this big
laugh. Holy Christ, I was never so glad of anything as I was when I got my
walking papers from that place.”

IX

46

I guess you can see why Andy went a little wonky when Tommy told him that story,
and why he wanted to see the warden right away. Elwood Blatch had been serving a
six-to-twelve rap when Tommy knew him four years before. By the time Andy heard
all of this, in 1963, he might be on the verge of getting out . . . or already
out. So those were the two prongs of the spit Andy was roasting on-the idea that
Blatch might still be in on one hand, and the very real possibility that he
might be gone like the wind on the other.

There were inconsistencies in Tommy’s story, but aren’t there always in real
life? Blatch told Tommy the man who got sent up was a hotshot lawyer, and Andy
was a banker, but those are two professions that people who aren’t very educated
could easily get mixed up. And don’t forget that twelve years had gone by
between the time Blatch was reading the clippings about the trial and the time
he told the tale to Tommy Williams. He also told Tommy he got better than a
thousand dollars from a footlocker Quentin had in his closet, but the police
said at Andy’s trial that there had been no sign of burglary. I have a few ideas
about that. First, if you take the cash and the man it belonged to is dead, how
are you going to know anything was stolen, unless someone else can tell you it
was there to start with? Second, who’s to say Blatch wasn’t lying about that
part of it? Maybe he didn’t want to admit killing two people for nothing. Third,
maybe there were signs of burglary and the cops either overlooked them-cops can
be pretty dumb-or deliberately covered them up so they wouldn’t screw the DA’s
case. The guy was running for public office, remember, and he needed a
conviction to run on. An unsolved burglary-murder would have done him no good at
all.

But of the three, I like the middle one best. I’ve known a few Elwood Blatches
in my time at Shawshank-the trigger-pullers with the crazy eyes. Such fellows
want you to think they got away with the equivalent of the Hope Diamond on every
caper, even if they got caught with a two-dollar Timex and nine bucks on the one
they’re doing time for.

And there was one thing in Tommy’s story that convinced Andy beyond a shadow of
a doubt. Blatch hadn’t hit Quentin at random. He had called Quentin “a big rich
prick,” and he had known Quentin was a golf pro. Well, Andy and his wife had
been going out to that country club for drinks and dinner once or twice a week
for a couple of years, and Andy had done a considerable amount of drinking there
once he found out about his wife’s affair. There was a marina with the country
club, and for awhile in 1947 there had been a part-time grease-and-gas jockey
working there who matched Tommy’s description of Elwood Blatch. A big tall man,
mostly bald, with deep-set green eyes. A man who had an unpleasant way of
looking at you, as though he was sizing you up. He wasn’t there long, Andy said.
Either he quit or Briggs, the fellow in charge of the marina, fired him. But he
wasn’t a man you forgot. He was too striking for that.

47

So Andy went to see Warden Norton on a rainy, windy day with big gray clouds
scudding across the sky above the gray walls, a day when the last of the snow
was starting to melt away and show lifeless patches of last year’s grass in the
fields beyond the prison.

The warden has a good-sized office in the Administration Wing, and behind the
warden’s desk there’s a door which connects with the assistant warden’s office..
The assistant warden was out that day, but a trusty was there. He was a
half-lame fellow whose real name I have forgotten; all the inmates, me included,
called him Chester, after Marshal Dillon’s sidekick. Chester was supposed to be
watering the plants and waxing the floor. My guess is that the plants went
thirsty that day and the only waxing that was done happened because of Chester’s
dirty ear polishing the keyhole plate of that connecting door.

He heard the warden’s main door open and close and then Norton saying: “Good
morning, Dufresne, how can I help you?”

“Warden,” Andy began, and old Chester told us that he could hardly recognize
Andy’s voice it was so changed. “Warden. . . there’s something . . . something’s
happened to me that’s . . . that’s so . . . so . . . I hardly know where to
begin.”

“Well, why don’t you just begin at the beginning?” the warden said, probably in
his sweetest let’s-all-turn-to- the-Twenty-third- Psalm-and-read-in-unison
voice. “That usually works the best.”
And so Andy did. He began by refreshing Norton on the details of the crime he
had been imprisoned for. Then he told the warden exactly what Tommy Williams had
told him. He also gave out Tommy’s name, which you may think wasn’t so wise in
light of later developments, but I’d just ask you what else he could have done,
if his story was to have any credibility at all.

When he had finished, Norton was completely silent for some time. I can just see
him, probably tipped back in his office chair under the picture of Governor Reed
hanging on the wall, his fingers steepled, his liver lips pursed, his brow
wrinkled into ladder rungs halfway to the crown of his head, his thirty-year pin
gleaming mellowly.

“Yes,” he said finally. “That’s the damnedest story I ever heard. But I’ll tell
you what surprises me most about it, Dufresne.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“That you were taken in by it.”

48

“Sir? I don’t understand what you mean.” And Chester said that Andy Dufresne,
who had faced down Byron Hadley on the plate-shop roof thirteen years before, was
almost floundering for words.

“Well, now,” Norton said. “It’s pretty obvious to me that this young fellow Williams is
impressed with you. Quite taken with you, as a matter of fact. He hears your tale of woe,
and it’s quite natural of him to want to . . . cheer you up, let’s say. Quite natural. He’s a
young man, not terribly bright. Not surprising he didn’t realize what a state it would put
you into. Now what I suggest is-”

“Don’t you think I thought of that?” Andy asked. “But I’d never told Tommy about
the man working down at the marina. I never told anyone that-it never even crossed my
mind! But Tommy’s description of his cellmate and that man . . . they’re identical!”

“Well, now, you may be indulging in a little selective perception there,” Norton
said with a chuckle. Phrases like that, selective perception, are required learning for people
in the penology and corrections business, and they use them all they can.

“That’s not it at all. Sir.”

“That’s your slant on it,” Norton said, “but mine differs. And let’s remember that I have
only your word that there was such a man working at the Falmouth Hills Country Club
back then.”

“No, sir,” Andy broke in again. “No, that isn’t true. Because-”

“Anyway,” Norton overrode him, expansive and loud, “let’s just look at it from the other
end of the telescope, shall we? Suppose- just suppose, now-that there really was a fellow
named Elwood Blotch. ”

“Blatch,” Andy said tightly.

“Blatch, by all means. And let’s say he was Thomas William’s cellmate in Rhode Island.
The chances are excellent that he has been released by now. Excellent. Why, we don’t even
know how much time he might have done there before he ended up with Williams, do we?
Only that he was doing a six-to-twelve.”

“No. We don’t know how much time he’d done. But Tommy said he was a bad actor, a
cut-up. I think there’s a fair chance that he may still be in. Even if he’s been released, the
prison will have a record of his last known address, the names of his relatives-”

“And both would almost certainly be dead ends.”

Andy was silent for a moment, and then he burst out: “Well, it’s a chance, isn’t it?”

49

“Yes, of course it is. So just for a moment, Dufresne, let’s assume that Blatch exists and
that he is still safely ensconced in the Rhode Island State Penitentiary. Now what is he
going to say if we bring this kettle of fish to him in a bucket? Is he going to fall down on
his knees, roll his eyes, and say: ‘I did it! I did it! By all means add a life term onto my
charge!’?”

“How can you be so obtuse?” Andy said, so low that Chester could barely hear. But he
heard the warden just fine.

“What? What did you call me?”

“Obtuse.'” Andy cried. “Is it deliberate?”

“Dufresne, you’ve taken five minutes of my time-no, seven- and I have a very busy
schedule today. So I believe we’ll just declare this little meeting closed and-”

“The country club will have all the old time-cards, don’t you realize that?” Andy shouted.
“They’ll have tax-forms and W-twos and unemployment compensation forms, all with his
name on them! There will be employees there now that were there then, maybe Briggs
himself! It’s been fifteen years, not forever! They’ll remember him! They will remember
Blatch.’ If I’ve got Tommy to testify to what Blatch told him, and Briggs to testify that
Blatch was there, actually working at the country club, I can get a new trial! I can-”

“Guard! Guard.’ Take this man away!”

“What’s the matter with you?” Andy said, and Chester told me he was very nearly
screaming by then. “It’s my life, my chance to get out, don’t you see that? And you won’t
make a single long-distance call to at least verify Tommy’s story? Listen, I’ll pay for the
call! I’ll pay for-”

Then there was a sound of thrashing as the guards grabbed him and started to drag him
out.

“Solitary,” Warden Norton said dryly. He was probably fingering his thirty-year pin as he
said it. “Bread and water.”

And so they dragged Andy away, totally out of control now, still screaming at the warden;
Chester said you could hear him even after the door was shut: “it’s my life! It’s my life,
don’t you understand it’s my life? ”

Twenty days on the grain and drain train for Andy down there in solitary. It was his
second jolt in solitary, and his dust-up with Norton was his first real black mark since he
had joined our happy little family.
I’ll tell you a little bit about Shawshank’s solitary while we’re on the subject. It’s something
of a throwback to those hardy pioneer days of the early to mid-1700s in Maine. In those

50

days no one wasted much time with such things as “penology” and rehabilitation” and
“selective perception.” In those days, you were taken care of in terms of absolute black
and white. You were either guilty or innocent. If you were guilty, you were either hung or
put in jail. And if you were sentenced to jail, you did not go to an institution. No, you dug
your own jail with a spade provided by the Province of Maine. You dug it as wide and as
deep as you could during the period between sunup and sundown. Then they gave you a
couple of skins and a bucket, and down you went. Once down, the gazer would bar the
top of your hole, throw down some grain or maybe a piece of maggoty meat once or twice
a week, and maybe there would be a dipperful of barley soup on Sunday night. You
pissed in the bucket, and you held up the same bucket for water when the gazer came
around at six in the morning. When it rained, you used the bucket to bail out your jail-cell
. . . unless, that is, you wanted to drown like a rat in a rain barrel.

No one spent a long time “in the hole,” as it was called; thirty months was an unusually
long term, and so far as I’ve been able to tell, the longest term ever spent from which an
inmate actually emerged alive was served by the so-called “Durham Boy,” a fourteen-year-
old psychopath who castrated a schoolmate with a piece of rusty metal. He did seven
years, but of course he went in young and strong.

You have to remember that for a crime that was more serious than petty theft or
blasphemy or forgetting to put a snot rag in your pocket when out of doors on the
Sabbath, you were hung. For low crimes such as those just mentioned and for others like
them, you’d do your three or six or nine months in the hole and come out fishbelly white,
cringing from the wide-open spaces, your eyes half blind, your teeth more than likely
rocking and rolling in their sockets from the scurvy, your feet crawling with fungus. Jolly
old Province of Maine. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

Shawshank’s Solitary Wing was nowhere as bad as that . . . I guess. Things come in three
major degrees in the human experience, I think. There’s good, bad, and terrible. And as
you go down into progressive darkness toward terrible, it gets harder and harder to make
subdivisions.

To get to Solitary Wing you were led down twenty-three steps to a basement level where
the only sound was the drip of water. The only light was supplied by a series of dangling
sixty-watt bulbs. The cells were keg-shaped, like those wall-safes rich people sometimes
hide behind a picture. Like a safe, the round doorways were hinged, and solid instead of
barred. You got ventilation from above, but no light except for your own sixty-watt bulb,
which was turned off from a master-switch promptly at 8:00 P.M., an hour before lights-
out in the rest of the prison. The light bulb wasn’t in a wire mesh cage or anything like
that. The feeling was that if you wanted to exist down there in the dark, you were
welcome to it. Not many did . . . but after eight, of course, you had no choice. You had a
bunk bolted to the wall and a can with no toilet seat. You had three ways to spend your
time: sitting, shitting, or sleeping. Big choice.

Twenty days could get to seem like a year. Thirty days could seem like two, and forty

51

days like ten. Sometimes you could hear rats in the ventilation system. In a situation like
that, subdivisions of terrible tend to get lost.

If anything at all can be said in favor of solitary, it’s just that you get time to think. Andy
had twenty days in which to think while he enjoyed his grain and drain, and when he got
out he requested another meeting with the warden. Request denied. Such a meeting, the
warden told him, would be “counter-productive.” That’s another of those phrases you have
to master before you can go to work in the prisons and corrections held.

Patiently, Andy renewed his request. And renewed it. And renewed it. He had changed,
had Andy Dufresne. Suddenly, as that spring of 1963 bloomed around us, there were lines
in his face and sprigs of gray showing in his hair. He had lost that little trace of a smile that
always seemed to linger around his mouth. His eyes stared out into space more often, and
you get to know that when a man stares that way, he is counting up the years served, the
months, the weeks, the days.

X

52

He renewed his request and renewed it. He was patient. He had nothing but time. It got to
be summer. In Washington, President Kennedy was promising a fresh assault on poverty
and on civil rights inequalities, not knowing he had only half a year to live. In Liverpool, a
musical group called The Beatles was emerging as a force to be reckoned with in British
music, but I guess that no one Stateside had yet heard of them. The Boston Red Sox, still
four years away from what New England folks call The Miracle of ’67, were languishing in
the cellar of the American League. All of those things were going on out in a larger world
where people walked free.

Norton saw him near the end of June, and this conversation I heard about from Andy
himself some seven years later.

“If it’s the squeeze, you don’t have to worry,” Andy told Norton in a low voice. “Do you
think I’d talk that up? I’d be cutting my own throat. I’d be just as indictable as — ”

“That’s enough,” Norton interrupted. His face was as long and cold as a slate gravestone.
He leaned back in his office chair until the back of his head almost touched the sampler
reading HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY.

“But-”

“Don’t you ever mention money to me again,” Norton said. “Not in this office, not
anywhere. Not unless you want to see that library turned back into a storage room and
paint-locker again. Do you understand?”

“I was trying to set your mind at ease, that’s all.”

“Well, now, when I need a sorry son of a bitch like you to set my mind at ease, I’ll retire. I
agreed to this appointment because I got tired of being pestered, Dufresne. I want it to
stop. If you want to buy this particular Brooklyn Bridge, that’s your affair. Don’t make it
mine. I could hear crazy stories like yours twice a week if I wanted to lay myself open to
them. Every sinner in this place would be using me for a crying towel. I had more respect
for you. But this is the end. The end. Have we got an understanding?”

“Yes,” Andy said. “But I’ll be hiring a lawyer, you know.”

“What in God’s name for?”

“I think we can put it together,” Andy said. “With Tommy Williams and with my
testimony and corroborative testimony from records and employees at the country club, I
think we can put it together. ”

“Tommy Williams is no longer an inmate of this facility.”

“What?”

53

“He’s been transferred.”

“Transferred where?”

“Cashman. ”

At that, Andy fell silent. He was an intelligent man, but it would have taken an
extraordinarily stupid man not to smell deal all over that. Cashman was a minimum-
security prison far up north in Aroostook County. The inmates pick a lot of potatoes, and
that’s hard work, but they are paid a decent wage for their labor and they can attend
classes at CVI, a pretty decent vocational-technical institute, if they so desire. More
important to a fellow like Tommy, a fellow with a young wife and a child, Cashman had a
furlough program . . . which meant a chance to live like a normal man, at least on the
weekends. A chance to build a model plane with his kid, have sex with his wife, maybe go
on a picnic.

Norton had almost surely dangled all of that under Tommy’s nose with only one
string attached: not one more word about Elwood Blatch, not now, not ever. Or
you’ll end up doing hard time in Thomaston down there on scenic Route 1 with the
real hard guys, and instead of having sex with your wife you’ll be having it
with some old bull queer.

“But why?” Andy said. “Why would-”

“As a favor to you,” Norton said calmly, “I checked with Rhode Island. They did
have an inmate named Elwood Blatch. He was given what they call a PP-provisional
parole, another one of these crazy liberal programs to put criminals out on the
streets. He’s since disappeared. ”

Andy said: “The warden down there . . . is he a friend of yours?”

Sam Norton gave Andy a smile as cold as a deacon’s watch chain. “We are
acquainted,” he said.

“Why?” Andy repeated. “Can’t you tell me why you did it? You knew I wasn’t going
to talk about . . . about anything you might have had going. You knew that. So
why?”

“Because people like you make me sick,” Norton said deliberately. “I like you
right where you are, Mr. Dufresne, and as long as I am warden here at Shawshank,
you are going to be right here. You see, you used to think that you were better
than anyone else. I have gotten pretty good at seeing that on a man’s face. I
marked it on yours the first time I walked into the library. It might as well
have been written on your forehead in capital letters. That look is gone now,

54

and I like that just fine. It is not just that you are a useful vessel, never
think that. It is simply that men like you need to learn humility. Why, you used
to walk around that exercise yard as if it was a living room and you were at one
of those cocktail parties where the hellbound walk around coveting each others’
wives and husbands and getting swinishly drunk. But you don’t walk around that
way anymore. And I’ll be watching to see if you should start to walk that way
again. Over a period of years, I’ll be watching you ,with great pleasure. Now
get the hell out of here.”

“Okay. But all the extracurricular activities stop now, Norton The investment
counseling, the scams, the free tax advice. It all stops. Get H and R Block to
tell you how to declare your income.

Warden Norton’s face first went brick-red . . . and then all the color fell out
of it. “You’re going back into solitary for that. Thirty days. Bread and water.
Another black mark. And while you’re in think about this: if anything that’s
been going on should stop, the library goes. I will make it my personal business
to see that it got back to what it was before you came here. And I will make you
life . . . very hard. Very difficult. You’ll do the hardest time it possible to
do. You’ll lose that one-bunk Hilton down in Cellblock Five, for starters, and
you’ll lose those rocks on the windowsill, an you’ll lose any protection the
guards have given you against the sodomites. You will . . . lose everything.

Clear?”

I guess it was clear enough.

XI

55

Time continued to pass-the oldest trick in the world, an maybe the only one that
really is magic. But Andy Dufresne ha changed. He had grown harder. That’s the
only way I can think ( to put it. He went on doing Warden Norton’s dirty work
and F held onto the library, so outwardly things were about the same. H
continued to have his birthday drinks and his year-end holiday drinks; he
continued to share out the rest of each bottle. I got his fresh rock polishing
cloths from time to time, and in 1967 I g him a new rock-hammer-the one I’d
gotten him nineteen yea ago had, as I told you, plumb worn out. Nineteen years.’
When you say it sudden like that, those three syllables sound like the thud and
double locking of a tomb door. The rock-hammer, which had bee a ten dollar item
back then, went for twenty-two by ’67. He and had a sad little grin over that.
Andy continued to shape and polish the rocks he found in the exercise yard, but
the yard was smaller by then; half of what he been there in 1950 had been
asphalted over in 1962. Nonetheless he found enough to keep him occupied, I
guess. When he hi finished with each rock he would put it carefully on his winds
ledge, which faced east. He told me he liked to look at them in the sun, the
pieces of the planet he had taken up from the dirt and shaped. Schists,
quartzes, granites. Funny little mica-sculptures that were held together with
airplane glue. Various sedimentary conglomerates that were polished and cut in
such a way that you could see why Andy called them “millennium sandwiches”-the
layers of different material that had built up over a period of decades and
centuries.

Andy would give his stones and his rock-sculptures away from time to time in
order to make room for new ones. He gave me the greatest number, I
think-counting the stones that looked like matched cufflinks, I had five. There
was one of the mica sculptures I told you about, carefully crafted to look like a
man throwing a javelin, and two of the sedimentary conglomerates, all the levels
showing in smoothly polished cross-section. I’ve still got them, and I take them
down every so often and think about what a man can do, if he has time enough and
the will to use it, a drop at a time.

So, on the outside, at least, things were about the same. If Norton had wanted
to break Andy as badly as he had said, he would have had to look below the
surface to see the change. But if he had seen how different Andy had become, I
think Norton would have been well-satisfied with the four years following his
clash with Andy.

He had told Andy that Andy walked around the exercise yard as if he were at a
cocktail party. That isn’t the way I would have put it, but I know what he
meant. It goes back to what I said about Andy wearing his freedom like an
invisible coat, about how he never really developed a prison mentality. His eyes
never got that dull look. He never developed the walk that men get when the day
is over and they are going back to their cells for another endless night-that

56

flat-footed, hump-shouldered walk. Andy walked with his shoulders squared, and
his step was always light, as if he were heading home to a good home-cooked meal
and a good woman instead of to a tasteless mess of soggy vegetables, lumpy
mashed potato, and a slice or two of that fatty, gristly stuff most of the cons
called mystery meat . . . that, and a picture of Raquel Welch on the wall.

But for those four years, although he never became exactly like the Others he
did become silent, introspective, and brooding. Who could blame him? So maybe it
was Warden Norton who was pleased . . . at least, for awhile.

His dark mood broke around the time of the 1967 World Series. That was the dream
year, the year the Red Sox won the pennant instead of placing ninth, as the Las
Vegas bookies had predicted. When it happened-when they won the American League
pennant -a kind of ebullience engulfed the whole prison. There was a goofy sort
of feeling that if the Dead Sox could come to life, then maybe anybody could do
it. I can’t explain that feeling now, any more than an ex-Beatlemaniac could
explain that madness, I suppose. But it was real. Every radio in the place was
tuned to the games as the Red Sox pounded down the stretch. There was gloom when
the Sox dropped a pair in Cleveland near the end, and a nearly riotous joy when
Rico Petrocelli put away the pop fly that clinched it. And then there was the
gloom that came when Lonborg was beaten in the seventh game of the Series to end
the dream just sort of complete fruition. It probably pleased Norton to no end,
the son of a bitch. He liked his prison wearing sackcloth and ashes.

But for Andy, there was no tumble back down into gloom. He wasn’t much of a
baseball fan anyway, and maybe that was why. Nevertheless, he seemed to have
caught the current of good feeling, and for him it didn’t peter out again after
the last game of the Series. He had taken that invisible coat out of the closet
and put it on again.

I remember one bright-gold fall day in very late October, a couple of weeks
after the World Series had ended. It must have been a Sunday, because the
exercise yard was full of men “walking off the week”-tossing a Frisbee or two,
passing around a football, bartering what they had to barter. Others would be at
the long table in the Visitors’ Hall, under the watchful eyes of the screws,
talking with their relatives, smoking cigarettes, telling sincere lies,
receiving their picked-over care-packages.

Andy was squatting Indian fashion against the wall, chunking two small rocks
together in his hands, his face turned up into the sunlight. It was surprisingly
warm, that sun, for a day so late in the year.

“Hello, Red,” he called. “Come on and sit a spell.”

I did.

57

“You want this?” he asked, and handed me one of the two carefully polished
“millennium sandwiches” I just told you about

“I sure do,” I said. “It’s very pretty. Thank you.”

He shrugged and changed the subject. “Big anniversary coming up for you next
year.”

I nodded. Next year would make me a thirty-year man. Sixty per cent of my life
spent in Shawshank State Prison.

“Think you’ll ever get out?”

“Sure. When I have a long white beard and just about three be marbles left
rolling around upstairs.”

He smiled a little and then turned his face up into the sun again, his eyes
closed. “Feels good.”

“I think it always does when you know the damn winter’s almost right on top of
you.”

He nodded, and we were silent for awhile.

“When I get out of here,” Andy said finally, “I’m going where it’s warm all the
time.” He spoke with such calm assurance you would have thought he had only a
month or so left to serve. “You know where I’m goin, Red?”

“Nope. ”

“Zihuatanejo,” he said, rolling the word softly from his tongue like music.
“Down in Mexico. It’s a little place maybe twenty miles from Playa Azul and
Mexico Highway Thirty-seven. It’s a hundred miles northwest of Acapulco on the
Pacific Ocean. You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific?”
I told him I didn’t.

“They say it has no memory. And that’s where I want to finish out my life, Red.
In a warm place that has no memory.”

He had picked up a handful of pebbles as he spoke; now he tossed them, one by
one, and watched them bounce and roll across the baseball diamond’s dirt
infield, which would be under a foot of snow before long.
“Zihuatanejo. I’m going to have a little hotel down there. Six cabanas along the
beach, and six more set further back, for the highway trade. 111 have a guy

58

who’ll take my guests out charter fishing. There’ll be a trophy for the guy who
catches the biggest marlin of the season, and I’ll put his picture up in the
lobby. It won’t be a family place. It’ll be a place for people on their
honeymoons first or second varieties.”

“And where are you going to get the money to buy this fabulous place?” I asked

“Your stock account?”

He looked at me and smiled. “That’s not so far wrong,” he said. “Sometimes you
startle me, Red.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There are really only two types of men in the world when it comes to bad
trouble,” Andy said, cupping a match between his hands and lighting a cigarette.

“Suppose there was a house full of rare paintings and sculptures and fine old
antiques, Red? And suppose the guy who owned the house heard that there was a
monster of a hurricane headed right at it? One of those two kinds of men just
hopes for the best. The hurricane will change course, he says to himself. No
right-thinking hurricane would ever dare wipe out all these Rembrandts, my two
Degas horses, my Grant Woods, and my Bentons. Furthermore, God wouldn’t allow
it. And if worse comes to worst, they’re insured. That’s one sort of man. The
other sort just assumes that hurricane is going to tear right through the middle
of his house. If the weather bureau says the hurricane just changed course, this
guy assumes it’ll change back in order to put his house on ground-zero again.
This second type of guy knows there’s no harm in hoping for the best as long as
you’re prepared for the worst.”

I lit a cigarette of my own. “Are you saying you prepared for the eventuality? ”

“Yes. I prepared for the hurricane. I knew how bad it looked. I didn’t have much
time, but in the time I had, I operated. I had a friend-just about the only
person who stood by me-who worked for an investment company in Portland. He died
about six years ago. ”

“Sorry. ”

“Yeah.” Andy tossed his butt away. “Linda and I had about fourteen thousand
dollars. Not a big bundle, but hell, we were young. We had our whole lives ahead
of us.” He grimaced a little, then laughed. “When the shit hit the fan, I
started lugging my Rembrandts out of the path of the hurricane. I sold my stocks
and paid the capital gains tax just like a good little boy. Declared everything.
Didn’t cut any corners.”

59

“Didn’t they freeze your estate?”

“I was charged with murder, Red, not dead! You can’t freeze the assets of an
innocent man-thank God. And it was awhile before they even got brave enough to
charge me with the crime. Jim-my friend-and I, we had some time. I got hit
pretty good, just dumping everything like that. Got my nose skinned. But at the
time I had worse things to worry about than a small skinning on the stock
market.”

“Yeah, I’d say you did.”

“But when I came to Shawshank it was all safe. It’s still safe. Outside these
walls, Red, there’s a man that no living soul has ever seen face to face. He has
a Social Security card and a Maine driver’s license. He’s got a birth
certificate. Name of Peter Stevens. Nice, anonymous name, huh?”

“Who is he?” I asked. I thought I knew what he was going to say, but I couldn’t
believe it.

“Me. ”

“You’re not going to tell me that you had time to set up a false identity while
the bulls were sweating you,” I said, “or that you finished the job while you
were on trial for-”

“No, I’m not going to tell you that. My friend Jim was the one who set up the
false identity. He started after my appeal was turned down, and the major pieces
of identification were in his hands by the spring of 1950.”

“He must have been a pretty close friend,” I said. I was not sure how much of
this I believed a little, a lot, or none. But the day was warm and the sun was
out, and it was one hell of a good story. “All of that’s one hundred per cent
illegal, setting up a false ID like that. ”

“He was a close friend,” Andy said. “We were in the war together. France,
Germany, the occupation. He was a good friend.

He knew it was illegal, but he also knew that setting up a false identity in
this country is very easy and very safe. He took my money my money with all the
taxes on it paid so the IRS wouldn’t get too interested-and invested it for
Peter Stevens. He did that in 1950 and 1951. Today it amounts to three hundred
and seventy thousand dollars, plus change.”

I guess my jaw made a thump when it dropped against my chest, because he smiled.

60

“Think of all the things people wish they’d invested in since 1950 or so, and
two or three of them will be things Peter Stevens was into. If I hadn’t ended up
in here, I’d probably be worth seven or eight million bucks by now. I’d have a
Rolls . . . and probably an ulcer as big as a portable radio.”
His hands went to the dirt and began sifting out more pebbles. They moved
gracefully, restlessly.

“It was hoping for the best and expecting the worst-nothing but that. The false
name was. just to keep what little capital I had untainted. It was lugging the
paintings out of the path of the hurricane. But I had no idea that the hurricane
. . . that it could go on as long as it has.”

I didn’t say anything for awhile. I guess I was trying to absorb the idea that
this small, spare man in prison gray next to me could be worth more money than
Warden Norton would make in the rest of his miserable life, even with the scams
thrown in.

“When you said you could get a lawyer, you sure weren’t kidding,” I said at
last. “For that kind of dough you could have hired Clarence Darrow, or whoever’s
passing for him these days. Why didn’t you, Andy? Christ! You could have been
out of here like a rocket.”

He smiled. It was the same smile that had been on his face when he’d told me he
and his wife had had their whole lives ahead of them “No,” he said.

“A good lawyer would have sprung the Williams kid from Cashman whether he wanted
to go or not,” I said. I was getting carried away now. “You could have gotten
your new trial, hired private detectives to look for that guy Blatch, and blown
Norton out of the water to boot. Why not, Andy?”
“Because I outsmarted myself. If I ever try to put my hands on Peter Stevens’s
money from inside here, I’ll lose every cent of it. My friend Jim could have
arranged it, but Jim’s dead. You see the problem? ”

I saw it. For all the good that money could do Andy, it might as well have
really belonged to another person. In a way, it did. And if the stuff it was
invested in suddenly turned bad, all Andy could do would be to watch the plunge,
to trace it day after day on the stocks and-bonds page of the Press-Herald. It’s
a tough life if you don’t weaken, I guess.

“I’ll tell you how it is, Red. There’s a big hayfield in the town of Buxton. You
know where Buxton is at, don’t you?”

I said I did. It lies right next door to Scarborough.

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“That’s right. And at the north end of this particular hayfield there’s a rock
wall, right out of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere along the base of that
wall is a rock that has no business in a Maine hayfield. It’s a piece of
volcanic glass, and until 1947 it was a paperweight on my office desk. My friend
Jim put it in that wall. There’s a key underneath it. The key opens a safe
deposit box in the Portland branch of the Casco Bank.”

“I guess you’re in a peck of trouble,” I said. “When your friend Jim died, the
IRS must have opened all of his safe deposit boxes. Along with the executor of
his will, of course.”

Andy smiled and tapped the side of my head. “Not bad. There’s more up there than
marshmallows, I guess. But we took care of the possibility that Jim might die
while I was in the slam. The box is in the Peter Stevens name, and once a year
the firm of lawyers that served as Jim’s executors sends a check to the Casco to
cover the rental of the Stevens box.

“Peter Stevens is inside that box, just waiting to get out. His birth
certificate, his Social Security card, and his driver’s license. The license is
six years out of date because Jim died six years ago, true, but it’s still
perfectly renewable for a five-dollar fee. His stock certificates are there, the
tax-free municipals, and about eighteen bearer bonds in the amount of ten
thousand dollars each.”

I whistled.

“Peter Stevens is locked in a safe deposit box at the Casco Bank in Portland and
Andy Dufresne is locked in a safe deposit box at Shawshank,” he said. “Tit for
tat. And the key that unlocks the box and the money and the new life is under a
hunk of black glass in a Buxton hayfield. Told you this much, so I’ll tell you
something else, Red-for the last twenty years, give or take, I have been
watching the papers with a more than usual interest for news of any construction
projects in Buxton. I keep thinking that someday soon I’m going to read that
they’re putting a highway through there, or erecting a new community hospital,
or building a shopping center. Burying my new life under ten feet of concrete,
or spitting it into a swamp somewhere with a big load of fill.”
I blurted, “Jesus Christ, Andy, if all of this is true, how do you keep from
going crazy?”

He smiled. “So far, all quiet on the Western front.”

“But it could be years-”

“It will be. But maybe not as many as the State and Warden Norton think it’s
going to be. I just can’t afford to wait that long. I keep thinking about

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Zihuatanejo and that small hotel. That’s all I want from my life now, Red, and I
don’t think that’s too much to want. I didn’t kill Glenn Quentin and I didn’t
kill my wife, and that hotel . . . it’s not too much to want. To swim and get a
tan and sleep in a room with open windows and space . . . that’s not too much to
want.”

He slung the stones away.

“You know, Red,” he said in an offhand voice, ” a place like that . . . I’d have
to have a man who knows how to get things.”

I thought about it for a long time. And the biggest drawback in my mind wasn’t
even that we were talking pipedreams in a shitty little prison exercise yard
with armed guards looking down at us from their sentry posts. “I couldn’t do
it,” I said. “I couldn’t get along on the outside. I’m what they call an
institutional man now. In here I’m the man who can get it for you, yeah. But out
there, anyone can get it for you. Out there, if you want posters or rock hammers
or one particular record or a boat-in-a-bottle model kit, you can use the
fucking Yellow Pages. In here, I’m the fucking Yellow Pages. I wouldn’t know how
to begin. Or where.”

“You underestimate yourself,” he said. “You’re a self-educated man, a self-made
man. A rather remarkable man, I think.”

“Hell, I don’t even have a high school diploma.”

“I know that,” he said. “But it isn’t just a piece of paper that makes a man.
And it isn’t just prison that breaks one, either.”

“I couldn’t hack it outside, Andy. I know that.”

He got up. “You think it over,” he said casually, just as the inside whistle
blew. And he strolled off, as if he were a free man who had just made another
free man a proposition. And for awhile just that was enough to make melees free.
Andy could do that. He could make me forget for a time that we were both lifers,
at the mercy of a hard-ass parole board and a psalm-singing warden who liked
Andy Dufresne right where he was. After all, Andy was a lap-dog who could do
tax-returns. What a wonderful animal! But by that night in my cell I felt like a
prisoner again. The whole idea seemed absurd, and that mental image of blue
water and white beaches seemed more cruel than foolish-it dragged at my brain
like a fishhook. I just couldn’t wear that invisible coat the way Andy did. I
fell asleep that night and dreamed of a great glassy black stone in the middle
of a hayfield; a stone shaped like a giant blacksmith’s anvil. I was trying to
rock the stone up so I could get the key that was underneath. It wouldn’t budge;
it was just too damned big. And in the background, but getting closer, I could

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hear the baying of bloodhounds.

XII

Which leads us, I guess, to the subject of jailbreaks. Sure, they happen from
time to time in our happy little family. You don’t go over the wall, though, not
at Shawshank, not if you’re smart. The searchlight beams go all night, probing
long white fingers across the open fields that surround the prison on three
sides and the stinking marshland on the fourth. Cons do go over the wall from
time to time, and the searchlights almost always catch them. If not, they get
picked up trying to thumb a ride on Highway 6 or Highway 99. If they try to cut
across country, some farmer sees them and just phones the location in to the
prison. Cons who go over the wall are stupid cons. Shawshank is no Canon City,
but in a rural area a man humping his ass across country in a gray pajama suit
sticks out like a cockroach on a wedding cake.

Over the years, the guys who have done the best-maybe oddly, maybe not so
oddly-are the guys who did it on the spur of the moment. Some of them have gone
out in the middle of a cartful of sheets; a convict sandwich on white, you could
say. There was a lot of that when I first came in here, but over the years they
have more or less closed that loophole.

Warden Norton’s famous “Inside-Out” program produced its share of escapees, too.
They were the guys who decided they liked what lay to the right of the hyphen
better than what lay to the left. And again, in most cases it was a very casual
kind of thing. Drop your blueberry rake and stroll into the bushes while one of
the screws is having a glass of water at the truck or when a couple o~ them get
too involved in arguing over yards passing or rushing or the old Boston
Patriots.

In 1969, the Inside-Outers were picking potatoes in Sabbatus. It was the third
of November and the work was almost done. There was a guard named Henry
Pugh – and he is no longer a member o our happy little family, believe me –
sitting on the back bumper of one of the potato trucks and having his lunch with
his carbine across his knees when a beautiful (or so it was told to me, but
sometimes these things get exaggerated) ten-point buck strolled out of the cold
early afternoon mist. Pugh went after it with visions of just how that trophy
would look mounted in his rec room, and while he was doing it, three of his
charges just walked away. Two were recaptured in a Lisbon Falls pinball parlor.

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The third has not beer found to this day.

I suppose the most famous case of all was that of Sid Nedeau. This goes back to
1958, and I guess it will never be topped. Sid was out lining the ball field for
a Saturday intramural baseball game when the three o’clock inside whistle blew,
signaling the shift change for the guards. The parking lot is just beyond the
exercise yard, on the other side of the electrically operated main gate. At
three the gate opens and the guards coming on duty and those going off mingle.
There’s a lot of back-slapping and bullyragging, comparison of league bowling
scores and the usual number of tired old ethnic jokes.

Sid just trundled his lining machine right out through the gate, leaving a
three-inch baseline all the way from home plate in the exercise yard to the
ditch on the far side of Route 6, where they found the machine overturned in a
pile of lime. Don’t ask me how he did it. He was dressed in his prison uniform,
he stood six-feet-two, and he was billowing clouds of lime-dust behind him All I
can figure is that, it being Friday afternoon and all, the guards going off were
so happy to be going off, and the guards coming on were so downhearted to be
coming on, that the members of the former group never got their heads out of the
clouds and those in the latter never got their noses off their shoe tops . . .
and old Sid Nedeau just sort of slipped out between the two.

So far as I know, Sid is still at large. Over the years, Andy Dufresne and I had
a good many laughs over Sid Nedeau’s great escape, and when we heard about that
airline hijacking for ransom, the one where the guy parachuted from the back
door of the airplane, Andy swore up and down that D. B. Cooper’s real name was
Sid Nedeau.

“And he probably had a pocketful of baseline lime in his pocket for good luck,”
Andy said. “That lucky son of a bitch.”

But you should understand that a case like Sid Nedeau, or the fellow who got
away clean from the Sabbatus potato-field crew, guys like that are winning the
prison version of the Irish Sweepstakes. Purely a case of six different kinds of
luck somehow jelling together all at the same moment. A stiff like Andy could
wait ninety years and not get a similar break.

Maybe you remember, a ways back, I mentioned a guy named Henley Backus, the
washroom foreman in the laundry. He came to Shawshank in 1922 and died in the
prison infirmary thirty-one years later. Escapes and escape attempts were a
hobby of his, maybe because he never quite dared to take the plunge himself. He
could tell you a hundred different schemes, all of them crackpot, and all of
them had been tried in The Shank at one time or another. My favorite was the
tale of Beaver Morrison, a b&e convict who tried to build a glider from scratch
in the plate-factory basement. The plans he was working from were in a

65

circa-1900 book called The Modern Boy’s Guide to Fan and Adventure. Beaver got
it built without being discovered, or so the story goes, only to discover there
was no door from the basement big enough to get the damned thing out. When
Henley told that story, you could bust a gut laughing, and he knew a dozen-no,
two dozen-almost as funny.

When it came to detailing Shawshank bust-outs, Henley had it down chapter and
verse. He told me once that during his time there had been better than four
hundred escape attempts that he knew of. Really think about that for a moment
before you just nod your head and read on Four hundred escape attempts! That
comes out to 12.9 escape attempts for every year Henley Backus was in Shawshank
and keeping track of them. The Escape-Attempt-of-the-Month Club. Of course most
of them were pretty slipshod affairs, the sort of thing that ends up with a
guard grabbing some poor, sidling slob’s arm and growling, “Where do you think
you’re going, you happy asshole?”

Henley said he’d class maybe sixty of them as more serious attempts, and he
included the “prison break” of 1937, the year before I arrived at The Shank. The
new Administration Wing was under construction then and fourteen cons got out,
using construction equipment in a poorly locked shed. The whole of southern
Maine got into a panic over those fourteen “hardened criminals,” most of whom
were scared to death and had no more idea of where they should go than a
jackrabbit does when it’s headlight-pinned to the highway with a big truck
bearing down on it. Not one of those fourteen got away. Two of them were shot
dead-by civilians, not police officers or prison personnel-but none got away.
How many had gotten away between 1938, when I came here, and that day in October
when Andy first mentioned Zihuatanejo to me? Putting my information and Henley’s
together, I’d say ten. Ten that got away clean. And although it isn’t the kind
of thing you can know for sure, I’d guess that at least half of those ten are
doing time in other institutions of lower learning like The Shank. Because you
do get institutionalized. When you take away a man’s freedom and teach him to
live in a cell, he seems to lose his ability to think in dimensions He’s like
that jackrabbit I mentioned, frozen in the oncoming lights of the truck that is
bound to kill it. More often than not a con who’s just out will pull some dumb
job that hasn’t a chance in hell of succeeding . . . and why? Because it’ll get
him back inside. Back where he understands how things work.

Andy wasn’t that way, but I was. The idea of seeing the Pacific sounded good,
but I was afraid that actually being there would Scare me to death-the bigness
of it.

Anyhow, the day of that conversation about Mexico, and about Mr. Peter Stevens .
. . that was the day I began to believe that Andy had some idea of doing a
disappearing act. I hoped to God he would be careful if he did, and still, I
wouldn’t have bet money on his chances of succeeding. Warden Norton, you see,

66

was watching Andy with a special close eye. Andy wasn’t just another deadhead
with a number to Norton; they had a working relationship, you might say. Also,
Andy had brains and he had heart. Norton was determined to use the one and crush
the other.

As there are honest politicians on the outside-ones who stay bought-there are
honest prison guards, and if you are a good judge of character and if you have
some loot to spread around, I suppose it’s possible that you could buy enough
look-the-other-way to make a break. I’m not the man to tell you such a thing has
never been done, but Andy Dufresne wasn’t the man who could do it. Because, as
I’ve said, Norton was watching. Andy knew it, and the screws knew it, too.

Nobody was going to nominate Andy for the Inside-Out program, not as long as
Warden Norton was evaluating the nominations. And Andy was not the kind of man
to try a casual Sid Nedeau type of escape.

If I had been him, the thought of that key would have tormented me endlessly. I
would have been lucky to get two hours’ worth of honest shut-eye a night. Buxton
was less than thirty miles from Shawshank. So near and yet so far.

I still thought his best chance was to engage a lawyer and try for the retrial.
Anything to get out from under Norton’s thumb. Maybe Tommy Williams could be
shut up by nothing more than a cushy furlough program, but I wasn’t entirely
sure. Maybe a good old Mississippi hard-ass lawyer could crack him . . . and
maybe that lawyer wouldn’t even have to work that hard. Williams had honestly
liked Andy. Every now and then I’d bring these points up to Andy, who would only
smile, his eyes far away, and say he was thinking about it.

Apparently he’d been thinking about a lot of other things, as well.

In 1975, Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank. He hasn’t been recaptured, and I
don’t think he ever will be. In fact, I don’t think Andy Dufresne even exists
anymore. But I think there’s a man down in Zihuatanejo, Mexico, named Peter
Stevens. Probably running a very new small hotel in this year of our Lord 1976.

I’ll tell you what I know and what I think; that’s about all I can do, isn’t it?

On March 12th, 1975, the cell doors in Cellblock 5 opened at 6:30 A.M., as they
do every morning around here except Sunday. And as they do every day except
Sunday, the inmates of those cells stepped forward into the corridor and formed
two lines as the cell doors slammed shut behind them. They walked up to the main
cellblock gate, where they were counted off by two guards before being sent on
down to the cafeteria for a breakfast of oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and fatty
bacon.

67

All of this went according to routine until the count at the cellblock gate.
There should have been twenty-seven. Instead, there were twenty-six. After a
call to the Captain of the Guards, Cellblock 5 was allowed to go to breakfast.

The Captain of the Guards, a not half-bad fellow named Richard Gonyar, and his
assistant, a jolly prick named Dave Burkes, came down to Cellblock 5 right away.
Gonyar re-opened the cell doors and he and Burkes went down the corridor
together, dragging their sticks over the bars, their guns out. In a case like
that what you usually have is someone who has been taken sick in the night, so
sick he can’t even step out of his cell in the morning. More rarely, someone has
died . . . or committed suicide.

But this time, they found a mystery instead of a sick man or a dead man. They
found no man at all. There were fourteen cells in Cellblock 5, seven to a side,
all fairly neat-restriction of visiting privileges is the penalty for a sloppy
cell at Shawshank-and all very empty.

Gonyar’s first assumption was that there had been a miscount or a practical
joke. So instead of going off to work after breakfast, the inmates of Cellblock
5 were sent back to their cells, joking and happy. Any break in the routine was
always welcome.

Cell doors opened; prisoners stepped in; cell doors closed. Some clown shouting,
“I want my lawyer, I want my lawyer, you guys run this place just like a
frigging prison.” Burkes: “Shut up in there, or I’ll rank you.” The clown: “I
ranked your wife, Burkie.” Gonyar: “Shut up, all of you, or you’ll spend the day
in there.”

He and Burkes went up the line again, counting noses. They didn’t have to go
far.

“Who belongs in this cell?” Gonyar asked the rightside night guard.

“Andrew Dufresne,” the rightside answered, and that was all it took. Everything
stopped being routine right then. The balloon went up.
In all the prison movies I’ve seen, this wailing horn goes off when there’s been
a break. That never happens at Shawshank. The first thing Gonyar did was to get
in touch with the warden. The second thing was to get a search of the prison
going. The third was to alert the state police in Scarborough to the possibility
of a breakout.

That was the routine. It didn’t call for them to search the suspected escapee’s
cell, and so no one did. Not then. Why would they? It was a case of what you see
is what you get. It was a small square room, bars on the window and bars on the
sliding door. Rocks on the windowsill .

68

And the poster, of course. It was Linda Ronstadt by then. The poster was right
over his bunk. There had been a poster there, in that exact same place, for
twenty-six years. And when someone, who was Warden Norton himself, as it turned
out, poetic justice if there ever was anybody looked behind it, they got one
hell of a shock.

But that didn’t happen until six-thirty that night, almost twelve hours after
Andy had been reported missing, probably twenty hours after he had actually made
his escape.

Norton hit the roof.

I have it on good authority. Chester, the trusty, who was waxing the hall floor
in the Admin Wing that day. He didn’t have to polish any keyplates with his ear
that day; he said you could hear the warden clear down to Records & Files as he
chewed on Rich Gonyar’s ass.

“What do you mean, you’re ‘satisfied he’s not on the prison grounds’? What does
that mean? It means you didn’t find him! You better find him! You better!
Because I want him! Do you hear me? want him!” Gonyar said something.
“Didn’t happen on your shift? That’s what you say. So far as I can tell, no one
knows when it happened. Or how. Or if it really did. Now, I want him in my
office by three o’clock this afternoon, or some heads are going to roll. I can
promise you that, and I always keep my promises.”

Something else from Gonyar, something that seemed to provoke Norton to even
greater rage.

“No? Then look at this! Look at this.’ You recognize it? Last night’s tally for
Cellblock Five. Every prisoner accounted for! Dufresne was locked up last night
at nine and it is impossible for him to be gone now! It is impossible! Now you
And him!”

But at three that afternoon Andy was still among the missing. Norton himself
stormed down to Cellblock 5 a few hours later, where the rest of us had been
locked up all of that day. Had we been questioned? We had spent most of that
long day being questioned by harried screws who were feeling the breath of the
dragon on the backs of their necks. We all said the same thing: we had seen
nothing, heard nothing. And so far as I know, we were all telling the truth. I
know that I was. All we could say was that Andy had indeed been in his cell at
the time of the lock-in, and at lights-out an hour later.

One wit suggested that Andy had poured himself out through the keyhole. The
suggestion earned the guy four days in solitary They were uptight. So Norton came down.

69

He stalked down glaring at us with blue eyes nearly hot enough to strike sparks from the
tempered steel bar of our cages. He looked at us as if he believed we were all in on it
Probably he did believe it.

He went into Andy’s cell and looked around. It was just as Andy had left it, the
sheets on his bunk turned back but without looking slept-in. Rocks on the
windowsill . . . but not all of them. The ones he liked best he took with him.

“Rocks,” Norton hissed, and swept them off the window ledge with a clatter.

Gonyar, who was now on overtime, winced but said nothing .

Norton’s eyes fell on the Linda Ronstadt poster. Linda was looking back over her
shoulder, her hands tucked into the back pockets of a very tight pair of
fawn-colored slacks. She was wearing a halter and she had a deep California tan.
It must have offended the hell out of Norton’s Baptist sensibilities, that
poster.

Watching him glare at it, I remembered what Andy had once said about feeling he
could almost step through the picture and be with the girl.
In a very real way, that was exactly what he did, as Norton was only seconds
from discovering.

“Wretched thing!” he grunted, and ripped the poster from the wall with a single
swipe of his hand. And revealed the gaping, crumbled hole in the concrete behind
it .

Gonyar wouldn’t go in.

Norton ordered him. God, they must have heard Norton ordering Rich Gonyar to go
in there all over the prison, and Gonyar just refused him, point blank.

“I’ll have your job for this!” Norton screamed. He was as hysterical as a woman
having a hot-flash. He had utterly blown his cool. His neck had turned a rich,
dark red, and two veins stood out, throbbing, on his forehead. “You can count on
it, you . . . you Frenchman! I’ll have your job and I’ll see to it that you
never get another one in any prison system in New England!”

Gonyar silently held out his service pistol to Norton, butt first. He’d had enough. He was
then two hours overtime, going on three, and he’d just had enough. It was as if Andy’s
defection from our happy little family had driven Norton right over the edge of some
private irrationality that had been there for a long time. . .

I don’t know what that private irrationality might have been, of course. But I
do know that there were twenty-six cons listening to Norton s little dust-up

70

with Rich Gonyar that evening as the last of the light faded from a dull
late-winter sky, all of us hard-timers and long-line riders who had seen the
administrators come and go, the hard-asses and the candy-asses alike, and we all
knew that Warden Samuel Norton had just passed what the engineers like to call
“the breaking strain.”

And by God, it almost seemed to me that somewhere I could hear Andy Dufresne
laughing.

Norton finally got a skinny drink of water on the night shift to go into the
hole that had been behind Andy’s poster of Linda Ronstadt. The skinny guard’s
name was Rory Tremont, and he was not exactly a ball of fire in the brains
department. Maybe he thought he was going to win a Bronze Star or something. As
it turned out, it was fortunate that Norton got someone of Andy’s approximate
height and build to go in there; if they had sent a big-assed fellow, as most
prison guards seem to be, the guy would have stuck in there as sure as God made
green grass . . . and he might be there still.

Tremont went in with a nylon filament rope, which someone had found in the trunk
of his car, tied around his waist and a big six-battery flashlight in one hand.
By then Gonyar, who had changed his mind about quitting and who seemed to be the
only one there still able to think clearly, had dug out a set of blueprints.

I knew well enough what they showed him, a wall which looked, in cross-section,
like a sandwich. The entire wall was ten feet thick. The inner and outer
sections were each about four feet thick. In the center was two feet of
pipe-space, and you want to believe that was the meat of the thing . . . in more
ways than one.

Tremont’s voice came out of the hole, sounding hollow and dead. “Something
smells awful in here, Warden.”

“Never mind that! Keep going.”

Tremont’s lower legs disappeared into the hole. A moment later his feet were
gone, too. His light flashed dimly back and forth.

“Warden, it smells pretty damn bad.”

“Never mind, I said!” Norton cried.

Dolorously, Tremont’s voice floated back: “Smells like shit. Oh God, that’s what
it is, it’s shit, oh my God lemme outta here I’m gonna blow my groceries oh shit
it’s shit oh my Gawwwwwd!” And then came the unmistakable sound of Rory Tremont
losing his last couple of meals.

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Well, that was it for me. I couldn’t help myself. The whole day, hell no, the
last thirty years, all came up on me at once and I started laughing fit to
split, a laugh such as I’d never had since I was a free man, the kind of laugh I
never expected to have inside these gray walls. And oh dear God didn’t it feel
good!

“Get that man out of here!” Warden Norton was screaming, and I was laughing so
hard I didn’t know if he meant me or Tremont. I just went on laughing and
kicking my feet and holding onto my belly. I couldn’t have stopped if Norton had
threatened to shoot me dead-bang on the spot. “Get him OUT!”

Well, friends and neighbors, I was the one who went. Straight down to solitary,
and there I stayed for fifteen days. A long shot. But every now and then I’d
think about poor old not-too-bright Rory Tremont bellowing oh shit it’s shit,
and then I’d think about Andy Dufresne heading south in his own car, dressed in
a nice suit, and I’d just have to laugh. I did that fifteen days in solitary
practically standing on my head. Maybe because half of me was with Andy
Dufresne, Andy Dufresne who had waded in shit and came out clean on the other
side, Andy Dufresne, headed for the Pacific.

I heard the rest of what went on that night from half a dozen sources. There
wasn’t all that much, anyway. I guess that Rory Tremont decided he didn’t have
much left to lose after he’d lost his lunch and dinner, because he did go on.
There was no danger of falling down the pipe-shaft between the inner and outer
segments of the cellblock wall; it was so narrow that Tremont actually had to
wedge himself down. He said later that he could only take half-breaths and that
he knew what it would be like to be buried alive.

What he found at the bottom of the shaft was a master sewer-pipe which served
the fourteen toilets in Cellblock 5, a porcelain pipe that had been laid
thirty-three years before. It had been broken into. Beside the jagged hole in
the pipe, Tremont found Andy’s rock-hammer.

Andy had gotten free, but it hadn’t been easy.

The pipe was even narrower than the shaft Tremont had just descended. Rory
Tremont didn’t go in, and so far as I know, no one else did, either. It must
have been damn near unspeakable. A rat jumped out of the pipe as Tremont was
examining the hole and the rock-hammer, and he swore later that it was nearly as
big as a cocker spaniel pup. He went back up the crawlspace to Andy’s cell like
a monkey on a stick.

Andy had gone into that pipe. Maybe he knew that it emptied into a stream five
hundred yards beyond the prison on the marshy western side. I think he did. The

72

prison blueprints were around, and Andy would have found a way to look at them.
He was a methodical cuss. He would have known or found out that the sewer-pipe
running out of Cellblock 5 was the last one in Shawshank not hooked into the new
waste-treatment plant, and he would have known it was do it by mid- 197 5 or do
it never, because in August they were going to switch us over to the new waste treatment
plant, too. Five hundred yards. The length of five football fields. Just shy of half a mile. He
crawled that distance, maybe with one of those small pen lights in his hand, maybe with
nothing but a couple of books of matches. He crawled through foulness that I either can’t
imagine or don’t want to imagine. Maybe the rats scattered in front of him, or maybe they
went for him the way such animals sometimes will when they’ve had a chance to grow
bold in the dark. He must have had just enough clearance at the shoulders to keep
moving, and he probably had to shove himself through the places where the lengths of
pipe were joined. If it had been me, the claustrophobia would have driven me mad a dozen
times over. But he did it.

At the far end of the pipe they found a set of muddy footprints leading out of
the sluggish, polluted creek the pipe fed into. Two miles from there a search
party found his prison uniform. That was a day later.

Three months after that memorable day, Warden Norton resigned. He was a broken
man, it gives me great pleasure to report. The spring was gone from his step. On
his last day he shuffled act with his head down like an old con shuffling down
to the infirmary for his codeine pills. It was Gonyar who took over, and to
Norton that must have seemed like the unkindest cut of all. For all I knee, Sam
Norton is down there in Eliot now, attending services at the Baptist church
every Sunday, and wondering how the hell Andy Dufresne ever could have gotten
the better of him.

I could have told him; the answer to the question is simplicity itself. Some
have got it, Sam. And some don’t, and never will.

73

XIII

That’s what I know; now I’m going to tell you what I think I may have it wrong
on some of the specifics, but I’d be willing to let my watch and chain that I’ve
got the general outline down pretty well. Because, with Andy being the sort of
man that he was, there’s only one or two ways that it could have been. And every
now ad then, when I think it out, I think of Normaden, that half-crazy Indian.
“Nice Della,” Normaden had said after celling with Andy for eight months. “I was
glad to go, me. Bad draft in that cell. All the time cold. He don’t let nobody
touch his things. That’s okay. Nice man, never made fun. But big draft.”

Poor crazy Normaden. be knew more than all the rest of us, and he knew it sooner. And
it was eight long months before Andy could get him out of there and have the
cell to himself again. If it hadn’t been for the eight months Normaden had spent
with him after Warden Norton first came in. I do believe that Andy would have
been free before Nixon resigned.

I believe now that it began in 1949, way back then – not with the rock-hammer, but
with the Rita Hayworth poster. I told you how nervous he seemed when he asked
for that, nervous and filled with suppressed excitement. At the time I thought
it was just embarrassment, that Andy was the sort of guy who’d never want
someone else to know that he had feet of clay and wanted a woman . . .
especially if it was a fantasy-woman. But I think now that I was wrong. I think
now that Andy’s excitement came from something else altogether.

What was responsible for the hole that Warden Norton eventually found behind the
poster of a girl that hadn’t even been born when that photo of Rita Hayworth was
taken? Andy Dufresne’s perseverance and hard work, yeah – I don’t take any of that

74

away from him. But there were two other elements in the equation: a lot of luck,
and WPA concrete.

You don’t need me to explain the luck, I guess. The WPA concrete I checked out
for myself. I invested some time and a couple of stamps and wrote first to the
University of Maine History Department and then to a fellow whose address they
were able to give me. This fellow had been foreman of the WPA project that built
the Shawshank Max Security Wing.

The wing, which contains Cellblocks 3, 4, and 5, was built in the years 1934-37.
Now, most people don’t think of cement and concrete as “technological
developments,” the way we think of cars and oil furnaces and rocket-ships, but
they really are. There was no modern cement until 1870 or so, and no modern
concrete until after the turn of the century. Mixing concrete is as delicate a
business as making bread. You can get it too watery or not watery enough. You
can get the sand-mix too thick or too thin, and the same is true of the
gravel-mix. And back in 1934, the science of mixing the stuff was a lot less
sophisticated than it is today.

The walls of Cellblock 5 were solid enough, but they weren’t exactly dry and
toasty. As a matter or fact, they were and are pretty damned dank. After a long
wet spell they would sweat and sometimes even drip. Cracks had a way of
appearing, some an inch deep. They were routinely mortared over.

Now here comes Andy Dufresne into Cellblock 5. He’s a man who graduated from the
University of Maine’s school of business, but he’s also a man who took two or
three geology courses along the E way. Geology had, in fact, become his chief
hobby. I imagine it appealed to his patient, meticulous nature. A
ten-thousand-year ice age here. A million years of mountain-building there.
Plates of bedrock grinding against each other deep under the earth’s skin over
the millennia. Pressure. Andy told me once that all of geology is the study of
pressure.

And time, of course. He had time to study those walls. Plenty of time. When the cell door
slams and the lights go out, there’s nothing else to look at.

First-timers usually have a hard time adjusting to the confinement of prison
life. They get screw-fever. Sometimes they have to be hauled down to the
infirmary and sedated a couple of times before they get on the beam. It’s not
unusual to hear some new member of our happy little family banging on the bars
of his cell and screaming to be let out . . . and before the cries have gone on
for long, the chant starts up along the cellblock: “Fresh fish, hey little
fishie, fresh fish, fresh fish, got fresh fish today!”

Andy didn’t flip out like that when he came to The Shank in 1948, but that’s not

75

to say that he didn’t feel many of the same things. He may have come close to
madness; some do, and some go sailing right over the edge. Old life blown away
in the wink of an eye, indeterminate nightmare stretching out ahead, a long
season in hell.

So what did he do, I ask you? He searched almost desperately for something to
divert his restless mind. Oh, there are all sorts of ways to divert yourself,
even in prison; it seems like the human mind is full of an infinite number of
possibilities when it comes to diversion. I told you about the sculptor and his
Three Ages of Jesus. There were coin collectors who were always losing their
collections to thieves, stamp collectors, one fellow who had postcards from
thirty-five different countries-and let me tell you, he would have turned out
your lights if he’d caught you diddling with his postcards.

Andy got interested in rocks. And the walls of his cell.

I think that his initial intention might have been to do no more than to carve
his initials into the wall where the poster of Rita Hayworth would soon be
hanging. His initials, or maybe a few lines from some poem. Instead, what he
found was that interestingly weak concrete. Maybe he started to carve his
initials and a big chunk of the wall just fell out. I can see him, lying there
on his bunk, looking at that broken chunk of concrete, turning it over in his
hands. Never mind the wreck of your whole life, never mind that you got
railroaded into this place by a whole trainload of bad luck. Let’s forget all
that and look at this piece of concrete.

Some months further along he might have decided it would be fun to see how much
of that wall he could take out. But you can’t just start digging into your wall
and then, when the weekly inspection (or one of the surprise inspections that
are always turning up interesting caches of booze, drugs, dirty pictures, and
weapons) comes around, say to the guard: “This? Just excavating a little hole in
my cell wall. Not to worry, my good man.”

No, he couldn’t have that. So he came to me and asked if I could get him a Rita
Hayworth poster. Not a little one but a big one.

And, of course, he had the rock-hammer. I remember thinking when I got him that
gadget back in ’48 that it would take a man six hundred years to burrow through
the wall with it. True enough. But Andy only had to go through half the wall-and
even with the soft concrete, it took him two rock-hammers and twenty-seven years
to do it.

Of course he lost most of one of those years to Normaden, and he could only work
at night, preferably late at night, when almost everybody is asleep-including
the guards who work the night shift. But I suspect the thing which slowed him

76

down the most was getting rid of the wall as he took it out. He could muffle the
sound of his work by wrapping the head of his hammer in rock-polishing cloths,
but what to do with the pulverized concrete and the occasional chunks that came
out whole?

I think he must have broken up the chunks into pebbles and . . .

I remembered the Sunday after I had gotten him the rockhammer. I remember
watching him walk across the exercise yard, his face puffy from his latest
go-round with the sisters. I saw him stoop, pick up a pebble . . . and it
disappeared up his sleeve. That inside sleeve-pocket is an old prison trick. Up
your sleeve or just inside the cuff of your pants. And I have another memory,
very strong but unfocused, maybe something I saw more than once. This memory is
of Andy Dufresne walking across the exercise yard on a hot summer day when the
air was utterly still. Still, yeah . . . except for the little breeze that
seemed to be blowing sand around Andy Dufresne’s feet. So maybe he had a couple
of cheaters in his pants below the knees. You loaded the cheaters up with fill
and then just strolled around, your hands in your pockets, and when you felt
safe and unobserved, you gave the pockets a little twitch. The pockets, of
course, are attached by string or strong thread to the cheaters. The fill goes
cascading out of your pants legs as you walk. The World war II POWs who were
trying to tunnel out used the dodge.

The years went past and Andy brought his wall out to the exercise yard cupful by
cupful. He played the game with administrator after administrator, and they
thought it was because he wanted to keep the library growing. I have no doubt
that was part of it, but the main thing Andy wanted was to keep Cell 14 in
Cellblock 5 a single occupancy.

I doubt if he had any real plans or hopes of breaking out, at least not at
first. He probably assumed the wall was ten feet of solid concrete, and that if
he succeeded in boring all the way through it, he’d come out thirty feet over
the exercise yard. But like I say, I don’t think he was worried overmuch about
breaking through. His assumption could have run this way: I m only making a foot
of progress every seven years or so; therefore, it would take me seventy years
to break through; that would make me one hundred and one years old.

Here’s a second assumption I would have made, had I been Andy: that eventually I
would be caught and get a lot of solitary time, not to mention a very large
black mark on my record. After all, there was the regular weekly inspection and
a surprise toss-which usually came at night-every second week or so. He must
have decided that things couldn’t go on for long. sooner or later, some screw
was going to peek behind Rita Hayworth just to make sure Andy didn’t have a
sharpened spoon-handle or some marijuana reefers Scotch-taped to the wall.

77

And his response to that second assumption must have been To hell with it. Maybe
he even made a game out of it. How far in can I get before they find out? Prison
is a goddam boring place, and the chance of being surprised by an unscheduled
inspection in the middle of the night while he had his poster unstuck probably
added some spice to his life during the early years.

And I do believe it would have been impossible for him to get away with it just
on dumb luck. Not for twenty-seven years. Nevertheless, I have to believe that
for the first two years- until mid-May of 1950, when he helped Byron Hadley get
around the tax on his windfall inheritance-that’s exactly what he did get by on.

Or maybe he had something more than dumb luck going for him even back then. He
had money, and he might have been slipping someone a little squeeze every week
to take it easy on him. Most guards will go along with that if the price is
right; it’s money in their pockets and the prisoner gets to keep his whack off
pictures or his tailor made cigarettes. Also, Andy was a model prisoner- quiet,
well-spoken, respectful, non-violent. It’s the crazies and the stampeders that
get their cells turned upside-down at least once every six months, their
mattresses unzipped, their pillows taken away and cut open, the outflow pipe
from their toilets carefully probed.

Then, in 1950, Andy became something more than a model prisoner. In 1950, he
became a valuable commodity, a murderer who did tax-returns better than H&R
Block. He gave gratis estate-planning advice, set up tax-shelters, filled out
loan applications (sometimes creatively). I can remember him sitting behind his
desk in the library, patiently going over a car-loan agreement paragraph by
paragraph with a screwhead who wanted to buy a used DeSoto, telling the guy what
was good about the agreement and what was bad about it, explaining to him that
it was possible to shop for a loan and not get hit quite so bad, steering him
away from the finance companies, which in those days were sometimes little it
better than legal loan sharks. When he d finished, the screwhead started to put
out his hand . . . and then drew it back to himself quickly. He d forgotten for
a moment, you see, that he was dealing with a mascot, not a man.

Andy kept up on the tax laws and the changes in the stock markets and so his
usefulness didn’t end after he d been in cold storage for awhile, as it might
have done. He began to get his library money, his running war with the sisters
had ended, and nobody tossed his cell very hard. He was a good nigger.

Then one day, very late in the going-perhaps around October of 1967-the
long-time hobby suddenly turned into something else. One night while was in the
hole up to his waist with Raquel Welch hanging down over his ass, the pick end of
his rock-hammer must have suddenly sunk into concrete past the hilt.
He would have dragged some chunks of concrete back, but maybe he heard other
falling down into that shaft, bouncing back and forth, clinking of that

78

standpipe. Did he know by then that he was going to come upon that shaft, or was
he totally surprised? I don’t know. He might have seen the prison blueprints by
then or he might not have. If not, you can be damned sure he found a way to look
at them not long after.

All at once he must have realized that, instead of just playing a game, he was
playing for high stakes . . . in terms of his own life and his own future, tie
highest. Even then he couldn’t have known for sure, but he muss have had a
pretty good idea because it was right around then that he talked to me about
Zihuatanejo for the first time. All of a sudden, instead of just being a toy,
that stupid hole in the wall became his master-if he knew about the sewer-pipe
at the bottom and that it led under the outer wall, it did, anyway.

He’d had the key under the rock in Buxton to worry about for years. Now he had D
worry that some eager-beaver new guard would look behind his poster and expose
the whole thing, or that he would get another cellmate, or that he would, after
all those years, suddenly be transferred He had all those things on his mind for
the next eight years. All Scan say is that he must have been one of the coolest
men who ever lived. I would have gone completely nuts after awhile, living with
al that uncertainty. But Andy just went on playing the game.

He had to carry tie possibility of discovery for another eight years-the
probability )f it, you might say, because no matter how carefully he stacked tie
cards in his favor, as an inmate of a state prison, he just didn’t have that
many to stack . . . and the gods had been kind to him for a very long time; some
nineteen years.

The most ghastly irony I can think of would have been if he had been offered a
parole. Can you imagine it? Three days before the parolee is actually released,
he is transferred into the light security wing to undergo a complete physical
and a battery of vocational tests. While he’s there, his old cell is completely
cleaned out. Instead of getting his parole, Andy would have gotten a long turn
downstairs in solitary, followed by some more time upstairs . . . but in a
different cell.

If he broke into the shaft in 1967, how come he didn’t escape until 1975 ? I
don’t know for sure-but I can advance some pretty good guesses.
First, he would have become more careful than ever. He was too smart to just
push ahead at flank speed and try to get out in eight months, or even in
eighteen. He must have gone on widening the opening on the crawlspace a little
at a time. A hole as big as a teacup by the time he took his New Year’s Eve
drink that year. A hole as big as a dinner-plate by the time he took his
birthday drink in 1968. As big as a serving-tray by the time the 1969 baseball
season opened.

79

For a time I thought it should have gone much faster than it apparently
did-after he broke through, I mean. It seemed to me that, instead of hating to
pulverize the crap and take it out of his cell in the cheater gadgets I have
described, he could simply let it drop down the shaft. The length of time he
took makes me believe that he didn’t dare do that. He might have decided that
the noise would arouse someone’s suspicions. Or, if he knew about the
sewer-pipe, as I believe he must have, he would have been afraid that a falling
chunk of concrete would break it before he was ready, screwing up the cellblock
sewage system and leading to an investigation. And an investigation, needless to
say, would lead to ruin.

Still and all, I’d guess that, by the time Nixon was sworn in for his second
term, the hole would have been wide enough for him to wriggle through . . . and
probably sooner than that. Andy was a small guy.

Why didn’t he go then?

That’s where my educated guesses run out, folks; from this point they become
progressively wilder. One possibility is that the crawlspace itself was clogged
with crap and he had to clear it out. But that wouldn’t account for all the
time. So what was it?

I think that maybe Andy got scared.

I’ve told you as well as I can how it is to be an institutional man. At first
you can’t stand those four walls, then you get so you can abide them, then you
get so you accept them . . . and then, as your body and your mind and your
spirit adjust to life on an HO scale, you get to love them. You are told when to
eat, when you can write letters, when you can smoke. If you’re at work in the
laundry or the plate-shop, you’re assigned five minutes of each hour when you
can go to the bathroom. For thirty-five years, my time was twenty-five minutes
after the hour, and after thirty-five years, that’s the only time I ever felt
the need to take a piss or have a crap: twenty-five minutes past the hour. And
if for some reason I couldn’t go, the need would pass at thirty after, and come
back at twenty-five past the next hour.

I think Andy may have been wrestling with that tiger-that institutional
syndrome-and also with the bulking fears that all of it might have been for
nothing.

How many nights must he have lain awake under his poster, thinking about that
sewer line, knowing that the one chance was all he’d ever get? The blueprints
might have told him how big the pipe’s bore was, but a blueprint couldn’t tell
him what it would be like inside that pipe-if he would be able to breathe
without choking, if the rats were big enough and mean enough to fight instead of

80

retreating . . . and a blueprint couldn’t’ve told him what he’d find at the end
of the pipe, when and if he got there. Here’s a joke even funnier than the
parole would have been: Andy breaks into the sewer line, crawls through five
hundred yards of choking, shit-smelling darkness, and comes up against a
heavy-gauge mesh screen at the end of it all. Ha, ha, very funny.

That would have been on his mind. And if the long shot actually came in and he
was able to get out, would he be able to get some civilian clothes and get away
from the vicinity of the prison undetected? Last of all, suppose he got out of
the pipe, got away from Shawshank before the alarm was raised, got to Buxton,
overturned the right rock. . . and found nothing beneath? Not necessarily
something so dramatic as arriving at the right field and discovering that a
highrise apartment building had been erected on the spot, or that it had been
turned into a supermarket parking lot.

It could have been that some little kid who liked rocks noticed that piece of
volcanic glass, turned it over, saw the deposit-box key, and took both it and
the rock back to his room as souvenirs. Maybe a November hunter kicked the rock,
left the key exposed, and a squirrel or a crow with a liking for bright shiny
things had taken it away. Maybe there had been spring floods one year, breaching
the wall, washing the key away. Maybe anything.

So I think-wild guess or not-that Andy just froze in place for awhile. After
all, you can’t lose if you don’t bet. What did he have to lose, you ask? His
library, for one thing. The poison peace of institutional life, for another. Any
future chance to grab his safe identity.
But he finally did it, just as I have told you. He tried . . . and, my! Didn’t
he succeed in spectacular fashion? You tell me!

But did he get away, you ask? What happened after? What happened when he got to
that meadow and turned over that rock . . . always assuming the rock was still
there? I can’t describe that scene for you, because this institutional man is
still in this institution, and expects to be for years to come. But I’ll tell
you this. Very late in the summer of 1975, on September 15th, to be exact, I got
a postcard which had been mailed from the tiny town of McNary, Texas. That town
is on the American side of the border, directly across from El Porvenir. The
message side of the card was totally blank. But I know. I know it in my heart as
surely as I know that we’re all going to die someday.
McNary was where he crossed. McNary, Texas.

So that’s my story, Jack. I never believed how long it would take to write it
all down, or how many pages it would take. I started writing just after I got
that postcard, and here I am finishing up on January 14th, 1976. I’ve used three
pencils right down to knuckle-stubs, and a whole tablet of paper. I’ve kept the

81

pages carefully hidden. . . not that many could read my hen-tracks, anyway.
It stirred up more memories than I ever would have believed. Writing about
yourself seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and
roiling up the muddy bottom.

Well, you weren’t writing about yourself I hear someone in the peanut-gallery
saying. You were writing about Andy Dufresne. You’re nothing but a minor
character in your own story. But you know, that’s just not so. It’s all about
me, every damned word of it. Andy was the part of me they could never lock up,
the part of me that will rejoice when the gates finally open for me and I walk
out in my cheap suit with my twenty dollars of mad-money in my pocket. That part
of me will rejoice no matter how old and broken and scared the rest of me is. I
guess it’s just that Andy had more of that part than me, and used it better.
There are others here like me, others who remember Andy. We’re glad he’s gone,
but a little sad, too. Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their
feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or
when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part
of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but
still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their
departure.

That’s the story and I’m glad I told it, even if it is a bit inconclusive and
even though some of the memories the pencil prodded up (like that branch poking
up the river-mud) made me feel a little sad and even older than I am. Thank you
for listening. And Andy, if you’re really down there, as I believe you are, look
at the stars for me just after sunset, and touch the sand, and wade in the
water, and feel free.

82

XIV

I never expected to take up this narrative again, but here I am with the
dog-eared, folded pages open on the desk in front of me. Here I am adding
another three or four pages, writing in a brand-new tablet. A tablet I bought in
a store-I just walked into a store on Portland’s Congress Street and bought it.
I thought I had put finish to my story in a Shawshank prison cell on a bleak
January day in 1976. Now it’s May of 1977 and I am sitting in a small, cheap
room of the Brewster Hotel in Portland, adding to it.

The window is open, and the sound of the traffic floating in seem huge,
exciting, and intimidating. I have to look constantly over at the window and
reassure myself that there are no bars on it. I sleep poorly at night because
the bed in this room, as cheap as the room is, seems much too big and luxurious.
I snap awake every morning promptly at six-thirty, feeling disoriented and
frightened. M) dreams are bad. I have a crazy feeling of free fall. The
sensation is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

What has happened in my life? Can’t you guess? I was paroled. After thirty-eight

83

years of routine hearings and routine denials (in the course of those
thirty-eight years, three lawyers died on me), my parole was granted. I suppose
they decided that, at the age of fifty-eight, I was finally used up enough to be
deemed safe.

I came very close to burning the document you have just read. They search
outgoing parolees almost as carefully as they search incoming “new fish.” And
beyond containing enough dynamite to assure me of a quick turnaround and another
six or eight years inside, my “memoirs” contained something else: the name of
the town where I believe Andy Dufresne to be. Mexican police gladly cooperate
with the American police, and I didn’t want my freedom-or my unwillingness to
give up the story I’d worked so long and hard to write-to cost Andy his.

Then I remembered how Andy had brought in his five hundred dollars back in 1948,
and I took out my story of him the same way. Just to be on the safe side, I
carefully rewrote each page which mentioned Zihuatanejo. If the papers had been
found during my “outside search,” as they call it at The Shank, I would have
gone back in on turnaround . . . but the cops would have been looking for Andy
in a Peruvian seacoast town named Las Intrudres.

The Parole Committee got me a job as a “stock-room assistant” at 310 the big
FoodWay Market at the Spruce Mall in South Portland – which means I became just
one more aging bag-boy. There’s only two kinds of bag-boys, you know; the old
ones and the young ones. No one ever looks at either kind. If you shop at the
Spruce Mall FoodWay, I may have even taken your groceries out to your car . . .
but you’d have had to have shopped there between March and April of 1977,
because that’s as long as I worked there.

At first I didn’t think I was going to be able to make it on the outside at all.
I’ve described prison society as a scaled-down model of your outside world, but
I had no idea of how fast things moved on the outside; the raw speed people move
at. They even talk faster. And louder.

It was the toughest adjustment I’ve ever had to make, and I haven’t finished
making it yet . . . not by a long way. Women, for instance. After hardly knowing
that they were half of the human race for forty years, I was suddenly working in
a store filled with them. Old women, pregnant women wearing tee-shirts with
arrows pointing downward and a printed motto reading BABY HERE, skinny women
with their nipples poking out at their shirts-a woman wearing something like
that when I went in would have gotten arrested and then had a sanity
hearing-women of every shape and size. I found myself going around with a
semi-hard almost all the time and cursing myself for being a dirty old man.
Going to the bathroom, that was another thing. When I had to go (and the urge
always came on me at twenty-five past the hour), I had to fight the almost
overwhelming need to check it with my boss. Knowing that was something I could

84

just go and do in this too bright outside world was one thing; adjusting my
inner self to that knowledge after all those years of checking it with the
nearest screwhead or facing two days in solitary for the oversight . . . that
was something else.

My boss didn’t like me. He was a young guy, twenty-six or -seven, and I could
see that I sort of disgusted him, the way a cringing, servile old dog that
crawls up to you on its belly to be petted will disgust a man. Christ, I
disgusted myself. But . . . I couldn’t make myself stop. I wanted to tell him:
That’s what a whole life in prison does for you, young man. It turns everyone in
a position of authority into a master, and you into every master’s dog. Maybe
you know you’ve become a dog, even in prison, but since everyone else in gray is
a dog, too, it doesn’t seem to matter so much. Outside, it does. But I couldn’t
tell a young guy like him. He would never understand. Neither would my PO, a
big, bluff ex-Navy man with a huge red beard and a large stock of Polish jokes.
He saw me for about five minutes every week. “Are you staying out of the bars,
Red?” he’d ask when he’d run out of Polish jokes. I’d say yeah, and that would
be the end of it until next week.

Music on the radio. When I went in, the big bands were just getting up a good
head of steam. Now every song sounds like it’s about fucking. So many cars. At
first I felt like I was taking my life into my hands every time I crossed the
street.

There was more-everything was strange and frightening-but maybe you get the
idea, or can at least grasp a corner of it. I began to think about doing
something to get back in. When you’re on parole, almost anything will serve. I’m
ashamed to say it, but I began to think about stealing some money or shoplifting
stuff from the FoodWay, anything, to get back in where it was quiet and you knew
everything that was going to come up in the course of the day.

If I had never known Andy, I probably would have done that. But I kept thinking
of him, spending all those years chipping patiently away at the cement with his
rock-hammer so he could be free. I thought of that and it made me ashamed and
I’d drop the idea again. Oh, you can say he had more reason to be free than I
did- he had a new identity and a lot of money. But that’s not really true, you
know. Because he didn’t know for sure that the new identity was still there, and
without the new identity, the money would always be out of reach. No, what he
needed was just to be free, and if I kicked away what I had, it would be like
spitting in the face of everything he had worked so hard to win back.

So what I started to do on my time off was to hitchhike rides down to the little
town of Buxton. This was in the early April of 1977, the snow just starting to
melt off the fields, the air just beginning to be warm, the baseball teams
coming north to start a new season playing the only game I’m sure God approves

85

of. When I went on these trips, I carried a Silva compass in my pocket.
There’s a big hay field in Buxton, Andy had said, and at the north end of that
hayfield there’s a rock wall, right oat of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere
along the base of that wall is a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine
hayfield.

A fool’s errand, you say. How many hayfields are there in a small rural town
like Buxton? Fifty? A hundred? Speaking from personal experience, I’d put it at
even higher than that, if you add in the fields now cultivated which might have
been haygrass when Andy went in. And if I did find the right one, I might never
know it. Because I might overlook that black piece of volcanic glass, or, much
more likely, Andy put it into his pocket and took it with him.

So I’d agree with you. A fool’s errand, no doubt about it. Worse, a dangerous
one for a man on parole, because some of those fields were clearly marked with
NO TRESPASSING signs. And, as I’ve said, they’re more than happy to slam your
ass back inside if you get out of line. A fool’s errand . . . but so is chipping
at a blank concrete wall for twenty-seven years. And when you’re no longer the
man who can get it for you and just an old bag-boy, it’s nice to have a hobby to
take your mind off your new life. My hobby was looking for Andy’s rock.
So I’d hitchhike to Buxton and walk the roads. I’d listen to the birds, to the
spring runoff in the culverts, examine the bottles the retreating snows had
revealed-all useless non-returnables, I am sorry to say; the world seems to have
gotten awfully spendthrift since I went into the slam-and looking for hayfields.

Most of them could be eliminated right off. No rock walls. Others had rock
walls, but my compass told me they were facing the wrong direction. I walked
these wrong ones anyway. It was a comfortable thing to be doing, and on those
outings I really felt free, at peace. An old dog walked with me one Saturday.
And one day I saw a winter-skinny deer.

Then came April 23rd, a day I’ll not forget even if I live another fifty-eight
years. It was a balmy Saturday afternoon, and I was walking up what a little boy
fishing from a bridge told me was called The Old Smith Road. I had taken a lunch
in a brown FoodWay bag, and had eaten it sitting on a rock by the road. When
I was done I carefully buried my leavings, as my dad taught me before he died,
when I was a sprat no older than the fisherman who had named the road for me.
Around two o’clock I came to a big field on my left. There was a stone wall at
the far end of it, running roughly northwest. I walked back to it, squelching
over the wet ground, and began to walk the wall. A squirrel scoffed me from an
oak tree.

Three-quarters of the way to the end, I saw the rock. No mistake. Black glass
and as smooth as silk. A rock with no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. For
a long time I just looked at it, feeling that I might cry, for whatever reason.

86

The squirrel had followed me, and it was still chattering away. My heart was
beating madly.

When I felt I had myself under control, I went to the rock, squatted beside
it-the joints in my knees went off like a double-barreled shotgun-and let my
hand touch it. It was real. I didn’t pick it up because I thought there would be
anything under it; I could just as easily have walked away without finding what
was beneath. I certainly Clad no plans to take it away with me, because I didn’t
feel it was mine to take-I had a feeling that taking that rock from the field
would have been the worst kind of theft. No, I only picked it up to feel it
better, to get the heft of the thing, and, I suppose, to prove its reality by
feeling its satiny texture against my skin.

I had to look at what was underneath for a long time. My eyes saw it, but it
took awhile for my mind to catch up. It was an envelope, carefully wrapped in a
plastic bag to keep away the damp. My name was written across the front in
Andy’s clear script.

I took the envelope and left the rock where Andy had left it, and Andy’s friend
before him.

Dear Red,
If you’re reading this, then you’re out. One way or another, you’re out. And f
you’ve followed along this far, you might be willing to come a little further.
I think you remember the name of the town, don’t you? I could use a good man
to help me get my project on wheels. Meantime, have a drink on me-and do think
it over. I will be keeping an eye out for you. Remember that hope is a good
thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I will be
hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well.

Your friend,
Peter Stevens

I didn’t read that letter in the field. A kind of terror had come over me, a
need to get away from there before I was seen. To make what may be an
appropriate pun, I was in terror of being apprehended.

I went back to my room and read it there, with the smell of old men’s dinners
drifting up the stairwell to me-Beefaroni, RiceaRoni, NoodleRoni. You can bet
that whatever the old folks of America, the ones on fixed incomes, are eating
tonight, it almost certainly ends in “roni.”

I opened the envelope and read the letter and then I put my head in my arms and
cried. With the letter there were twenty new fifty dollar bills.

87

And here I am in the Brewster Hotel, technically a fugitive from justice
again-parole violation is my crime. No one’s going to throw up any roadblocks to
catch a criminal wanted on that charge, I guess-wondering what I should do now.
I have this manuscript. I have a small piece of luggage about the size of a
doctor’s bag that holds everything I own. I have nineteen fifties, four tens, a
five, three ones, and assorted change. I broke one of the fifties to buy this
tablet of paper and a deck of smokes.

Wondering what I should do.

But there’s really no question. It always comes down to just two choices. Get
busy living or get busy dying.

First I’m going to put this manuscript back in my bag. Then I’m going to buckle
it up, grab my coat, go downstairs, and check out of this fleabag. Then I’m
going to walk uptown to a bar and put that five-dollar bill down in front of the
bartender and ask him to bring me two straight shots of Jack Daniel’s-one for me
and one for Andy Dufresne. Other than a beer or two, they’ll be the first drinks
I’ve taken as a free man since 1938. Then I am going to tip the bartender a
dollar and thank him kindly. I will leave the bar and walk up Spring Street to
the Greyhound terminal there and buy a bus ticket to El Paso by way of New York
City. When I get to El Paso, I’m going to buy a ticket to McNary. And when I get
to McNary, I guess I’ll have a chance to find out if an old crook like me can
find a way to float across the border and into Mexico.

Sure I remember the name. Zihuatanejo. A name like that is just too pretty to
forget.

I find I am excited, so excited I can hardly hold the pencil in my trembling
hand. I think it is the excitement that only a free man can feel, a free man
starting a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.

I hope Andy is down there.

I hope I can make it across the border.

I hope to see my friend and shake his hand.

I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.

I hope.

The End

88

PRAISE FOR
The Bean Trees
“The Bean Trees is a story propelled by a marvelous ear, a fast-
moving humor, and the powerful undercurrent of human struggle.
. . . There are surprises in the book. There is adventure. And there
is resolution, as believable as it is gratifying.”
—Margaret Randall, Women’s Review of Books
“A major new talent. From the very first page, Kingsolver’s charac-
ters tug at the heart and soul.”
—Karen FitzGerald, Ms.
“An astonishing literary debut. . . . For a deep breath of fresh air,
spend some time in the neighborhood of The Bean Trees.”
—Cosmopolitan
“This is the story of a lovable, resourceful ‘instant mother,’ one who
speaks, acts, and learns for herself, becoming an inspiration to us all.”
—Glamour
“A lively first novel . . . an easy book to enjoy.”
—The New Yorker
“An extraordinarily good first novel, tough and tender and gritty
and moving, with a wonderful particularity and tart Southwestern
bite. Kingsolver’s heroine is little short of magnificent.”
—Anne Rivers Siddons, author of
Homeplace and Peachtree Road
“A spirited, warm book, wry and at the same time refreshingly
guileless, full of jarry insights which are very often jarringly funny.
Barbara Kingsolver is obviously a writer of much talent and origi-
nality.” —Ella Leffland, author of Rumors of Peace
“A lovely, funny, touching, and humane debut, reminiscent of the
work of Hilma Wolitzer and Francine Prose.” —Kirkus Reviews
“This funny, inspiring book is a marvelous affirmation of risk-taking,
commitment, and everyday miracles . . . an overwhelming delight,
as random and unexpected as real life.” —Publishers Weekly
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About the Author
BarBara Kingsolver’s twelve books of fiction, poetry, and
creative nonfiction include the acclaimed bestsellers The
Poisonwood Bible, a novel, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A
Year of Food Life. Her work has been translated into more than
twenty languages and has earned literary awards and a devoted
readership at home and abroad. In 2000 she was awarded the
National Humanities Medal, our country’s highest honor for
service through the arts. She lives with her family on a farm in
southern Appalachia.
©
2
00
2
by
S
te
ve
n
L
. H
op
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By t he Sa me aut hor
Fiction
Prodigal Summer
The Poisonwood Bible
Pigs in Heaven
Animal Dreams
Homeland and Other Stories
Essays
Small Wonder
High Tide in Tucson: Essays from Now or Never
Poetry
Another America
Nonfiction
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life
(with Steven L. Hopp and Camille Kingsolver)
Last Stand: America’s Virgin Lands
(with photographs by Annie Griffiths Belt)
Holding the Line: Women in the Great Arizona Mine Strike of 1983
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BARBARA KINGSOLVER
Bean
Trees
A Novel
The
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A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1988 by Harper & Row,
Publishers.
the Bean trees. Copyright © 1988 by Barbara Kingsolver. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For
information address HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York,
NY 10022.
HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales
promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department,
HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.
First Perennial Library edition published 1989.
Reissued in HarperPerennial 1991.
Ressued in Perennial 2003.
First Harper Perennial Modern Classics edition published 2009.
The Library of Congress has catalogued the Perennial Library edition as
follows:
Kingsolver, Barbara. The bean trees.
“Perennial Library.”
ISBN 0-06-091554-4
I. Title.
PS3561.11496B44 1989 813′.54 87-45633
ISBN 978-0-06-176522-3 (Harper Perennial Modern Classics edition)
09 10 11 12 13 nms/rrd 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
BeanTree_4p_resize gutter up marks March 24, 2009 16:37:30 Page Number 4

For Annie and Joe
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O N E
The One
to Get Away
I have been afraid of putting air in a tire ever since I saw a trac-
tor tire blow up and throw Newt Hardbine’s father over the top of
the Standard Oil sign. I’m not lying. He got stuck up there. About
nineteen people congregated during the time it took for Norman
Strick to walk up to the Courthouse and blow the whistle for the
volunteer fire department. They eventually did come with the lad-
der and haul him down, and he wasn’t dead but lost his hearing
and in many other ways was never the same afterward. They said
he overfilled the tire.
Newt Hardbine was not my friend, he was just one of the big
boys who had failed every grade at least once and so was practi-
cally going on twenty in the sixth grade, sitting in the back and
flicking little wads of chewed paper into my hair. But the day I
saw his daddy up there like some old overalls slung over a fence,
I had this feeling about what Newt’s whole life was going to
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amount to, and I felt sorry for him. Before that exact moment I
don’t believe I had given much thought to the future.
My mama said the Hardbines had kids just about as fast as
they could fall down the well and drown. This must not have
been entirely true, since they were abundant in Pittman County
and many survived to adulthood. But that was the general idea.
Which is not to say that we, me and Mama, were any better
than Hardbines or had a dime to our name. If you were to look at
the two of us, myself and Newt side by side in the sixth grade,
you could have pegged us for brother and sister. And for all I ever
knew of my own daddy I can’t say we weren’t, except for Mama
swearing up and down that he was nobody I knew and was long
gone besides. But we were cut out of basically the same mud, I
suppose, just two more dirty-kneed kids scrapping to beat hell
and trying to land on our feet. You couldn’t have said, anyway,
which one would stay right where he was, and which would be
the one to get away.
Missy was what everyone called me, not that it was my name,
but because when I was three supposedly I stamped my foot and
told my own mother not to call me Marietta but Miss Marietta, as
I had to call all the people including children in the houses where
she worked Miss this or Mister that, and so she did from that day
forward. Miss Marietta and later on just Missy.
The thing you have to understand is, it was just like Mama to
do that. When I was just the littlest kid I would go pond fishing of
a Sunday and bring home the boniest mess of bluegills and
maybe a bass the size of your thumb, and the way Mama would
carry on you would think I’d caught the famous big lunker in
Shep’s Lake that old men were always chewing their tobacco and
thinking about. “That’s my big girl bringing home the bacon,” she
would say, and cook those things and serve them up like
Thanksgiving for the two of us.
I loved fishing those old mud-bottomed ponds. Partly because
she would be proud of whatever I dragged out, but also I just
loved sitting still. You could smell leaves rotting into the cool mud
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and watch the Jesus bugs walk on the water, their four little feet
making dents in the surface but never falling through. And some-
times you’d see the big ones, the ones nobody was ever going to
hook, slipping away under the water like dark-brown dreams.
By the time I was in high school and got my first job and all
the rest, including the whole awful story about Newt Hardbine
which I am about to tell you, he was of course not in school any-
more. He was setting tobacco alongside his half-crippled daddy
and by that time had gotten a girl in trouble, too, so he was mar-
ried. It was Jolene Shanks and everybody was a little surprised at
her, or anyway pretended to be, but not at him. Nobody expected
any better of a Hardbine.
But I stayed in school. I was not the smartest or even particu-
larly outstanding but I was there and staying out of trouble and I
intended to finish. This is not to say that I was unfamiliar with
the back seat of a Chevrolet. I knew the scenery of Greenup
Road, which we called Steam-It-Up Road, and I knew what a
pecker looked like, and none of these sights had so far inspired
me to get hogtied to a future as a tobacco farmer’s wife. Mama
always said barefoot and pregnant was not my style. She knew.
It was in this frame of mind that I made it to my last year of
high school without event. Believe me in those days the girls were
dropping by the wayside like seeds off a poppyseed bun and you
learned to look at every day as a prize. You’d made it that far. By
senior year there were maybe two boys to every one of us, and we
believed it was our special reward when we got this particular sci-
ence teacher by the name of Mr. Hughes Walter.
Now him. He came high-railing in there like some blond Paul
McCartney, sitting on the desk in his tight jeans and his clean
shirt sleeves rolled up just so, with the cuffs turned in. He made
our country boys look like the hand-me-down socks Mama
brought home, all full of their darns and mends. Hughes Walter
was no Kentucky boy. He was from out of state, from some city
college up north, which was why, everyone presumed, his name
was backwards.
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Not that I was moony over him, at least no more than the
standard of the day, which was plain to see from the walls of the
girls’ bathroom. You could have painted a barn with all the lipstick
that went into “H. W. enraptured forever” and things of that kind.
This is not what I mean. But he changed my life, there is no
doubt.
He did this by getting me a job. I had never done anything
more interesting for a living than to help Mama with the for-pay
ironing on Sundays and look after the brats of the people she
cleaned for. Or pick bugs off somebody’s bean vines for a penny
apiece. But this was a real job at the Pittman County Hospital,
which was one of the most important and cleanest places for
about a hundred miles. Mr. Walter had a wife, Lynda, whose exis-
tence was ignored by at least the female portion of the high
school but who was nevertheless alive and well, and was in fact
one of the head nurses. She asked Hughes Walter if there was
some kid in his classes that could do odd jobs down there after
school and on Saturdays, and after graduation maybe it could
work out to be a full-time thing, and he put the question to us
just like that.
Surely you’d think he would have picked one of the Candy
Stripers, town girls with money for the pink-and-white uniforms
and prissing around the bedpans on Saturdays like it was the holi-
est substance on God’s green earth they’d been trusted to carry.
Surely you would think he’d pick Earl Wickentot, who could dis-
sect an earthworm without fear. That is what I told Mama on the
back porch. Mama in her armhole apron in the caned porch chair
and me on the stepstool, the two of us shelling out peas into a
newspaper.
“Earl Wickentot my hind foot” is what Mama said. “Girl, I’ve
seen you eat a worm whole when you were five. He’s no better
than you are, and none of them Candy Stripers either.” Still, I
believed that’s who he would choose, and I told her so.
She went to the edge of the porch and shook a handful of pea
hulls out of her apron onto the flowerbed. It was marigolds and
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Hot Tamale cosmos. Both Mama and I went in for bright colors.
It was a family trait. At school it was a piece of cake to pick me
out of a lineup of town girls in their beige or pink Bobbie Brooks
matching sweater-and-skirt outfits. Medgar Biddle, who was once
my boyfriend for three weeks including the homecoming dance,
used to say that I dressed like an eye test. I suppose he meant the
type they give you when you go into the army, to see if you’re
color blind, not the type that starts with the big E. He said it
when we were breaking up, but I was actually kind of flattered. I
had decided early on that if I couldn’t dress elegant, I’d dress
memorable.
Mama settled back into the cane chair and scooped up
another apronful of peas. Mama was not one of these that wore
tight jeans to their kids’ softball games. She was older than that.
She had already been through a lot of wild times before she had
me, including one entire husband by the name of Foster Greer.
He was named after Stephen Foster, the sweet-faced man in the
seventh-grade history book who wrote “My Old Kentucky Home,”
but twenty-two years after naming him that, Foster Greer’s
mother supposedly died of a broken heart. He was famous for
drinking Old Grand Dad with a gasoline funnel, and always told
Mama never to pull anything cute like getting pregnant. Mama
says trading Foster for me was the best deal this side of the
Jackson Purchase.
She snapped about three peas to every one of mine. Her right
hand twisted over and back as she snapped a little curl of string
off the end of each pod and rolled out the peas with her thumb.
“The way I see it,” she said, “a person isn’t nothing more than
a scarecrow. You, me, Earl Wickentot, the President of the United
States, and even God Almighty, as far as I can see. The only dif-
ference between one that stands up good and one that blows over
is what kind of a stick they’re stuck up there on.”
I didn’t say anything for a while, and then I told her I would
ask Mr. Walter for the job.
There wasn’t any sound but Henry Biddle using a hay mower
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on his front yard, down the road, and our peas popping open to
deliver their goods out into the world.
She said, “Then what? What if he don’t know you’re good
enough for it?”
I said, “I’ll tell him. If he hasn’t already given it to a Candy
Striper.”
Mama smiled and said, “Even if.”
But he hadn’t. After two days passed with nothing more said
about it, I stayed after class and told him that if he didn’t have his
mind made up yet he’d just as well let me do it, because I would
do a right smart job. I had stayed out of trouble this long, I said,
and didn’t intend to let my effort go to waste just because I was
soon going to graduate. And he said all right, he would tell Lynda,
and that I should go up there Monday afternoon and she would
tell me what to do.
I had expected more of a fight, and when the conversation
went straight down the road this way it took me a minute to think
what to say next. He had to have about the cleanest fingernails in
Pittman County.
I asked him how come he was giving the job to me. He said
because I was the first one to ask. Just like that. When I think of
all the time and effort girls in that school put into daydreaming
about staying after school to make an offer to Hughes Walter, and
I was the only one to do it. Though of course it was more a ques-
tion of making the right kind of offer.
It turned out that I was to work mainly for Eddie Rickett, who
was in charge of the lab—this was blood and pee and a few worse
things though I was not about to complain—and the x-rays. Eddie
was an old freckled thing, not really old but far enough along that
everybody noticed he hadn’t gotten married. And Eddie being the
type that nobody made it their business to ask him why not.
He didn’t treat me like teacher’s pet or any kind of prize-pony
thing, which was okay with me. With Eddie it was no horseradish,
I was there to do business and I did it. Lab and x-ray were in two
connected rooms with people always coming in and out through
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the swinging doors with their hands full and their shoes squeak-
ing on the black linoleum. Before long I was just another one of
them, filing papers in the right place and carrying human waste
products without making a face.
I learned things. I learned to look in a microscope at red blood
cells, platelets they are called though they aren’t like plates but
little catchers’ mitts, and to count them in the little squares. It
was the kind of thing I’m positive could make you go blind if you
kept it up, but luckily there were not that many people in Pittman
County who needed their platelets counted on any given day.
I hadn’t been there even one whole week when hell busted
loose. It was Saturday. These orderlies came in from the emer-
gency room yelling for Eddie to get ready for a mess in x-ray. A
couple of Hardbines, they said, just the way people always said
that. Eddie asked how much of a hurry it was, and if he’d need
help to hold them still, and they said half and half, one of them is
hot and the other cold.
I didn’t have time to think about what that meant before
Jolene Shanks, or Hardbine rather, was rolled in on a wheelchair
and then came a stretcher right behind her, which they parked
out in the hallway. Jolene looked like the part of the movie you
don’t want to watch. There was a wet tongue of blood from her
right shoulder all the way down her bosom, and all the color was
pulled out of her lips and face, her big face like a piece of some-
thing cut out of white dough. She was fighting and cursing,
though, and clearly a far cry from dead. When I took one of her
wrists to help her out of the wheelchair it twisted away under my
fingers like a sleeve full of cables. She was still yelling at Newt:
“Don’t do it,” and things like that. “Go ahead and kill your daddy
for all I care, he’s the one you want, not yourself and not me.”
Then she would go still for a minute, and then she’d start up
again. I wondered what Newt’s daddy had to do with it.
They said Doc Finchler was called and on his way, but that
Nurse MacCullers had checked her over and it wasn’t as bad as it
looked. The bleeding was stopped, but they would need x-rays to
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see where the bullet was and if it had cracked anything on its way
in. I looked at Eddie wanting to know would I have to get her out
of her top and brassière into one of the gowns, and couldn’t help
thinking about bloodstains all over the creation, having been
raised you might say in the cleaning-up business. But Eddie said
no, that we didn’t want to move her around that much. Doc
would just have to see around the hooks and the snaps.
“Lucky for you he was a bad shot,” Eddie was telling Jolene as
he straightened her arm out on the table, which I thought to be
rude under the circumstances but then that was Eddie. I held her
by the elbows trying not to hurt her any more than she was
already hurt, but poor thing she was hysterical and fighting me
and wouldn’t shut up. In my mind’s eye I could see myself in my
lead apron standing over Jolene, and this is exactly what I looked
like: a butcher holding down a calf on its way to becoming a cut
of meat.
Then Eddie said we were done, for me to keep her in the
room next door until they could see if the pictures came out; they
might have to do them over if she’d moved. Then he yelled for the
other one, and two guys rolled in the long stretcher with the sheet
over it and started hoisting it up on the table like something
served up on a big dinner plate. I stood there like a damn fool
until Eddie yelled at me to get on out and look after Jolene, he
wasn’t needing me to hold this one down because he wasn’t going
anyplace. Just another pretty picture for the coroner’s office,
Eddie said, but I couldn’t stop staring. Maybe I’m slow. I didn’t
understand until just then that under that sheet, that was Newt.
In the room next door there was a stretcher intended for Jolene,
but she would have none of it. She took one of the hard wooden
seats that swung down from the wall, and sat there blubbering,
saying, “Thank God the baby was at Mom’s.” Saying, “What am I
going to do now?” She had on this pink top that was loose so it
could have gone either way, if you were pregnant or if you weren’t.
As far as I know she wasn’t just then. It had these little openings
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on the shoulders and bows on the sleeves, though of course it was
shot to hell now.
Jolene was a pie-faced, heavy girl and I always thought she
looked the type to have gone and found trouble just to show you
didn’t have to be a cheerleader to be fast. The trouble with that is
it doesn’t get you anywhere, no more than some kid on a bicycle
going no hands and no feet up and down past his mother and hol-
lering his head off for her to look. She’s not going to look till he
runs into something and busts his head wide open.
Jolene and I had never been buddies or anything, she was a
year or two ahead of me in school when she dropped out, but I
guess when you’ve just been shot and your husband’s dead you
look for a friend in whoever is there to hand you a Tylenol with
codeine. She started telling me how it was all Newt’s daddy’s
fault, he beat him up, beat her up, and even had hit the baby with
a coal scuttle. I was trying to think how a half-dead old man
could beat up on Newt, who was built like a side of beef. But
then they all lived together in one house and it was small. And of
course the old man couldn’t hear, so it would have been that kind
of life. There wouldn’t be much talk.
I don’t remember what I said, just “Uh-huh” mostly and
“You’re going to be okay.” She kept saying she didn’t know what
was going to happen now with her and the baby and old man
Hardbine, oh Lord, what had she got herself into.
It wasn’t the kindest thing, maybe, but at one point I actually
asked her, “Jolene, why Newt?” She was slumped down and rock-
ing a little bit in the chair, holding her hurt shoulder and looking at
her feet. She had these eyes that never seemed to open all the way.
What she said was “Why not, my daddy’d been calling me a
slut practically since I was thirteen, so why the hell not? Newt
was just who it happened to be. You know the way it is.”
I told her I didn’t know, because I didn’t have a daddy. That I
was lucky that way. She said yeah.
By the time it was over it seemed to me it ought to be dark
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outside, as if such a thing couldn’t have happened in daylight. But
it was high noon, a whole afternoon ahead and everybody acting
like here we are working for our money. I went to the bathroom
and threw up twice, then came back and looked in the micro-
scope at the little catchers’ mitts, counting the same ones over
and over all afternoon. Nobody gave me any trouble about it. The
woman that gave up that blood, anyway, got her money’s worth.
I wanted Mama to be home when I got there, so I could bawl
my head off and tell her I was quitting. But she wasn’t, and by the
time she came in with a bag of groceries and a bushel basket of
ironing for the weekend I was over it for the most part. I told her
the whole thing, even Jolene’s pink bow-ribbon top and the blood
and all, and of course Newt, and then I told her I’d probably seen
the worst I was going to see so there was no reason to quit now.
She gave me the biggest hug and said, “Missy, I have never
seen the likes of you.” We didn’t talk too much more about it but
I felt better with her there, the two of us moving around each
other in the kitchen making boiled greens and eggs for dinner
while it finally went dark outside. Every once in a while she
would look over at me and just shake her head.
There were two things about Mama. One is she always
expected the best out of me. And the other is that then no matter
what I did, whatever I came home with, she acted like it was the
moon I had just hung up in the sky and plugged in all the stars.
Like I was that good.
I kept that job. I stayed there over five and a half years and
counted more platelets than you can think about. A person
might think I didn’t do much else with all that time other than
keeping Mama entertained and off and on dating Sparky Pike—
who most people considered to be a high-class catch because
he had a steady job as a gas-meter man—until I got fed up with
hearing who laid out in their backyards by their meters wearing
what (or nothing-but-what) in the summertime.
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But I had a plan. In our high school days the general idea of
fun had been to paint “Class of ’75” on the water tower, or maybe
tie some farmer’s goat up there on Halloween, but now I had seri-
ous intentions. In my first few years at Pittman County Hospital
I was able to help Mama out with the rent and the bills and still
managed to save up a couple hundred dollars. With most of it I
bought a car, a ’55 Volkswagen bug with no windows to speak of,
and no back seat and no starter. But it was easy to push start
without help once you got the hang of it, the wrong foot on the
clutch and the other leg out the door, especially if you parked on
a hill, which in that part of Kentucky you could hardly do any-
thing but. In this car I intended to drive out of Pittman County
one day and never look back, except maybe for Mama.
The day I brought it home, she knew I was going to get away.
She took one look and said, “Well, if you’re going to have you an
old car you’re going to know how to drive an old car.” What she
meant was how to handle anything that might come along, I sup-
pose, because she stood in the road with her arms crossed and
watched while I took off all four tires and put them back on.
“That’s good, Missy,” she said. “You’ll drive away from here yet. I
expect the last I’ll see of you will be your hind end.” She said,
“What do you do if I let the air out of the front tire?” Which she
did. I said, “Easy, I put on the spare,” which believe it or not that
damned old car actually had.
Then she let out the back one too and said, “Now what?”
Mama had evidently run into trouble along these lines, at some
point in her life with Foster and an Oldsmobile, and she wanted
to be sure I was prepared.
I thought, and then I said, “I have a bicycle pump. I can get
enough air in it to drive down to Norman Strick’s and get it
pumped up the rest of the way.” And she just stood there with her
arms crossed and I could see that she nor God nor nobody else
was going to do it for me, so I closed my eyes and went at that
tire for everything I was worth.
Mama hadn’t been there that day. She couldn’t know that all I
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was seeing behind those shut eyes was Newt Hardbine’s daddy
flying up into the air, in slow motion, like a fish flinging sideways
out of the water. And Newt laid out like a hooked bass.
When I drove over the Pittman line I made two promises to
myself. One I kept, the other I did not.
The first was that I would get myself a new name. I wasn’t
crazy about anything I had been called up to that point in life,
and this seemed like the time to make a clean break. I didn’t have
any special name in mind, but just wanted a change. The more I
thought about it, the more it seemed to me that a name is not
something a person really has the right to pick out, but is some-
thing you’re provided with more or less by chance. I decided to let
the gas tank decide. Wherever it ran out, I’d look for a sign.
I came pretty close to being named after Homer, Illinois, but
kept pushing it. I kept my fingers crossed through Sidney,
Sadorus, Cerro Gordo, Decatur, and Blue Mound, and coasted
into Taylorville on the fumes. And so I am Taylor Greer. I suppose
you could say I had some part in choosing this name, but there
was enough of destiny in it to satisfy me.
The second promise, the one that I broke, had to do with
where I would end up. I had looked at some maps, but since I
had never in my own memory been outside of Kentucky (I was
evidently born across the river in Cincinnati, but that is beside
the point), I had no way of knowing why or how any particular
place might be preferable to any other. That is, apart from the
pictures on the gas station brochures: Tennessee claimed to be
the Volunteer State, and Missouri the Show-Me State, whatever
that might mean, and nearly everyplace appeared to have plenty
of ladies in fifties hairdos standing near waterfalls. These
brochures I naturally did not trust as far as I could throw them
out the window. Even Pittman, after all, had once been chosen
an All-Kentucky City, on the basis of what I do not know. Its
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abundance of potato bugs and gossip, perhaps. I knew how peo-
ple could toot their own horn without any earthly cause.
And so what I promised myself is that I would drive west until
my car stopped running, and there I would stay. But there were
some things I hadn’t considered. Mama taught me well about
tires, and many other things besides, but I knew nothing of rocker
arms. And I did not know about the Great Plain.
The sight of it filled me with despair. I turned south from
Wichita, Kansas, thinking I might find a way around it, but I
didn’t. There was central Oklahoma. I had never imagined that
any part of a round earth could be so flat. In Kentucky you could
never see too far, since there were always mountains blocking the
other side of your view, and it left you the chance to think some-
thing good might be just over the next hill. But out there on the
plain it was all laid out right in front of you, and no matter how
far you looked it didn’t get any better. Oklahoma made me feel
there was nothing left to hope for.
My car gave out somewhere in the middle of a great empti-
ness that according to the road signs was owned by the Cherokee
tribe. Suddenly the steering wheel bore no relation to where the
car was going. By the grace of some miracle I surely did not yet
deserve, I managed to wobble off the highway all in one piece
and find a service station.
The man who straightened out my rocker arm was named
Bob Two Two. I am not saying he didn’t ask a fair price—I should
have been able to fix it myself—but he went home that night with
his pocket full of something near half the money I had. I sat in
the parking lot looking out over that godless stretch of nothing
and came the closest I have ever come to cashing in and plowing
under. But there was no sense in that. My car was fixed.
I had to laugh, really. All my life, Mama had talked about the
Cherokee Nation as our ace in the hole. She’d had an old grandpa
that was full-blooded Cherokee, one of the few that got left
behind in Tennessee because he was too old or too ornery to get
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marched over to Oklahoma. Mama would say, “If we run out of
luck we can always go live on the Cherokee Nation.” She and I
both had enough blood to qualify. According to Mama, if you’re
one-eighth or more they let you in. She called this our “head
rights.”
Of course, if she had ever been there she would have known
it was not a place you’d ever go to live without some kind of lethal
weapon aimed at your hind end. It was clear to me that the whole
intention of bringing the Cherokees here was to get them to lie
down and die without a fight. The Cherokees believed God was
in trees. Mama told me this. When I was a kid I would climb as
high as I could in a tree and not come down until dinner. “That’s
your Indian blood,” she would say. “You’re trying to see God.”
From what I could see, there was not one tree in the entire
state of Oklahoma.
The sun was headed fast for the flat horizon, and then there
would be nothing but twelve hours of headlights in front of me. I
was in a hurry to get out of there. My engine was still running
from Bob Two Two’s jumper cables, and I hated to let a good start
go to waste, but I was tired and didn’t want to begin a night of
driving without a cup of coffee and something to eat. I drove
across the big patch of dirt that lay between the garage and
another small brick-shaped building that had a neon Budweiser
light in the window.
When I drove around to the front, a swarm of little boys came
down on my car like bees on a bear.
“Wash your windows, lady,” they said. “Dollar for the whole
car.”
“I got no windows,” I told them. I reached back and put my
hand through the side window hole to show them. “See, just the
windshield. Lucky me, because I got no dollar either.”
The boys went around the car putting their hands through all
the window holes again and again. I thought twice about leaving
my stuff in the car while I went into the restaurant. I didn’t have
anything worth taking, but then it was all I had.
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I asked them, “You boys live around here?”
They looked at each other. “Yeah,” one of them said. “He does.
He’s my brother. Them two don’t.”
“You ever hear of a Polaroid memory?”
The big one nodded. The others just stared.
“Well, I got one,” I said. “It’s just like a camera. My memory
just took a picture of what y’all look like, so don’t take any stuff
out of my car, okay? You take any stuff, you’re in for it.”
The kids backed off from the car rubbing their hands on their
sides, like they were wiping off anything their hands might have
already imagined grabbing onto.
After the cool night, the hot air inside the bar hit me like
something you could swim through. Near the door there was a
wire rack of postcards. Some had Indians in various hokey poses,
but most were views-from-the-air of Oral Roberts University,
which apparently was in the vicinity—although I’m pretty sure if
it had been within two hundred miles I could have seen it from
the parking lot.
I picked out one with two Indian women on it, an older and a
younger, pretty one, standing side by side next to some corn-
grinding thing. I had often wondered which one-eighth of me was
Cherokee, and in this picture I could begin to see it. The long,
straight hair and the slender wrist bones. The younger one was
wearing my two favorite colors, turquoise and red. I would write
on it to Mama, “Here’s us.”
I sat down at the counter and gave the man a dime for the
postcard. I nodded when he pointed the pot of coffee at me, and
he filled my cup. The jukebox was playing Kenny Rogers and the
TV behind the counter was turned on, although the sound was
off. It was some program about, or from, Oral Roberts University,
which I recognized from the postcards. Frequently a man with
clean fat hands and a crest of hair like a woodpecker would talk
on and on without sound. I presumed this was Oral Roberts him-
self, though of course I can’t say for certain that it was. From time
to time a line of blue writing would run across the bottom of the
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screen. Sometimes it gave a telephone number, and sometimes it
just said “Praise the Lord.” I wrote my postcard to Mama.
“Grandpa had the right idea,” I told her. “No offense, but the
Cherokee Nation is crap. Headed west. Love, M.” It didn’t seem
right just yet to sign it Taylor.
The place was cleared out except for two men at the counter,
a white guy and an Indian. They both wore cowboy hats. I
thought to myself, I guess now Indians can be cowboys too,
though probably not vice versa. The Indian man wore a brown hat
and had a brown, fine-looking face that reminded me of an eagle,
not that I had ever actually seen an eagle. He was somewhere
between young and not so young. I tried to imagine having a great
grandpa with a nose like that and such a smooth chin. The other
one in the gray hat looked like he had a mean streak to him. You
can tell the kind that’s looking for trouble. They were drinking
beers and watching Oral on the silent TV, and once in a great
while they would say something to each other in a low voice.
They might have been on their first couple of beers, or they might
have been drinking since sunup—with some types you can’t tell
until it’s too late. I tried to recall where I had been at sunup that
day. It was in St. Louis, Missouri, where they have that giant
McDonald’s thing towering over the city, but that didn’t seem
possible. That seemed like about a blue moon ago.
“You got anything to eat that costs less than a dollar?” I asked
the old guy behind the counter. He crossed his arms and looked
at me for a minute, as if nobody had ever asked him this before.
“Ketchup,” the gray-hat cowboy said. “Earl serves up a mean
bottle of ketchup, don’t you, Earl?” He slid the ketchup bottle
down the counter so hard it rammed my cup and spilled out
probably five cents’ worth of coffee.
“You think being busted is a joke?” I asked him. I slid the bot-
tle back and hit his beer mug dead center, although it did not
spill. He looked at me and then looked back to the TV, like I
wasn’t the kind of thing to be bothered with. It made me want to
spit nails.
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“He don’t mean nothing by it, miss,” Earl told me. “He’s got a
bug up his butt. I can get you a burger for ninety-nine cents.”
“Okay,” I told Earl.
Maybe ten or fifteen minutes passed before the food came,
and I kept myself awake trying to guess what the fat-hands man
was saying on the TV screen. Earl’s place could have done with a
scrub. I could see through the open door into the kitchen, and
the black grease on the back of the stove looked like it had been
there since the Dawn of Man. The air in there was so hot and
stale I felt like I had to breathe it twice to get any oxygen out of it.
The coffee did nothing to wake me up. My food came just as I
was about to step outside for some air.
I noticed another woman in the bar sitting at one of the tables
near the back. She was a round woman, not too old, wrapped in
a blanket. It was not an Indian blanket but a plain pink wool
blanket with a satin band sewed on the edge, exactly like one
Mama and I had at home. Her hair lay across her shoulders in a
pair of skinny, lifeless plaits. She was not eating or drinking, but
fairly often she would glance up at the two men, or maybe just
one of them, I couldn’t really tell. The way she looked at them
made me feel like if I had better sense I’d be scared.
Earl’s ninety-nine-cent burger brought me around a little,
though I still felt like my head had been stuffed with that fluffy
white business they use in life preservers. I imagined myself step-
ping outside and the wind just scattering me. I would float out
over the flat, dark plain like the silvery fuzz from a milkweed pod.
Putting it off, I read all the signs on the walls, one by one,
which said things like THEY CAN’T FIRE ME, SLAVES HAVE TO BE
SOLD and IN CASE OF FIRE YELL FIRE. The television kept on say-
ing PRAISE THE LORD. 1-800-THE LORD. I tried to concentrate on
keeping myself all in one place, even if it wasn’t a spot I was crazy
about. Then I went outside. The air was cool and I drank it too
fast, getting a little dizzy. I sat with my hands on the steering
wheel for a few minutes trying to think myself into the right mood
for driving all night across Oklahoma.
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I jumped when she pecked on the windshield. It was the
round woman in the blanket.
“No thanks,” I said. I thought she wanted to wash the wind-
shield, but instead she went around to the other side and opened
the door. “You need a lift someplace?” I asked her.
Her body, her face, and her eyes were all round. She was
someone you could have drawn a picture of by tracing around
dimes and quarters and jar tops. She opened up the blanket and
took out something alive. It was a child. She wrapped her blanket
around and around it until it became a round bundle with a head.
Then she set this bundle down on the seat of my car.
“Take this baby,” she said.
It wasn’t a baby, exactly. It was probably old enough to walk,
though not so big that it couldn’t be easily carried. Somewhere
between a baby and a person.
“Where do you want me to take it?”
She looked back at the bar, and then looked at me. “Just take it.”
I waited a minute, thinking that soon my mind would clear
and I would understand what she was saying. It didn’t. The child
had the exact same round eyes. All four of those eyes were hang-
ing there in the darkness, hanging on me, waiting. The Budweiser
sign blinked on and off, on and off, throwing a faint light that
made the whites of their eyes look orange.
“Is this your kid?”
She shook her head. “My dead sister’s.”
“Are you saying you want to give me this child?”
“Yes.”
“If I wanted a baby I would have stayed in Kentucky,” I
informed her. “I could have had babies coming out my ears by
now.”
A man came out of the bar, gray hat or brown hat I couldn’t
tell because my car was parked some distance from the door. He
got into a pickup truck but didn’t start the ignition or turn on the
lights.
“Is that your man in there, in the bar?” I asked her.
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“Don’t go back in there. I’m not saying why. Just don’t.”
“Look,” I said, “even if you wanted to, you can’t just give
somebody a kid. You got to have the papers and stuff. Even a car
has papers, to prove you didn’t steal it.”
“This baby’s got no papers. There isn’t nobody knows it’s alive,
or cares. Nobody that matters, like the police or nothing like that.
This baby was born in a Plymouth.”
“Well, it didn’t happen this morning,” I said. “Plymouth or no
Plymouth, this child has been around long enough for somebody
to notice.” I had a foggy understanding that I wasn’t arguing the
right point. This was getting us nowhere.
She put her hands where the child’s shoulders might be,
under all that blanket, and pushed it gently back into the seat,
trying to make it belong there. She looked at it for a long time.
Then she closed the door and walked away.
As I watched her I was thinking that she wasn’t really round.
Without the child and the blanket she walked away from my car
a very thin woman.
I held the steering wheel and dug my fingernails into my
palms, believing the pain might force my brain to wake up and
think what to do. While I was thinking, the woman got in the
pickup truck and it drove away without lights. I wondered if that
was for a reason, or if it just didn’t have headlights. “Praise the
Lord,” I said out loud. “At least my car has headlights.”
I thought: I can take this Indian child back into that bar and
give it to Earl or whichever of those two guys is left. Just set it on
the counter with the salt and pepper and get the hell out of here.
Or I can go someplace and sleep, and think of something to do in
the morning.
While I was deciding, the lights in the bar flickered out. The
Budweiser sign blinked off and stayed off. Another pickup truck
swung around in the gravel parking lot and headed off toward the
highway.
It took everything I had to push-start the car. Naturally I had
not found a hill to park on in Oklahoma. “Shit!” I said. “Shit fire
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son of a bitch!” I pushed and pushed, jumped in and popped the
clutch, jumped out and pushed some more. I could see the
child’s big eyes watching me in the dark.
“This isn’t as dumb as you think,” I said. “It’s easier in
Kentucky.”
My car has no actual way of keeping track of miles, but I
believe it must have been fifty or more before we came to a
town. It was getting cold with no windows, and the poor little
thing must have been freezing but didn’t make a peep.
“Can you talk?” I said. I wondered if maybe it spoke some-
thing besides English. “What am I supposed to do with you
tonight?” I said. “What do you eat?”
I believe that flat places are quieter than hilly ones. The sounds
of the cars on the highway seemed to get sucked straight out over
the empty fields where there was nothing, not even a silo, to stop
them from barreling on forever into the night. I began to think
that if I opened my mouth nothing would come out. I hummed to
myself to keep some sound in my ears. At that time I would have
paid my bottom dollar for a radio. I would even have listened to
Oral Roberts. I talked to the poor, dumb-struck child to stay
awake, although with every passing mile I felt less sleepy and more
concerned that I was doing something extremely strange.
We passed a sign that said some-odd number of miles to the
Pioneer Woman Museum. Great, I thought. Now we’re getting
somewhere.
“Are you a girl or a boy?” I asked the child. It had a cereal-
bowl haircut, like pictures you see of Chinese kids. She or he said
nothing. I supposed I would find out eventually.
After a while I began to wonder if perhaps it was dead. Maybe
the woman had a dead child, murdered or some such thing, and
had put it in my car, and I was riding down the road beside it,
talking to it. I had read a story in Senior English about a woman
who slept with her dead husband for forty years. It was basically
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the same idea as the guy and his mother in Psycho, except that
Norman Bates in Psycho was a taxidermist and knew how to pre-
serve his mother so she wouldn’t totally rot out. Indians some-
times knew how to preserve the dead. I had read about Indian
mummies out West. People found them in caves. I told myself to
calm down. I remembered that the baby’s eyes had been open
when she put it down on the seat. But then again, so what if its
eyes were open? Had it blinked? What was the penalty for carry-
ing a dead Indian child across state lines?
After a while I smelled wet wool. “Merciful heavens,” I said.
“I guess you’re still hanging in there.”
My plan had been to sleep in the car, but naturally my plans
had not taken into account a wet, cold kid. “We’re really in trou-
ble now, you know it?” I said. “The next phone booth we come to,
I’m going to have to call 1-800-THE LORD.”
The next phone booth we did come to, as a matter of fact, was
outside the Mustang Motel. I drove by slowly and checked the
place out, but the guy in the office didn’t look too promising.
There were four or five motels pretty much in a row, their lit-
tle glass-fronted offices shining out over the highway like TV
screens. Some of the offices were empty. In the Broken Arrow
Motor Lodge there was a gray-haired woman. Bingo.
I parked under the neon sign of a pink arrow breaking and
unbreaking, over and over, and went into the office.
“Hi,” I said to the lady. “Nice evening. Kind of chilly, though.”
She was older than she had looked from outside. Her hands
shook when she lifted them off the counter and her head shook
all the time, just slightly, like she was trying to signal “No” to
somebody behind my back, on the sly.
But she wasn’t, it was just age. She smiled. “Winter’s on its
way,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“You been on the road long?”
“Way too long,” I said. “This place is real nice. It’s a sight for
sore eyes. Do you own this place?”
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“My son owns it,” she said, her head shaking. “I’m over here
nights.”
“So it’s kind of a family thing?”
“Kind of like. My daughter-in-law and me, we do most of the
cleaning up and all, and my son does the business end of it. He
works in the meat-packing plant over at Ponca City. This here’s
kind of a sideline thing.”
“You reckon it’s going to fill up tonight?”
She laughed. “Law, honey, I don’t think this place been filled
up since President Truman.” She slowly turned the pages of the
big check-in book.
“President Truman stayed here?”
She looked up at me, her eyes swimming through her thick
glasses like enormous tadpoles. “Why no, honey, I don’t think so.
I’d remember a thing like that.”
“You seem like a very kind person,” I said, “so I’m not going to
beat around the bush. I’ve got a big problem. I can’t really afford
to pay for a room, and I wouldn’t even bother you except I’ve got
a child out in that car that’s wet and cold and looking to catch
pneumonia if I don’t get it to bed someplace warm.”
She looked out toward the car and shook her head, but of
course I couldn’t tell what that meant. She said, “Well, honey, I
don’t know.”
“I’ll take anything you’ve got, and I’ll clean up after myself,
and tomorrow morning I’ll change every bed in this place. Or any-
thing else you want me to do. It’s just for one night.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know.”
“Let me go get the baby,” I said. “You won’t mind if I just bring
the poor kid in here to warm up while you decide.”
The most amazing thing was the way that child held on. From the
first moment I picked it up out of its nest of wet blanket, it
attached itself to me by its little hands like roots sucking on dry
dirt. I think it would have been easier to separate me from my hair.
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It’s probably a good thing. I was so tired, and of course I was
not in the habit anyway of remembering every minute where I
had put down a child, and I think if it had not been stuck to me
I might have lost it while I was messing with the car and moving
stuff into the little end room of the Broken Arrow. As it was, I just
ended up carrying it back and forth a lot. It’s like the specimens
back at the hospital, I told myself. You just have to keep track. It
looked like carrying blood and pee was to be my lot in life.
Once we were moved in I spread the blanket over a chair to
dry and ran a few inches of warm water in the tub. “First order of
business,” I said, “is to get you a bath. We’ll work out the rest
tomorrow.” I remembered the time I had found a puppy and
wanted to keep it, but first Mama made me spend thirty-five
cents a word to run an ad in the paper. “What if it was yours?” she
had said. “Think how bad you’d want it back.” The ad I wrote
said: FOUND PUPPY, BROWN SPOTS, NEAR FLOYD’S MILL ROAD. I had
resented how Floyd’s Mill Road was three whole words, a dollar
and five cents.
I thought to myself, I’d pay a hundred and five to get this one
back to its rightful owner. But what kind of ad would you run to
find out if anybody had lost an Indian child?
All of the baby’s clothes were way too big, with sleeves rolled
up and shirt tails wrapped around, and everything wet as mud
boots and as hard to get off. There was a bruise twice the size of
my thumb on its inner arm. I threw the soggy shirt in the sink to
soak. The child’s hands constantly caught my fingers and wouldn’t
let go. “You little booger,” I said, shaking my finger and the little
fist. “You’re like a mud turtle. If a mud turtle bites you, it won’t let
go till it thunders.” I hadn’t any sooner gotten the hands pried
loose from my fingers before they grabbed onto my shirt sleeves
and my hair. When I pulled off the pants and the diapers there
were more bruises.
Bruises and worse.
The Indian child was a girl. A girl, poor thing. That fact had
already burdened her short life with a kind of misery I could not
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imagine. I thought I knew about every ugly thing that one person
does to another, but I had never even thought about such things
being done to a baby girl. She sat quietly in the bathtub watching
me, and I just prayed she had enough backbone not to fall over
and drown, because I had to let her go. I doubled up on the floor
at the base of the toilet and tried not to throw up. The floor was
linoleum in a pattern that looked like rubber bricks set in mortar.
Nothing, not Newt Hardbine or anything else I had ever seen,
had made me feel like this.
The kid was splashing like a toad frog. Her fingers were wig-
gling and slapping at the surface of the water, no doubt trying to
grab hold of something. “Here,” I said, and handed her a wash-
cloth that had BROKEN ARROW written on the selvage in indelible
magic marker. She hugged that wash cloth and smiled. I swear to
God.
After I washed and dried her I put her to bed in a T-shirt that
one of Mama’s people had brought me one summer from
Kentucky Lake. It was tight on me, and said DAMN I’M GOOD. I
am skinny and flat-chested like a model, and always looked great
in that T-shirt if I say so myself. It was turquoise with red letters,
and came down past the baby’s knees. “These are good colors,” I
said, trying to pull it over her sleepy, bobbing head. “Indian col-
ors.” Finally her hands were empty and relaxed. She was asleep.
I took out the stamps I had brought from home wrapped in
waxed paper, and licked one and stuck it on my souvenir postcard
from the Cherokee Nation. I added a line at the bottom:
“I found my head rights, Mama. They’re coming with me.”
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T W O
New Year’s Pig
Lou Ann Ruiz lived in Tucson, but thought of herself as just an
ordinary Kentuckian a long way from home. She had acquired her
foreign last name from her husband, Angel. As it turned out, this
was the only part of him that would remain with her. He left on
Halloween.
Three years before on Christmas Day Angel had had a bad
accident in his pickup truck. It left him with an artificial leg
below the knee, and something else that was harder to pin down.
Lou Ann often would get the feeling he didn’t really like her, or
anyone else for that matter. He blamed people for things beyond
their control. Lou Ann was now pregnant with her first, which
was due in two months. She hoped more than anything that it
wouldn’t be born on Christmas Day.
She had been thinking about herself and Angel splitting up for
even longer than she had been pregnant, but she didn’t particu-
larly do anything about it. That was Lou Ann’s method. She
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expected that a divorce would just develop, like a pregnancy—
that eventually they would reach some kind of agreement without
having to discuss it. This isn’t how it worked out.
When she began to turn away from him in bed at night, and
to get up quietly in the mornings to cook his eggs, Angel seemed
to accept this. Possibly he thought she was worried about the
baby. Later, when the arguments resumed, they had a hopeless
quality that Lou Ann had not experienced before. The arguments
made her feel that her bones were made of something like the
rubber in a Gumby doll, that her body could be bent into any
shape and would stay that way. She would sit at the kitchen table
tracing her fingers over the artificial knots in the wood-look
Formica table top while Angel paced back and forth and accused
her of thinking he wasn’t good enough. He listed names of peo-
ple, mostly friends of his she could barely remember having met,
and asked her if she had slept with them, or if she had wanted to.
Angel limped so slightly it was barely noticeable, but there was
just the faintest jingling sound with every other step. It was prob-
ably something he could have gotten adjusted if he hadn’t been
too proud to take it into the prosthetic shop. No matter how loud
his voice became, Lou Ann could still hear the jingle. She could
never think of anything to say that would change the course of
these arguments, and so they went on and on. Once, several years
before, she had become so frustrated with Angel that she threw a
package of baloney at him. They both laughed, and it ended the
argument. Now she didn’t have the strength to get up and open
the refrigerator.
Finally he had said it was because of his leg, and no matter
what she said he wouldn’t hear it any other way. She more or less
gave up talking, and when she lay on her back at night she felt it
was the guilt weighing down on her aching spine, instead of the
baby.
She could remember wheeling him down the white corridor
at the hospital to bring him home, just two and a half weeks after
the accident. She had felt filled-up and proud; everything she
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loved in the world was in that chair. Having nearly lost Angel
made him all the more precious. One of the doctors said that his
boot had probably saved his life, and she felt like kissing it,
although in all the confusion no one knew exactly where it had
ended up. The boot had caught on the door frame, causing him
to be dragged several hundred yards along with the truck as it
spun into an irrigation ditch along Highway 86 west of Tucson.
The damage to the truck was surprisingly minor. There was a bot-
tle of Jim Beam in the cab that wasn’t even broken. He lost his
leg because of being twisted and dragged, but the doctor said if
he had been thrown from the vehicle at such a high speed he
would have died instantly. It crossed Lou Ann’s mind that he
might have just been saying this because Angel was so upset
about losing a leg, but she decided it would be best to take the
doctor’s word for it.
When he came home Lou Ann gave up her part-time job at
the Three Bears Day School to be with him, insisting that they
would get along fine on his disability pay until he was able to go
back to work at the bottling plant. She spent weeks playing gin
rummy with Angel on the bed and running out to Lee Sing’s mar-
ket to get whatever he wanted. She loved the way he asked for
things specifically, like Mrs. Smith’s pound cake or Beefaroni. She
wouldn’t have guessed Angel had even noticed that things came
in different brand names, other than beer. It was their best time
together.
Never at any time was Lou Ann repulsed by the amputation.
After his stump had healed it did not bother her to touch it,
which Angel himself would never do. It had a smooth, defense-
less look to it that reminded her of a penis, something she had
always thought seemed out of place on a man’s body. When he
got the prosthesis she was fascinated at first by the way it was put
together, and then thought nothing of it at all. It was something
that lay on the floor by his side of the bed at night while the cat,
Snowboots, lay curled up by hers. It took Angel some time to get
used to the new leg, but in the long run there was very little he
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couldn’t do with it, except that he was no longer able to wear
cowboy boots. For some reason the ankle hinges were not flexible
enough to fit into a boot. Other than this, Lou Ann could never
see why the accident needed to change his life at all. He hadn’t
been a cowboy for years, anyway.
On the Friday Angel left, he had long since gone back to
work. He probably didn’t think about it being Halloween, only
that it was payday. Lou Ann didn’t think of any of this, of course,
since she had no idea that it was the particular day her husband
had decided to leave her.
Lou Ann was in Dr. Pelinowsky’s waiting room waiting for her
seventh-month prenatal exam. She had a magazine on her lap, or
what was left of her lap, but preferred to stare instead at an enor-
mous wall calendar that showed all the months at once. She was
anxious about her child’s birthday. Christmas had been difficult
for Angel and Lou Ann since the accident, naturally, and they had
just about stopped celebrating it altogether. Having a baby on that
day would just be a reminder. And besides she had read in
McCall’s that children with Christmas birthdays often feel
cheated out of having their own special day. Lou Ann thought
being born the day after, when everybody is fed up with celebrat-
ing, would just be that much worse. She decided to ask the doc-
tor if there was some way to make sure the baby would come
before Christmas, although she was pretty sure there wasn’t.
Dr. Pelinowsky’s nurses seemed to like him, and called him “Dr.
P.” Lou Ann thought this was a hoot because he was OB-GYN, a
maternity doctor, which all starts when you bring in a jar of pee.
She had to keep from laughing out loud whenever she heard the
nurses call out over the intercom, “Doctor Pee, Doctor Pee.”
A nurse with crispy-looking white hair and a lavender pants
suit came out and called Lou Ann’s name. She called her Mrs.
Angel Ruiz. Angel would always correct Anglos when they pro-
nounced his name wrong. “Ahn-hel!” he would say. “I’m not a
damn baseball team!” But Lou Ann rarely corrected anybody on
anything. Her mother, Mrs. Logan, still pronounced neither
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Angel’s first name nor their last name correctly, saying it some-
thing like Ruins. She hadn’t wanted Lou Ann to marry Angel in
the first place, but for the wrong reasons. She disliked him
because he was Mexican, which didn’t make the slightest differ-
ence to Lou Ann. In Tucson, she tried to explain to her mother,
there were so many Mexicans that people didn’t think of them as
a foreign race. They were doctors, bank clerks, TV personalities,
and even owned hotels. “You can see them any day of the week
eating in a Black Angus Steak House,” she told her mother. Mrs.
Logan, who lived in eastern Kentucky and had never seen a
Mexican, thought Lou Ann was making this up.
When Dr. Pelinowsky examined her he warned again that she
was gaining too much weight. Originally he had thought it might
be twins, but now they knew for sure it was just Lou Ann and the
baby. This time his warning about her weight was more severe.
For Lou Ann, who had always been practically underweight
according to the doctor’s office charts, it was impossible to imag-
ine she wouldn’t be exactly the same after it was all over. But she
had to admit the baby made her want to eat constantly. She told
Dr. Pelinowsky that it’s hard when you’re in the kitchen cooking
for someone all the time. He told her to put her husband on a
diet too. He meant it as a joke.
On her way out the nurse gave her a pamphlet with a special
diet written out in both English and Spanish. She thought about
asking for a second copy to send to her mother. After four years
Lou Ann still felt that she had to prove her point about Mexicans,
and so she would send clippings from the newspaper when they
were promoted to company vice presidents and such. Lou Ann
realized, though, that this pamphlet didn’t fall into that category.
Her mother was no doubt already convinced that Mexicans had
babies like anyone else. In fact, she had told Lou Ann that from
what she heard they had too many, that they were trying to take
over the world like the Catholics.
Lou Ann hadn’t yet broken the news that, when the baby was
born, the plan was to give it a Catholic baptism. This would be
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for the sake of Angel’s mother, who frequently claimed to be
dying from any one of various causes. The only English words she
knew were the names of diseases. Lou Ann made the baptism
decision purely for practical reasons: if one of the grandmothers
was going to have a conniption, it might as well be the one who
was eighteen hundred miles away rather than the one who lived
right across town.
Lou Ann looked over the pamphlet while she waited for the
bus. Like most of the other literature she had received, it had a pic-
ture on the front of a mother holding a baby. Sometimes the
women in the pictures were white, sometimes Mexican, and some-
times black. They were shown holding their babies in various posi-
tions, but they were never shown as pregnant. Lou Ann wondered
about this, since all the pamphlets were about prenatal care.
On the bus she decided it must have to do with the fact that
the pamphlets were put together by men, who in her opinion
liked the looks of a mother and baby better than a pregnant
woman. She was fairly sure about this. On the bus, for instance,
several men would stand up to offer her a seat, but they wouldn’t
quite look at her. The high school boys didn’t make remarks
under their breath or try to rub up against her when the bus made
sudden stops and turns. To be able to relax this way on a crowded
bus was a new experience for Lou Ann, and she thought that in
some ways it would not be so bad to go through your life as a
pregnant lady.
She watched the houses and telephone poles go sailing by.
Some of the telephone poles had advertisements for Tania Maria,
a woman leaning forward in a loose sweater and spike heels. She
was a singer, and had enough hair for at least two people. Other
telephone poles had black posters with letters that appeared to be
cut out of a newspaper, like the ransom notes in mystery novels,
but they were ads for bands with names like Audio Confusion
and Useless Turmoil and the Meat Puppets. She thought of nam-
ing her baby Tania Maria. Angel would suggest naming it some-
thing like Meat Puppet. That would be his idea of a joke.
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It was pure pleasure not to have men pushing into her and
touching her on the bus. It allowed her mind to drift far away
from her strange, enormous body. When she was nine her
Grandfather Ormsby had given her a jackknife, and had told her
that for safety’s sake she should always keep a magic circle
around her when she used it. She would sit in the backyard and
draw a circle in the dirt that no one could come into while she
whittled for hours and hours on thick brown bars of soap. The
jackknife was long gone now, but once again there was something
like a magic circle around her.
She got off at the Roosevelt Park stop, which was a half block
from the park itself. Sprawled over the large corner lot was a
place called Jesus Is Lord Used Tires. You couldn’t make a mis-
take about the name—it was painted in big, cramped blue letters
over the door, with periods inserted between the words:
JESUS.IS.LORD.USED.TIRES. On the side of the pleated tin building
there was a large picture of Jesus with outstretched hands and
yellow streamers of light emanating from His head. There was
also a whitewall tire, perhaps added to the mural as an
afterthought and probably meant to have no direct connection
with the Lord, but it hung in the air below His left hand very
much like a large yo-yo. Jesus appeared to be on the verge of per-
forming an Around the World or some other fancy trick.
Top-heavy, chin-high stacks of Firestones and Michelins at
the edge of the paved lot formed a wall between Jesus Is Lord
and a combination nightclub and pornography shop next door
called Fanny Heaven. There was no mistaking this place either.
The front windows were whitewashed, and large signs painted
over them declared GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS on one side of the door
and TOTAL NUDITY on the other. On the front door of Fanny
Heaven was a life-size likeness of a woman with long red hair
and a leopard-skin bikini. Public art of various types was popular
on this block.
Lou Ann walked past both of these establishments nearly
every day. Something about the Jesus Is Lord place reminded her
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of Kentucky, and she always meant to ask (if she only had the
nerve) if the people there came from her part of the country.
Fanny Heaven she just tried to ignore. There was something
innocent and primitive about the painting on the door, as though
the leopard-bikini lady might have been painted by a schoolchild,
except that she was positioned in such a way that the door han-
dle, when a person pushed it, would sink into her crotch. This
door always gave Lou Ann the shivers, though she tried not to
give it a second thought.
She rounded the corner and stopped to do some grocery shop-
ping at the Lee Sing Market, which faced the park directly across
from where she and Angel lived. She bought most of the items
recommended by the diet pamphlet, but some of them, like
yogurt, were too expensive. She bought a package of macaroons
because they were Angel’s favorite.
The Chinese woman at the cash register was Lee Sing. Her
mother, who was said to be more than one hundred years old,
lived with her in the back of the store. Lee Sing told Lou Ann she
was going to have a girl. “She’s high, up here,” Lee Sing said, tap-
ping her bony fist above her stomach. She said this to Lou Ann
every time she came in.
“Either way is okay with me,” Lou Ann said, although she was
somewhat curious to see if Lee Sing would be right.
Lee Sing shook her head as she rang the cash register, and mut-
tered something that sounded to Lou Ann like “New Year pig.”
“Beg your pardon?” Lou Ann was a little afraid of Lee Sing,
who often said peculiar things like this.
“Feeding a girl is like feeding the neighbor’s New Year pig. All
that work. In the end, it goes to some other family.”
Lou Ann felt offended, but didn’t really know how to answer.
She was a long way from her own family in Kentucky, but she
didn’t see this as being entirely her fault. And it wasn’t as if her
brother had stuck any closer to home, either. He had gone north
to work on the Alaska Pipeline and had married a Canadian dog
trainer. They had four daughters with Eskimo names that Lou
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Ann couldn’t keep straight—things that sounded like Chinook
and Winnebago.
Outside it was beginning to get dark. Lou Ann crossed the
park in a hurry, skirting around an old wooden trellis where sev-
eral transients were congregating. As usual she tried to concen-
trate on not being afraid. Angel had told her that some people,
like dogs, can smell fear.
When she got home she saw that Angel had already been
home from work and had left again, for good. She was confused
at first and thought they had been robbed, until she began to see
a pattern to what was taken. She wandered around the house
with her grocery bag looking at the half-empty house. After four
years there was very little, other than clothes, that she thought of
as belonging clearly to one or the other. In a strange way she was
fascinated to see what he had claimed for his own. It revealed
more to her about his personality, she thought, than she had
learned during their whole marriage.
He left all of the sheets and blankets, the knickknacks, and all
the kitchen things except for three matching beer mugs. He had
taken some of the old magazines and paperback mysteries from
the shelf. She didn’t miss the books so much as she was hurt by
the ugly empty spaces left behind, like missing teeth, the books
on either side falling and crowding into the gaps.
Gone from the bedroom was a picture of Angel taken at a
rodeo in 1978. In the picture he was sitting on top of a bull
named S.O.B., which was supposed to be the meanest bull in the
history of rodeo. In the entire year of 1978 only one rider had
stayed on S.O.B. for eight seconds. Angel wasn’t the one. At the
time of this particular photo the animal was doped up on PCP,
which the rodeys used to drug the bulls and horses when they
moved them around. PCP was common as dirt in that line of
work. Angel’s rodeo name had been Dusty, which was short for
Angel Dust.
He also had taken one clean towel, the only tube of tooth-
paste, and the TV.
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Lou Ann had forgotten it was Halloween, and was completely
bewildered when a mob of children came to the door. She was
frightened by their dark, darting pupils peering through the little
holes in their bright plastic masks. She knew they were neighbor-
hood children she had seen a thousand times, but in their cos-
tumes she couldn’t tell who they were. To calm herself down she
talked to them and tried to guess whether each one was a boy or
a girl. She guessed correctly on the princess, the green-faced
witch, Frankenstein, and the Incredible Hulk (also green). The
Extra Terrestrial she got wrong.
Now she remembered why she had needed to go to the Lee
Sing Market: she didn’t have any candy to give out. She consid-
ered giving them pieces of fruit or macaroons, but this would be
a waste of money. Their mothers would probably go through their
bags and throw things like that away, fearing cyanide and razor
blades. On television they said everything should be sealed in the
original wrapper. The children seemed to feel sorry for her, but
were growing impatient. They expected adults to be prepared.
“You better give us something or we’ll have to soap your win-
dows, Mrs. Ruiz,” the Extra Terrestrial said half-heartedly. Lou
Ann decided to go and shake out the Mickey Mouse bank, in
which she had been saving pennies to buy a washing machine
for the baby’s diapers. Angel had laughed at her, saying the baby
would have kids of its own before she could save that many
pennies.
The children seemed satisfied with the pennies and went
away. She left Mickey by the door so she would be better orga-
nized for the next round.
By eleven o’clock Lou Ann’s feet were killing her. She could
feel her heartbeat in her ankles. For three or four weeks Lou
Ann’s feet had been so swollen that she could only wear one par-
ticular pair of shoes, which had a strap across the ankle, and now
she was going to have to go to bed with these shoes on. She
couldn’t bend over far enough to unbuckle the straps, and Angel
was not there to do it for her. If she had thought of it she might
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have asked the last bunch of trick-or-treat kids to do it, but it was
too late now.
As she was getting ready for bed she caught sight of herself in
the mirror and thought she looked disgusting and pornographic in
her nightgown and panty hose and shoes, like someone who
would work at Fanny Heaven. Though of course they wouldn’t
have pregnant women there. Still, the thought upset her. She
turned out the light but kept listening for sounds that might be
more kids coming to the door, or might be Angel changing his
mind, coming home. In her other ear, pressed against the pillow,
she could hear the blood pumping all the way down to her feet.
It sounded something like the ocean, which she had seen once
with Angel in Mexico. The baby nudged and poked at her with
what felt like fingers, but must be tiny elbows or feet. She
thought about the baby playing in waves of her blood, on the
smooth, dark beach of her insides. Her feet hurt and she couldn’t
find a comfortable place in the bed.
Finally, late in the night, she cried until her eye sockets felt
empty. At the beach she had gotten seawater in her eyes and they
felt like this. Angel had warned her to keep them shut, but she
had wanted to see where she was going. You never knew what
kind of thing could be down there under the water.
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T H R E E
Jesus Is Lord
Used Tires
We crossed the Arizona state line at sunup. The clouds were
pink and fat and hilarious-looking, like the hippo ballerinas in a
Disney movie. The road took us through a place called Texas
Canyon that looked nothing like Texas, heaven be praised for
that, but looked like nothing else I had ever seen either. It was a
kind of forest, except that in place of trees there were all these
puffy-looking rocks shaped like roundish animals and roundish
people. Rocks stacked on top of one another like piles of copulat-
ing potato bugs. Wherever the sun hit them, they turned pink.
The whole scene looked too goofy to be real. We whizzed by a
roadside sign on which I could make out a dinosaur. I wondered
if it told what kind of rocks they were, or if it was saying that they
were actually petrified dinosaur turds. I was laughing my head
off. “This is too much,” I said to the Indian child. “This is the best
thing I’ve seen in years.” Whether my car conked out or not, I
made up my mind to live in Arizona.
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It was the second day of the new year. I had stayed on at the
Broken Arrow through most of the holidays, earning some money
changing beds. The older woman with the shakes, whose name
was Mrs. Hoge, was determined that I should stay awhile. She
said they could use the extra help during the Christmas season,
especially since her daughter-in-law’s ankles were giving her trou-
ble. Which is no wonder. A human ankle is not designed to hold
up two hundred and fifty pounds. If we were meant to weigh that
much we would have big round ankles like an elephant or a hip-
popotamus.
They did get quite a few folks at Christmastime passing
through on their way to someplace on one side or the other of
Oklahoma, which was where I longed to be. But on the other
hand, I was glad for the chance to make some bucks before I
headed on down the pike. Mrs. Hoge’s ulterior motive, I believe,
was the child, which she looked after a great deal of the time. She
made it plain that her fondest wish was to have a grandbaby.
Whenever fat Irene would pick up the baby, which was not too
often, Mrs. Hoge would declare, “Irene, you don’t know how
becoming that looks.” As if someone ought to have a kid because
it looked good on them.
By this time I had developed a name for the child, at least for
the time being. I called her Turtle, on account of her grip. She
still wasn’t talking but she knew her name about as far as a cat
ever does, which means that when you said it she would look up
if she was in the right mood. Mrs. Hoge hinted in every imagin-
able way that she was retarded, but I maintained that she had her
own ways of doing things and wasn’t inclined to be pushed. She
had already been pushed way too far in her lifetime, though of
course I didn’t tell this to old Mrs. Hoge or her daughter-in-law.
I was in hog heaven to be on the road again. In Arizona. My
eyes had started to hurt in Oklahoma from all that flat land. I
swear this is true. It felt like you were always having to look too
far to see the horizon.
By the time we were in sight of Tucson it became clear what
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those goofy pink clouds had been full of: hail. Within five min-
utes the car was covered with ice inside and out, and there was
no driving on that stuff. The traffic was moving about the speed
of a government check. I left the interstate at an off ramp and
pulled over next to what looked like the Flying Nun’s hat made
out of bumpy concrete, held up by orange poles. Possibly it had
once been a gas station, although there were no pumps and the
building at the back of the paved lot looked abandoned. All over
the walls and boarded-up windows someone had painted what
looked like sperms with little smiles in red spray paint, and say-
ings like “Fools Believe.”
I rubbed my hands on my knees to keep them from freezing.
There was thunder, though I did not see lightning. I thought of all
the mud turtles in Arizona letting go. Did Arizona even have mud
turtles? An old man my mama used to clean for would say if it
thunders in January it will snow in July. Clearly he had never
been to Arizona. Or perhaps he had.
We got out of the open car and stood under the concrete
wings to stay dry. Turtle was looking interested in the scenery,
which was a first. Up to then the only thing that appeared to
interest her was my special way of starting the car.
“This is a foreign country,” I told her. “Arizona. You know as
much about it as I do. We’re even steven.”
The hail turned to rain and kept up for half an hour. A guy
came out of the little boarded-up building and leaned against one
of the orange poles near us. I wondered if he lived there, or what.
(If he did live there, did he paint the sperms?) He had on cam-
ouflage army pants and a black baseball cap with cloth flaps
hanging down in the back, such as Gregory Peck or whoever it
was always wore in those old Foreign Legion movies. His T-shirt
said VISITOR FROM ANOTHER PLANET. That’s me, I thought. I
should be wearing that shirt.
“You from out of town?” he asked after a while, eying my car.
“No,” I said. “I go to Kentucky every year to get my license
plate.” I didn’t like his looks.
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He lit a cigarette. “What’d you pay for that bucket of bolts?”
“A buck two-eighty.”
“Sassy one, aren’t you?”
“You got that one right, buster,” I said. I wished to God I
wasn’t going to have to make such a spectacle of myself later on,
starting the car.
The sun came out even before the hail stopped. There was a
rainbow over the mountains behind the city, and over that
another rainbow with the colors upside down. Between the two
rainbows the sky was brighter than everywhere else, like a white
sheet lit from the back. In a few minutes it was hot. I had on a
big red pullover sweater and was starting to sweat. Arizona didn’t
do anything halfway. If Arizona was a movie you wouldn’t believe
it. You’d say it was too corny for words.
I knew I had better stay put for a few more minutes to give
the engine a chance to dry out. The guy was still hanging around,
smoking and making me nervous.
“Watch out,” he said. There was this hairy spider about the
size of a small farm animal making its way across the pavement.
Its legs jerked up and down like the rubber spiders on a string
that you get from a gumball machine.
“I’ve seen worse,” I said, although to tell you the truth I
hadn’t. It looked like something that might have crawled out of
the Midnight Creature Feature.
“That’s a tarantula,” he said. “You got to watch out for them
suckers. They can jump four feet. If they get you, you go crazy. It’s
a special kind of poison.”
This I didn’t believe. I never could figure out why men
thought they could impress a woman by making the world out to
be such a big dangerous deal. I mean, we’ve got to live in the
exact same world every damn day of the week, don’t we?
“What’s it coming around here for?” I said. “Is it your pet, or
your girlfriend?”
“Nah,” he said, squashing out his cigarette, and I decided he
was dumber than he was mean.
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There were a lot more bugs crawling up on the cement slab. A
whole swarm of black ants came out of a crack and milled around
the cigarette butt trying, for reasons I could not imagine, to take
it apart. Some truck had carried that tobacco all the way from
Kentucky maybe, from some Hardbine’s or Richey’s or Biddle’s
farm, and now a bunch of ants were going to break it into little
pieces to take back to their queen. You just never knew where
something was going to end up.
“We had a lot of rain lately,” the guy said. “When the ground
gets full of water, the critters drown out of their holes. They got
to come up and dry off.” He reached out with his foot and
squashed a large, shiny black bug with horns. Its wings split apart
and white stuff oozed out between. It was the type that you
wouldn’t have guessed had wings, although I knew from experi-
ence that just about every bug has wings of one kind or another.
Not including spiders.
He lit another cigarette and threw the match at the tarantula,
missing it by a couple of inches. The spider raised its two front
legs toward the flame like a scared lady in an old movie.
“I got things to do,” I said. “So long.” I put Turtle in the car,
then went around to the other side and put it in neutral and
started to push.
He laughed. “What is that, a car or a skateboard?”
“Look, buster, you can help give me a push, or you can stand
and watch, but either way I’m out of here. This car got me here
from Kentucky, and I reckon she’s got a few thousand left in her.”
“Not on them tires, she don’t,” he said. I looked back to see
the rear tire flapping empty on the wheel. “Shit,” I said, just as
the engine caught and the car zoomed forward. In the rear-view
mirror I could see broken glass glistening on the off ramp, drop-
ping away behind me like a twinkly green lake.
I had no intention of asking the dumb guy for help. The tire
looked like it was done-for anyway so I drove on it for a few
blocks. There were a bank, some houses, and a park with palm
trees and some sick-looking grass. Some men with rolled-up blan-
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kets tied around their waists were kicking at the dirt, probably
looking for bugs to step on. Just beyond the park I could see a
stack of tires. “Will you look at that,” I said. “I’m one lucky duck.
We should have gone to Las Vegas.”
The stacked-up tires made a kind of wall on both sides of a
big paved corner lot. Inside the walls a woman was using an air
hose to chase bugs off the pavement, herding them along with lit-
tle blasts of air. She was wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots and
a red bandana on her head. A long gray braid hung down the mid-
dle of her back.
“How do,” I said. I noticed that the name of the place was
Jesus Is Lord Used Tires. I remembered wanting to call 1-800-
THE LORD, just to see who you’d get. Maybe this was it.
“Hi, darlin,” she said. “These bugs aggravate the dickens out
of me after it rains, but I can’t see my way clear to squashing
them. A bug’s just got one life to live, after all. Like us.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“Oh, bless your heart. Looks like you’ve got a couple of flats.”
I did. I hadn’t seen the rear on the right side.
“Drive it up onto the big jack,” she ordered. “We’ll get them
off and have a look. We’ll fix your little wagon right up.”
I asked if Turtle could ride up on the jack, but she said it
wasn’t safe, so I took her out of the car and looked for a place to
put her down. All those tires around made me nervous. Just out
of instinct, more or less, I looked up to see if there was anything
tall overhead to get thrown up onto. There was nothing but clear
blue sky.
Off to one side there were some old wheel rims and flat tires.
An empty tire couldn’t possibly explode, I reasoned, so I sat
Turtle down in one of those.
“What’s your little girl’s name?” the woman wanted to know,
and when I told her she didn’t bat an eye. Usually people would
either get embarrassed or give me a lecture. She told me her
name was Mattie.
“She’s a cute little thing,” Mattie said.
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“How do you know she’s a girl?” I wasn’t lipping off, for once.
Just curious. It’s not as if I had her dressed in pink.
“Something about the face.”
We rolled the tires over to a tub of water. Mattie rubbed Ivory
soap on the treads and then dunked them in like big doughnuts.
Little threads of bubbles streamed up like strings of glass beads.
Lots of them. It looked like a whole jewelry store in there.
“I’m sorry to tell you, hon, these are bad. I can tell you right now
these aren’t going to hold a patch. They’re shot through.” She
looked concerned. “See these places here along the rim? They’re
sliced.” She ran her hand along the side of the tire under the water.
She had a gold wedding band settled into the flesh of her finger,
the way older women’s rings do when they never take them off.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, and I could tell she really was.
“There’s a Goodyear place down the road about six blocks. If you
want to roll them down there for a second opinion.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it.” Turtle was
slapping at the side of her flat whitewall with one hand. The
other had caught hold of the doohickey where the air goes in. I
tried to think what in the world we were going to do now. “How
much for new ones?” I asked.
Mattie considered for a minute. “I could give you a pair of
good retreads, five thousand miles guaranteed, put on and bal-
anced for sixty-five.”
“I’ll have to think on that one,” I said. She was so nice I didn’t
want to tell her flat out that I couldn’t afford new tires.
“It’s too early in the morning for bad news,” Mattie said. “I
was just brewing up a pot of coffee. You want a cup of coffee?
Come sit.”
“Okay,” I said. I collected Turtle out of the tire and carried her
to the back of the shop. It was a big old two-story place, and there
at the back of the garage was an area with a sink and some
shelves, some folding chairs painted blue, a metal table, and a
Mr. Coffee. I scooted another flat over next to the chairs and set
Turtle down in it. I was glad to be away from that wall of tires, all
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of them bulging to burst. Hanging around here would be like liv-
ing in a house made of bombs. The sound of the air hose alone
gave me the willies.
“These come in pretty handy,” I said, trying to be cheerful. “I
know what I can use those two flat tires for.”
“I’ve got some peanut-butter crackers,” Mattie said, leaning
over Turtle. “Will she eat peanut butter?”
“She eats anything. Just don’t let her get hold of anything you
don’t want to part with. Like your hair,” I said. Mattie’s braid was
swinging into the danger zone.
She poured coffee into a mug that said “BILL with a capital
B,” and handed it to me. She poured a cup for herself in a white
mug with cartoon rabbits all over it. They were piled all over each
other like the rocks in Texas Canyon. After a minute I realized
that the rabbits were having sex in about a trillion different posi-
tions. I couldn’t figure this woman out. This was definitely not
1-800-THE LORD.
“You must have come a ways,” she said. “I saw your plates
were Kentucky. Or plate, rather. You don’t have to have them both
front and back in Kentucky?”
“No. Just the back.”
“Here you’ve got to have one on the front too. I guess so the
cops can get you coming and going.” She handed Turtle a peanut-
butter cracker, which she grabbed with both hands. It broke to
smithereens, and she got such big sad eyes I thought she was
going to cry.
“It’s all right, honey,” Mattie said. “You put that one in your
mouth and I’ll give you another one.” Turtle did. I was amazed.
She had never been this kind to Mrs. Hoge. Mattie was clearly
accustomed to dealing with kids.
“Are you on the road?” she asked me.
“Have been up to now. From Kentucky, with a stopover in
Oklahoma. We’re out to see what we can see. Now I guess we’ll
see how we like Tucson.”
“Oh, you will. I ought to know, I’ve lived my whole life here.
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And that’s a rare breed, let me tell you. I don’t think there’s hardly
a soul in Tucson anymore that was born here. Most of them
come, you know, from out of state. My husband, Samuel, was
from Tennessee. He came out as a young man for his asthma and
he never could get used to the dry. I love it, though. I guess it’s all
in what you’re used to.”
“I guess,” I said. I was dying to know about the name of the
place, but couldn’t think of a polite way to bring it up. “Is this tire
place part of a national chain, or something like that?” I finally
asked. That sounded polite, but dumb.
She laughed. “No, me and my husband started it up. His dad
was a mechanic, so Sam was a grease monkey born and raised.
He was the one that named the place. He was kind of fanatical,
you might say. Bless his soul.” She handed Turtle another cracker.
The kid was eating like a house on fire. “He got some Mexican
kids to do the painting out front. I never did change it, it’s some-
thing different. Lots of people stop in for curiosity. Does that
baby want some juice? She needs something to wash that peanut
butter down with.”
“Don’t put yourself out. I can get her some water out of the tap.”
“I’ll run get some apple juice. I won’t be a minute.” I had
thought she meant she was actually going to a store, but she went
through a door at the back of the shop. Apparently there was
more to this building, including a refrigerator with apple juice in
it. I wondered if Mattie lived on the premises, maybe upstairs.
While she was gone two men stopped by, almost at exactly the
same time, although they were not together. One of them asked
for Matilda. He wanted an alignment and to pick up a tire for his
ORV. He said it as though everybody ought to know what an ORV
was, and maybe have one or two at home. The other man had on
a black shirt with a white priest’s collar, and blue jeans, of all
things. I wondered if maybe he was some kind of junior-varsity
priest. I really had no idea. They didn’t have Catholics in Pittman.
“She’ll be back in about two seconds,” I told them. “She just
went to get something.”
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The ORV fellow waited, but the priest said he would come
back later. He seemed a little jumpy. As he drove away I noticed
there was a whole family packed into the back of his station
wagon. They looked like Indians.
“Well, how in the world are you, Roger?” Mattie said when
she came back. “Just make yourself at home, hon, this won’t take
a minute,” she told me, and handed me an orange cup with a lit-
tle drinking spout, which must have been designed especially for
small children. I wondered if it was hard to fill it through that lit-
tle spout. Once Turtle got her hands on this cup she wasn’t going
to want to give it up.
Roger drove his car onto a platform that was attached to a red
machine with knobs and dials on it. Mattie started up the
machine, which made the front tires of Roger’s Toyota spin
around, and after a minute she lay down on one shoulder and
adjusted something under the front. She didn’t get that dirty,
either. I had never seen a woman with this kind of know-how. It
made me feel proud, somehow. In Pittman if a woman had tried
to have her own tire store she would have been run out of busi-
ness. That, or the talk would have made your ears curl up like
those dried apricot things. “If Jesus is indeed Lord,” I said to
myself, “He surely will not let this good, smart woman get blown
sky-high by an overfilled tire. Or me either, while He’s at it.”
The two of them went out to the wall of tires and pulled down
a couple of smallish fat ones. They hit the ground with a smack,
causing both Turtle and me to jump. Roger picked one of them
up and dribbled it like a basketball. He and Mattie were talking,
and Roger was making various vibrating sounds with his lips. I
supposed he was trying to describe something that was wrong
with his ORV. Mattie listened in an interested way. She was really
nice to Roger, even though he was bald and red-faced and kind of
bossy. She didn’t give him any lip.
When she came back Turtle had drunk all her juice and was
banging the cup against the tire, demanding more in her speech-
less way. I was starting to get embarrassed.
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“You want more juice, don’t you?” Mattie said to Turtle in a
grownup-to-baby voice. “It’s a good thing I brought the whole bot-
tle down in the first place.”
“Please don’t go out of your way,” I said. “We’ve put you out
enough already. I have to tell you the truth, I can’t even afford to
buy one tire right now, much less two. Not for a while, anyway,
until I find work and a place for us to live.” I picked up Turtle but
she went on banging the cup against my shoulder.
“Why, honey, don’t feel bad. I wasn’t trying to make a sale. I
just thought you two needed some cheering up.” She pried the
cup out of Turtle’s hand and refilled it. The top snapped right off.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“You must have grandbabies around,” I said.
“Mmm-hmmm. Something like that.” She handed the cup
back to Turtle and she sucked on it hard, making a noise like a
pond frog. I wondered what, exactly, could be “something like”
grandbabies.
“It’s so dry out here kids will dehydrate real fast,” Mattie told
me. “They’ll just dry right up on you. You have to watch out for
that.”
“Oh, right,” I said. I wondered how many other things were
lurking around waiting to take a child’s life when you weren’t pay-
ing attention. I was useless. I was crazy to think I was doing this
child a favor by whisking her away from the Cherokee Nation.
Now she would probably end up mummified in Arizona.
“What kind of work you looking for?” Mattie rinsed the coffee
cups and set them upside down on a shelf. A calendar above the
shelf showed a bare-chested man in a feather headdress and
heavy gold arm bracelets carrying a woman who looked dead or
passed out.
“Anything, really. I have experience in housecleaning, x-rays,
urine tests, and red blood counts. And picking bugs off bean
vines.”
Mattie laughed. “That’s a peculiar résumé.”
“I guess I’ve had a peculiar life,” I said. It was hot, Turtle was
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spilling or spitting juice down my shoulder blade, and I was get-
ting more depressed by the minute. “I guess you don’t have bean
vines around here,” I said. “That kind of limits my career options.”
“Well, heck yes, girl, we’ve got bean vines!” Mattie said. “Even
purple ones. Did you ever see purple beans?”
“Not that were alive,” I said.
“Come on back here and let me show you something.”
We went through the door at the back, which led through a
little room jam-packed with stuff. There was a desk covered with
papers, and all around against the walls there were waist-high
stacks of old National Geographics and Popular Mechanics and
something called The Beacon, which showed Jesus in long,
swirling robes floating above a lighthouse. Behind the desk there
was a staircase and another door that led out the back. I could
hear someone thumping around overhead in stocking feet.
Outside was a bright, wild wonderland of flowers and vegeta-
bles and auto parts. Heads of cabbage and lettuce sprouted out
of old tires. An entire rusted-out Thunderbird, minus the wheels,
had nasturtiums blooming out the windows like Mama’s hen-and-
chicks pot on the front porch at home. A kind of teepee frame
made of CB antennas was all overgrown with cherry-tomato
vines.
“Can you believe tomatoes on the second of January?” Mattie
asked. I told her no, that I couldn’t. Frankly that was only the
beginning of what I couldn’t believe. Mattie’s backyard looked
like the place where old cars die and go to heaven.
“Usually we’ll get a killing frost by Thanksgiving, but this year
it’s stayed warm. The beans and tomatoes just won’t quit. Here,
doll, bite down, don’t swallow it whole.” She handed me a little
tomato.
“Okay,” I said, before I realized she had popped one into
Turtle’s mouth, and was talking to her. “It hailed this morning,” I
reminded Mattie. “We just about froze to death for a few minutes
there.”
“Oh, did it? Whereabouts?”
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“On the freeway. About five blocks from here.”
“It didn’t get here; we just had rain. Hail might have got the
tomatoes. Sometimes it will. Here’s the beans I was telling you
about.”
Sure enough, they were one hundred percent purple: stems,
leaves, flowers and pods.
“Gosh,” I said.
“The Chinese lady next door gave them to me.” She waved
toward a corrugated tin fence that I hadn’t even noticed before. It
was covered with vines, and the crazy-quilt garden kept right on
going on the other side, except without the car parts. The purple
beans appeared to go trooping on down the block, climbing over
anything in their path.
“They’re originally from seeds she brought over with her in
nineteen-ought-seven,” Mattie told me. “Can you picture that?
Keeping the same beans going all these years?”
I said I could. I could picture these beans marching right over
the Pacific Ocean, starting from somebody’s garden in China and
ending up right here.
Mattie’s place seemed homey enough, but living in the hustle-
bustle of downtown Tucson was like moving to a foreign coun-
try I’d never heard of. Or a foreign decade. When I’d crossed
into Rocky Mountain Time, I had set my watch back two hours
and got thrown into the future.
It’s hard to explain how this felt. I went to high school in the
seventies, but you have to understand that in Pittman County it
may as well have been the fifties. Pittman was twenty years
behind the nation in practically every way you can think of,
except the rate of teenage pregnancies. For instance, we were the
last place in the country to get the dial system. Up until 1973 you
just picked up the receiver and said, Marge, get me my Uncle
Roscoe, or whoever. The telephone office was on the third floor
of the Courthouse, and the operators could see everything around
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Main Street square including the bank, the drugstore, and Dr.
Finchler’s office. She would tell you if his car was there or not.
In Tucson, it was clear that there was nobody overlooking us
all. We would just have to find our own way.
Turtle and I took up residence in the Hotel Republic, which
rented by the week and was within walking distance of Jesus Is
Lord’s. Mattie said it would be all right to leave my car there for
the time being. This was kind of her, although I had visions of
turnips growing out of it if I didn’t get it in running order soon.
Life in the Republic was nothing like life at the Broken Arrow,
where the only thing to remind you you weren’t dead was the
constant bickering between old Mrs. Hoge and Irene. Downtown
Tucson was lively, with secretaries clicking down the sidewalks in
high-heeled sandals, and banker and lawyer types puffy-necked in
their ties, and in the evenings, prostitutes in getups you wouldn’t
believe. There was one who hung out near the Republic who
wore a miniskirt that looked like Reynolds Wrap and almost every
day a new type of stockings: fishnets in all different colors, and
one pair with actual little bows running down the backs. Her
name was Cheryl.
There was also a type of person who lived downtown full time,
not in the Republic but in the bus station or on the sidewalk
around the Red Cross plasma center. These people slept in their
clothes. I know that living in the Republic only put me a few flights
of stairs above such people, but at least I did sleep in pajamas.
And then there was this other group. These people did not
seem to be broke, but they wore the kinds of clothes Mama’s big-
house ladies used to give away but you would rather go naked
than wear to school. Poodle skirts and things of that kind.
Standing in line at the lunch counters and coffeeshops they
would rub the backs of each other’s necks and say, “You’re hold-
ing a lot of tension here.” They mainly didn’t live downtown but
had studios and galleries in empty storefronts that had once been
J. C. Penney’s and so forth. Some of these still had the old signs
on the faces of the brick buildings.
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Which is to say that at first I had no idea what was going on in
those storefronts. One of them that I passed by nearly every day
had these two amazing things in the front window. It looked like
cherry bombs blowing up in boxes of wet sand, and the whole
thing just frozen mid-kaboom. Curiosity finally got the better of
me and I walked right in. I knew this was no Woolworth’s.
Inside there were more of these things, one of them taller
than me and kind of bush-shaped, all made of frozen sand. A
woman was writing something on a card under one of the sand
things that was hanging on the back wall, kind of exploding out of
a metal frame. The woman had on a pink sweater, white ankle
socks, pink high heels, and these tight pants made out of the skin
of a pink silk leopard. She came over with her clipboard and kind
of eyed Turtle’s hands, which were sticky I’ll admit, but a good
two feet clear of the sand bush.
“This is terrific,” I said. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“It’s non-representational,” she said, looking at me like I was
some kind of bug she’d just found in her bathroom.
“Excuse me for living,” I said. She was about my age, no more
than twenty-five anyway, and had no reason I could see for being
so snooty. I remembered this rhyme Mama taught me to say to
kids who acted like they were better than me: “You must come
from Hog-Norton, where pigs go to church and play the organ.”
The thing was sitting on a square base covered with brown
burlap, and a little white card attached said BISBEE DOG #6. I
didn’t see the connection, but I acted like I was totally satisfied
with that. “Bisbee Dog #6,” I said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
Turtle and I went all around checking out the ones on the
walls. Most of them were called something relief: ASCENDANT
RELIEF, ENDOGENOUS RELIEF, MOTIVE RELIEF, GALVANIC RELIEF.
After a while I realized that the little white cards had numbers on
them too. Numbers like $400. “Comic Relief,” I said to Turtle.
“This one is Instant Relief,” I said. “See, it’s an Alka-Seltzer,
frozen between the plop and the fizz.”
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On some days, like that one, I was starting to go a little bit
crazy. This is how it is when all the money you have can fit in one
pocket, and you have no job, and no prospects. The main thing
people did for money around there was to give plasma, but I drew
the line. “Blood is the body’s largest organ,” I could just hear
Eddie Ricketts saying, and I wasn’t inclined to start selling my
organs while I was still alive. I did inquire there about work, but
the head man in a white coat and puckery white loafers looked
me over and said, “Are you a licensed phlebotomist in the state of
Arizona?” in this tone of voice like who was I to think I could be
on the end of the needle that doesn’t hurt, and that was the end
of that.
Down the block from the plasma center was a place called
Burger Derby. The kids who worked there wore red caps, red-
and-white-striped shirts, and what looked like red plastic shorts.
One of them, whose name tag said, “Hi I’m Sandi,” also wore tiny
horse earrings, but that couldn’t have been part of the uniform.
They couldn’t make you pierce your ears; that would have to be
against some law.
Sandi usually worked the morning shift alone, and we got to
know each other. My room in the Republic had a hot plate for
warming cans of soup, but sometimes I ate out just for the com-
pany. The Burger Derby was safe. No one there was likely to ask
you where you were holding your tension.
Sandi turned out to be horse-crazy. When she found out I was
from Kentucky she treated me like I had personally won the
Derby. “You are so lucky,” she said. “My absolute dream is to have
a horse of my own, and braid flowers in its mane and prance
around in a ring and win ribbons and stuff.” She had this idea
that everyone in Kentucky owned at least one Thoroughbred, and
it took me some time to convince her that I had never even been
close enough to a horse to get kicked.
“In the part of Kentucky I come from people don’t own
Thoroughbreds,” I told her. “They just wish they could live like
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one.” The Thoroughbreds had their own swimming pools. My
whole county didn’t even have a swimming pool. I told her what
a hoot we all thought it was when these rich guys paid six million
for Secretariat after his running days were over, since he was sup-
posedly the most valuable stud on the face of the earth, and then
he turned out to be a reticent breeder, which is a fancy way of
saying homosexual. He wouldn’t go near a filly for all the sugar in
Hawaii.
Sandi acted kind of shocked to hear this news about
Secretariat’s sex life.
“Didn’t you know that? I’m sure that made the national news.”
“No!” she said, scouring the steam table like a fiend. She kept
looking around to see if anyone else was in the restaurant, but no
one was, I’m sure. I always went there around ten-thirty, which is
a weird time of day to eat a hot dog, but I was trying to get Turtle
and me onto two meals a day.
“What’s it like to work here?” I asked her. There had been a
HELP WANTED sign in the window for going on two weeks.
“Oh, it’s fantastic,” she said.
I’ll bet, I thought. Serving up Triple Crown Chili Dogs and
You Bet Your Burgers and chasing off drunks and broke people
who went around the tables eating nondairy creamer straight out
of the packets would be fantastic. She looked about fourteen.
“You should apply for it, really. They couldn’t turn you down,
being from Kentucky.”
“Sure,” I said. What did she think, that I was genetically pro-
grammed to fry chicken? “What’s it pay?”
“Three twenty-five an hour. Plus your meals.”
“What am I even talking about? I’ve got this kid,” I said. “I’d
have to pay somebody more than that to take care of her.”
“Oh no! You could just do what I do, take her to Kid Central
Station.”
“You’ve got a kid?”
“Yeah, a little boy. Twenty-one months.”
I had thought Pittman was the only place on earth where
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people started having babies before they learned their multiplica-
tion tables. I asked her what Kid Central Station was.
“It’s free. See, it’s this place in the mall where they’ll look after
your kids while you shop, but how do they know? See what I
mean? The only thing is you have to go and check in every two
hours, to prove you’re still shopping, so I just dash over there on
my breaks. The number five bus just goes right straight there. Or
I’ll get some friend to go. The people that work there don’t know
the difference. I mean, they’ve got these jillion kids crawling all
over the place, how are they going to know if somebody’s really
one of ’em’s mother?”
Sandi was sliding the little white buckets of cauliflower and
shredded carrots and garbanzo beans into the holes in the salad
bar, getting ready for the lunch crowd. For some odd reason they
had artificial grapes strewed out over the ice all around the
buckets.
“I’ll go check it out,” I said, although I already had a good
notion of what it would be like.
“If you’re going right now, could you check in for my little
boy? His name’s Seattle. I’m sure he’s the only one there named
Seattle. Just make sure he’s okay, will you?”
“Like Seattle, Washington?”
“No, like Seattle Slew, the racehorse. He’s a little towhead,
you can’t miss him, he looks just like me only his hair’s blonder.
Oh, they have a requirement that they have to be able to walk.
Can your daughter walk?”
“Sure she walks. When there’s someplace she wants to go.”
A celery stick fell out of the bucket onto the floor, and Sandi
swiped it up and took a bite. “Well, I couldn’t very well let a cus-
tomer eat it,” she said.
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “It’s no skin off my teeth if you want
to eat the whole bucket of celery, and the artificial grapes besides.
For three twenty-five an hour I think you’re entitled.”
She munched kind of thoughtfully for a minute. Her eye-
lashes were stuck together with blue mascara and sprung out all
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around her eyes like flower petals. “You know, your little girl
doesn’t look a thing like you,” she said. “I mean, no offense, she’s
cute as a button.”
“She’s not really mine,” I said. “She’s just somebody I got
stuck with.”
Sandi looked at both of us, her elbow cocked on her hip and
the salad tongs frozen in midair. “Yeah, I know exactly what you
mean.”
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F O U R
Tug Fork Water
Lou Ann’s Grandmother Logan and Lou Ann’s new baby were
both asleep in the front room with the curtains drawn against the
afternoon heat. For the last two weeks Granny Logan had
stomped around the house snapping the curtains shut just as fast
as Lou Ann could open them, until finally Lou Ann gave up the
effort and they all moved around in the gloom of a dimly lit
house. “You’d think somebody had died, instead of just being
born,” Lou Ann complained, but the old woman declared that the
heat was unnatural for January and would cause the baby to grow
up measly and unwholesome.
When she woke up, Granny Logan would deny she had been
sleeping. She had said she only needed to rest her eyes for the
trip back to Kentucky, three days on the Greyhound.
In the kitchen Ivy Logan and Lou Ann were packing a paper
bag with baloney sandwiches and yellow apples and a Mason jar
of cold tea. Ivy’s heavy arms and apron-covered front moved
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around like she was the boss, even in her daughter’s unfamiliar
kitchen. Under her breath she hummed one line of a hymn, “All
our sins and griefs to bear,” over and over until Lou Ann thought
she would scream. It was an old habit.
Lou Ann pushed her damp blond hair back from her face and
told her mother she wished she would stay a few days more.
Whenever Ivy looked at her Lou Ann could feel the tired half-
moons under her own eyes.
“You haven’t hardly had time to say boo to Angel. He’ll have
Tuesday off and we could take the truck and all go someplace.
We could all fit in some way. Or otherwise I could stay here with
Dwayne Ray, and you all go. It’s a shame for you to come all this
way from home and not see what you can see.”
Surprisingly, Angel had agreed to move back in until after her
mother and grandmother’s visit. He might be hard to talk to and
unreasonable in every other way but at least, Lou Ann realized, he
knew the power of mothers and grandmothers. If Granny Logan
had known they were getting a divorce she would have had an
apoplectic. At the very least, she and Ivy would insist that Lou
Ann come back home.
“Oh, honey, we seen plenty from the bus,” Ivy said. “Them old
big cactus and every kind of thing. Lordy, and them big buildings
downtown, all glass it looked to me like. I expect we’ll see a good
sight more on the way home.”
“I guess, but it seems like we haven’t done a thing since you
got here but set around and look at the baby.”
“Well, that’s what we come for, honey. Now we’ve done
helped you have him, and get settled with him, and we’re anxious
to get on home. The heat puts Mother Logan in a mood.”
“I know it.” Lou Ann breathed in slowly through her nose. She
was beginning to believe that the hot, dry air in her chest might
be the poison her grandmother claimed it to be. “I wish I could
have put you up better than we did,” she said.
“You put us up just fine. You know her, it wouldn’t make no
difference if it was the Queen a Sheba a-putting us up, she’d be
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crosspatch. She just don’t sleep good out of her own bed.” Ivy
untied the borrowed apron and smoothed down the front of her
navy-blue dress. Lou Ann remembered the dress from about a
hundred church potluck suppers. Just the sight of it made her
feel stuffed with potato-chip casseroles and Coca-Cola cake.
“Mama,” she said, and then started over because her voice
was too low to hear. “Mama, when Daddy was alive . . .” She was
not sure what she meant to ask. Did you talk to each other? Was
he the person you saved things up to say to, or was it like now? A
houseful of women for everything, for company. Ivy was not look-
ing at her daughter but her hands were still, for once. “Did
Granny Logan always live with you, from the beginning?”
Ivy peered into the brown bag and then rolled the top down
tightly. “Not her with us. We lived with her.”
“Is that how you wanted it?” Lou Ann felt embarrassed.
“I guess I always thought it would have been something to go
off on our own, like you done. But there was so much work in
them days, no time for fun, and besides I’d of been scared to
death out someplace all by myself.”
“It wouldn’t be all by yourself. You would have been with
Daddy.”
“I s’pose,” Ivy said. “But we didn’t think about it that way.” She
turned back to the sink to wash her hands, then pulled the dish
towel down from the wooden ring over the sink, refolded it, and
hung it back up. “I want you to run on in there now and tell
Mother Logan we’ve got to get ready to go.”
Ivy and her mother-in-law were not speaking, on account of
one thing or another. Lou Ann could never keep track. She won-
dered what the trip would be like for them, all those days and
nights on the Greyhound. But they were sure to find some way of
having a conversation. In the past, in times of necessity, she had
seen her mother and grandmother address one another through
perfect strangers.
“Granny Logan.” Lou Ann put her hand gently on the old
woman’s shoulder, feeling the shoulder bones through the dark,
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slick cloth of her dress. At the same time she opened her eyes the
baby started to cry. “You have a nice catnap, Granny?” she asked,
hurrying to pick up the baby and bounce him on her hip. She
always thought he sounded like he was choking.
“It was just my eyes, needed a rest. I weren’t sleeping.” She
held tightly to the arms of the chair until she knew where she
was. “I told you, the heat’s done put that baby into a colic. He
needs a mustart plaster to draw out the heat.”
“Mama says tell you it’s time to get your grip packed. She says
you all are fixing to leave tonight.”
“My grip’s done packed.”
“All right then. You want a bite of supper before you go?”
“Why don’t you come on home with us, honey? You and the
baby.”
“Me and Angel and the baby, Granny. I’ve been married now for
practically five years, remember?” She felt like such a sneak, let-
ting on as though her marriage was just fine. It was like present-
ing her mother and grandmother with a pretty Christmas package
to take back with them, with nothing but tissue paper inside. She
had never lied to them before, that she could remember, but some-
thing in her would not let them be right about Angel.
“Angel’s got good work at the bottling plant,” she told Granny
Logan. This, at least, was true. “We like it here.”
“I don’t see how a body could like no place where it don’t rain.
Law, I’m parched. Get me a glass of water.”
“I’ll get it for you in a minute,” she said, switching the baby to
her other hip, knowing that in a minute Granny Logan would
have forgotten her request. “You get used to it. When we first
moved out I had sore throats all the time. I was scared to death
I’d caught throat cancer like that what’s her name on TV. You
know, that had to stop singing?” Lou Ann realized Granny Logan
wouldn’t know NBC from pinto beans. “But I turned out to be
fine, of course. And it don’t bother him one bit, does it?” She
crooked a finger under the baby’s chin and looked into the foggy
blue eyes. “Dwayne Ray’s a Tucson boy, aren’t you?”
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Lou Ann’s baby had not been born on Christmas, or even the
day after. He had come early on the morning of January 1, just
missing First Baby of the Year at St. Joseph’s Hospital by about
forty-five minutes. Lou Ann later thought that if she had just
pushed a little harder she might have gotten the year of free dia-
pers from Bottom Dollar Diaper Service. That was the prize. It
would have come in handy now that her washing-machine fund,
which was meager enough to begin with, had been parceled out
to all the neighborhood kids.
“I don’t see how a body can grow no tobaccy if it don’t rain,”
Granny Logan said.
“They don’t grow tobacco here. No crops hardly at all, just
factories and stuff, and tourists that come down here for the win-
ter. It’s real pretty out in the mountains. We could have showed
you, if you hadn’t had to go back so soon.” The baby coughed
again and she jiggled him up and down. “And it’s not usually this
hot in January, either. You heard it yourself, Granny, the man on
the radio saying it was the hottest January temperatures on
record.”
“You talk different. I knowed you was going to put on airs.”
“Granny, I do not.”
“Don’t talk back to me, child, you do. I can hear it. I expect
you’ll be persuadin’ the baby that his people’s just ignorant hill
folks.”
Ivy brought in the bags of food and her suitcase, which was
held together with a leather belt. Lou Ann recognized the belt as
one she had been whipped with years ago, when her father was
alive.
“Honey,” Ivy said, “tell Mother Logan not to start in on you
again. We’ve got to git.”
“Tell Ivy to mind her business and I’ll mind mine. Here, I
brung you something for the baby.” Granny Logan retrieved her
black velvet purse, purpled with age and wear around the clasp,
and rummaged through it with slow, swollen knuckles. Lou Ann
tried not to watch.
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After a minute the old woman produced a Coke bottle filled
with cloudy water. The bent metal cap had been pushed back on
and covered with cellophane, tied around and around with string.
Lou Ann shifted the baby onto her hip, pushed her hair behind
her ear, and took the bottle with her free hand. “What is it?”
“That’s Tug Fork water. For baptizing the baby.”
The water inside the bottle looked milky and cool. A fine
brown sediment stuck to the glass bottom when she tipped it
sideways.
“I remember when you was baptized in Tug Fork, you was just
a little old bit of a thing. And scared to death. When the reverend
went to dunk you over, you hollered right out. Law, I remember
that so good.”
“That’s good, Granny. You remember something I don’t.” Lou
Ann wondered how Granny Logan was picturing a baptism in one
bottle of water. Of course, the original plan had been to have
Dwayne Ray sprinkled as a Catholic, but Granny would die if she
knew that. And everything was up in the air now, anyway, with
Angel gone.
“Doll baby, I reckon we’re all set,” Ivy said. “Oh, I hate to go.
Let me hold my grandbaby again. You see he gets enough to eat
now, Lou Ann. I always had plenty of milk for you and your
brother, but you’re not as stout as I was. You never was a stout
girl. It’s not my fault you wouldn’t eat what I put down in front of
you.” She gave the baby a bounce on her pleated bosom. “Lordy
mercy, he’ll be all growed up before we see him again, I expect.”
“I’m as fat as a hog since I had him, Mama, and you know it.”
“Remember you have to use both sides. If you just nurse him
on one side you’ll go dry.”
“Don’t expect I’ll see him again a-tall,” Granny Logan grunted.
“Not his old great-grandmaw.”
“Mama, I wish you’d wait till Angel gets home and we could
drive you down to the station. You’re going to get all confused if
you try to take the bus. You’ve got to change downtown.” The way
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they had both managed to avoid Angel he might as well not have
moved back in.
“It’s a sin to be working on Sunday. He ought to be home with
his family on the Lord’s day,” Granny Logan said, and sighed. “I
guess I oughtn’t expect better from a heathern Mexican.”
“It’s shift work,” Lou Ann explained again. “He’s just got to go
in when they tell him to, and that’s that. And he’s not a heathen.
He was born right here in America, same as the rest of us.” Just
because he wasn’t baptized in some old dirty crick, Lou Ann
added in a voice way too low for Granny Logan to hear.
“Who tells him to?” the old woman demanded. Lou Ann
looked at her mother.
“We’ll manage, with the bus and all,” Ivy said.
“That don’t make it right, do it? Just because some other
heathern tells him to work on the Lord’s day?”
Lou Ann found a scrap of paper and wrote down the name of
the stop and the number of the bus they would have to take
downtown. Ivy handed back the baby and took the paper. She
looked at it carefully before she folded it twice, tucked it in her
purse, and began helping Granny Logan on with her coat.
“Granny, you’re not going to need that coat,” Lou Ann said. “I
swear it’s eighty degrees out there.”
“You’ll swear yourself to tarnation if you don’t watch out. Don’t
tell me I’m not going to need no coat, child. It’s January.” Her old
hand pawed the air for a few seconds before Ivy silently caught it
and corralled it in the heavy black sleeve.
“Lou Ann, honey, don’t let him play with that ink pen,” Ivy
said over her shoulder. “He’ll put his eyes out before he even gets
a good start in life.”
The baby was waving his fist vaguely in the direction of the
blue pen in Lou Ann’s breast pocket, although he couldn’t have
grabbed it or picked it up if his little life depended on it.
“All right, Mama,” Lou Ann said quietly. She wrapped the
baby in a thin blanket in spite of the heat because she knew one
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or the other of the two women would fuss if she didn’t. “Let me
help you with the stairs, Granny,” she said, but Granny Logan
brushed her hand away.
Heat waves rising from the pavement made the brown grass
and the palm tree trunks appear to wiggle above the sidewalk,
making Lou Ann think of cartoons she had seen of strange lands
where palm trees did the hula. They reached the little bus stop
with its concrete bench.
“Don’t sit on it,” she warned. “It’ll be hot as a poker in this
sun.” Granny Logan and Ivy stepped back from the bench like
startled children, and Lou Ann felt pleased that she was able to
tell them something they didn’t already know. The three women
stood beside the bench, all looking in the direction from which
the bus would come.
“Pew, don’t they make a stink,” Mother Logan said when the
bus arrived. Ivy put her arms around both Lou Ann and the baby,
then picked up the two bags and boarded the bus, lifting her feet
high for the two big steps. At the top she turned and reached
down for her mother-in-law, her sturdy, creased hand closing
around the old knuckles. The bus driver leaned on his elbows
over the steering wheel and stared ahead.
“I just wish you wasn’t so far away,” Ivy said as the doors
hissed together.
“I know,” she mouthed. “Wave bye to your great-grandmaw,”
Lou Ann told the baby, but they were on the wrong side to see.
She imagined herself running after the bus and banging on
the door, the bus driver letting her climb up and settle herself and
the baby onto the wide seat between her mother and grand-
mother. “Tell your mother to hand me that jar of tea,” Granny
Logan would say to her. “I’ll be dry as a old stick fence before we
get back to Kentucky.”
One block down and across the street, old Bobby Bingo sold
vegetables out of his dilapidated truck. Lou Ann had been
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tempted by his tomatoes, which looked better than the hard
pink ones at the grocery; those didn’t seem like tomatoes at all,
but some sickly city fruit maybe grown inside a warehouse. She
had finally collected the nerve to ask how much they cost and
was surprised that they were less than grocery tomatoes. On her
way home she made up her mind to buy some more.
“Hi, tomato lady,” Bingo said. “I remember you.”
She flushed. “Are they still forty-five a pound?”
“No, fifty-five. End of the season.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “It’s still a good price.” She looked at
every one in the box and picked out six, handing them to the old
man one at a time with her free hand. With her other hand she
adjusted the baby on her hip taking extra care, as she had been
instructed, to support his wobbly head. “Your tomatoes are the
first good ones I’ve had since back home.” She felt her heart do
something strange when she said “back home.”
Bobby Bingo had skin like a baked potato. A complete veg-
etable man, Lou Ann thought, though she couldn’t help liking him.
He squinted at her. “You’re not from here? I didn’t think so.”
He shook out a wad of odd-sized plastic bags, chose one with red
letters on it, and bagged the tomatoes. “Seventy-five,” he said,
weighing them up and down in his hand before he put them on
the scales. “And an apple for Johnny,” he said, picking out a red
apple and shaking it at the baby.
“His name’s Dwayne Ray, and he thanks you very much I’m
sure but he don’t have any teeth yet.” Lou Ann laughed. She was
embarrassed, but it felt so good to laugh that she was afraid next
she would cry.
“That’s good,” Bingo said. “Soon as they get teeth, they start to
bite. You know my boy?”
Lou Ann shook her head.
“Sure you do. He’s on TV every night, he sells cars. He’s a real
big guy in cars.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t have a TV. My husband took it to his
new apartment.” She couldn’t believe, after deceiving her own
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mother and grandmother for two entire weeks, that she was
admitting to a complete stranger on the street that her marriage
had failed.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Makes me sick
every time he comes on. Don’t even call himself by his own
name—‘Bill Bing’ he says. ‘Come on down to Bill Bing Cadillac,’
he says. ‘Bill Bing has just the thing.’ I always wanted him to be a
real big guy, you know. Well, look at him now. He don’t even eat
vegetables. If he was here right now he would tell you he don’t
know who I am. ‘Get rid of that old truck,’ he says to me. ‘What
you need to sell this garbage for? I could buy you a house in
Beverly Hills right now,’ he says to me. ‘What?’ I tell him. ‘You
crazy? Beverly Hills? Probably they don’t even eat vegetables in
Beverly Hills, just Alaska King Crab and bread sticks!’ I tell him.
‘You want to make me happy, you give me a new Cadillac and I
can sell my vegetables out of the trunk.’ ” Bingo shook his head.
“You want grapes? Good grapes this week.”
“No, just the tomatoes.” She handed him three quarters.
“Here, take the grapes. Johnny can eat the grapes. Seedless.”
He put them in the bag with the tomatoes. “Let me tell you
something, tomato lady. Whatever you want the most, it’s going to
be the worst thing for you.”
Back at the house she laid down the baby for his nap, then
carefully washed the produce and put it in the refrigerator, all
the while feeling her mother’s eyes on her hands. “The worst
thing for you,” she kept repeating under her breath until she
annoyed herself. She moved around the edges of the rooms as
though her big mother and demanding grandmother were still
there taking up most of the space; the house felt both empty
and cramped at the same time, and Lou Ann felt a craving for
something she couldn’t put a finger on, maybe some kind of
food she had eaten a long time ago. She opened the curtains in
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the front room to let in the light. The sky was hard and bright,
not a blue sky full of water. Strangely enough, it still surprised
her sometimes to open that window and not see Kentucky.
She noticed the Coke bottle sitting on the low wooden bureau
along with two of Granny Logan’s hairpins. The old-fashioned
hairpins gave her a sad, spooky feeling. Once she had found a
pair of her father’s work gloves in the tobacco barn, still molded
to the curved shape of his hands, long after he was dead.
The bottle had leaked a wet ring on the wood, which Lou Ann
tried to wipe up with the hem of her jumper. She was concerned
about it staining, since the furniture wasn’t actually hers. The
house had come furnished. She thought for a long time about
what to do with the bottle and finally set it on the glass shelf of
the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.
Later, while she was nursing the baby in the front room, she
closed her eyes and tried to remember being baptized in Tug
Fork. She could see the child in a white dress, her sunburned
arms stiff at the elbows, and could hear her cry out as she went
over backwards, but she could not feel that child’s terror as the
knees buckled and the green water closed over the face. The
strong light from the window took on a watery look behind her
closed eyelids and she could see it all perfectly. But couldn’t feel
it. She thought of her mother and automatically switched the
baby to her other breast.
She was still nursing when Angel came home. She opened her
eyes. The late-afternoon light on the mountains made them look
pink and flat like a picture postcard.
She heard Angel in the kitchen. He moved around in there for
quite a while before he said anything to Lou Ann, and it struck
her that his presence was different from the feeling of women fill-
ing up the house. He could be there, or not, and it hardly made
any difference. Like a bug or a mouse scratching in the cup-
boards at night—you could get up and chase after it, or just go
back to sleep and let it be. This was good, she decided.
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When he came into the front room she could hear the jingle
of his leg.
“They gone?” he asked behind her.
“Yes.”
“I’m packing my shaving stuff,” he said. Angel had a mous-
tache but shaved the rest of his face often, sometimes twice a
day. “Did you see my belt buckle? The silver one with the
sheepshank on it?” he asked her.
“The what on it?”
“Sheepshank. It’s a rope tied in a knot.”
“Oh. I wondered what that was on there.”
“So did you see it?”
“No. Not lately, I mean.”
“What about my Toros cap?”
“Is that the blue one?”
“Yeah.”
“You left that in Manny Quiroz’s car. Remember?”
“Damn it, Manny moved to San Diego.”
“Well, I can’t help it. That’s what you did with it.”
“Damn.”
He was standing close enough behind her so she could smell
the faint, sweet smell of beer on his breath. It was a familiar
smell, but today it made Lou Ann wonder about bars and the
bottling plant and the other places Angel went every day that
she had never seen. She turned her head in time to watch him
leave the room, his work shirt rolled up at the elbows and dirty
from doing something all day, she did not know exactly what.
For a brief instant, no longer than a heartbeat, it felt strange to
be living in the same house with this person who was not even
related to her.
But of course he’s related. He’s my husband. Was my hus-
band.
“What the hell is this?” he called from the bathroom.
She leaned back in the rocking chair where she sat facing east
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out the big window. “It’s water from Tug Fork, the crick at home
that I was baptized in. Me and I guess practically everybody else
in my family. Granny Logan brought it for baptizing Dwayne Ray.
Wouldn’t you know she’d bring something weird like that?”
She heard the chugging sound of the water as he poured it
down the drain. The baby’s sucking at her felt good, as if he might
suck the ache right out of her breast.
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F I V E
Harmonious Space
The Republic Hotel was near the exact spot where the railroad
track, which at one time functioned as a kind of artery, punctured
Tucson’s old, creaky chest cavity and prepared to enter the com-
plicated auricles and ventricles of the railroad station. In the old
days I suppose it would have been bringing the city a fresh load
of life, like a blood vessel carrying platelets to circulate through
the lungs. Nowadays, if you could even call the railroad an artery
of Tucson, you would have to say it was a hardened one.
At the point where it entered the old part of downtown, the
train would slow down and let out a long, tired scream. Whether
the whistle was for warning the cars at the crossings up ahead, or
just letting the freeloaders know it was time to roll out of the box-
cars, I can’t say. But it always happened very near six-fifteen, and
I came to think of it as my alarm clock.
Sometimes the sound of it would get tangled up into a dream.
I would hear it whistling through my sleep for what seemed like
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days while I tried to lift a heavy teakettle off a stove or, once,
chased a runaway horse that was carrying off Turtle while she
hollered bloody murder (something I had yet to hear her do in
real life). Finally the sound would push out through my eyes and
there was the daylight. There were the maroon paisley curtains
made from an Indian bedspread, there was the orange-brown
stain on the porcelain sink where the faucet dripped, there was
the army cot where Turtle was asleep, safe and sound in the
Republic Hotel. Some mornings it was like that.
On other days I would wake up before the whistle ever
sounded and just lie there waiting, feeling that my day couldn’t
begin without it. Lately it had been mostly this second way.
We were in trouble. I lasted six days at the Burger Derby
before I got in a fight with the manager and threw my red so-
called jockey cap in the trash compactor and walked out. I would
have thrown the whole uniform in there, but I didn’t feel like giv-
ing him a free show.
I won’t say that working there didn’t have its moments. When
Sandi and I worked the morning shift together we’d have a ball. I
would tell her all kinds of stories I’d heard about horse farms,
such as the fact that the really high-strung horses had TVs in
their stalls. It was supposed to lower their blood pressure.
“Their favorite show is old reruns of Mr. Ed,” I would tell her
with a poker face.
“No! You’re kidding. Are you kidding me?”
“And they hate the commercials for Knox gelatin.”
She was easy to tease, but I had to give her credit, considering
that life had delivered Sandi a truckload of manure with no return
address. The father of her baby had told everyone that Sandi was
an admitted schizophrenic and had picked his name out of the
high school yearbook when she found out she was pregnant. Soon
afterward the boy’s father got transferred from Tucson and the
whole family moved to Oakland, California. Sandi’s mother had
made her move out, and she lived with her older sister Aimee,
who was born again and made her pay rent. In Aimee’s opinion it
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would have been condoning sin to let Sandi and her illegitimate
son stay there for free.
But nothing really seemed to throw Sandi. She knew all about
things like how to rub an ice cube on kids’ gums when they were
teething, and where to get secondhand baby clothes for practi-
cally nothing. We would take turns checking on Turtle and
Seattle, and at the end of our shift we’d go over to the mall
together to pick them up. “I don’t know,” she’d say real loud, ham-
ming it up while we waited in line at Kid Central Station. “I can’t
decide if I want that La-Z-boy recliner in the genuine leather or
the green plaid with the stainproof finish.” “Take your time decid-
ing,” I’d say. “Sleep on it and come back tomorrow.”
Turtle would be sitting wherever I had set her down that
morning, with each hand locked onto some ratty, punked-out
stuffed dog or a torn book or another kid’s jacket and her eyes
fixed on some empty point in the air, just the way a cat will do.
It’s as though they live in a separate universe that takes up the
same space as ours, but is full of fascinating things like mice or
sparrows or special TV programs that we can’t see.
Kid Central Station was not doing Turtle any good. I knew
that.
After six days the Burger Derby manager Jerry Speller, this lit-
tle twerp who believed that the responsibility of running a burger
joint put you a heartbeat away from Emperor of the Universe,
said I didn’t have the right attitude, and I told him he was exactly
right. I said I had to confess I didn’t have the proper reverence for
the Burger Derby institution, and to prove it I threw my hat into
the Mighty Miser and turned it on. Sandi was so impressed she
burned the french fries twice in a row.
The fight had been about the Burger Derby uniform. The
shorts weren’t actually plastic, it turned out, but cotton-polyester
with some kind of shiny finish that had to be dry-cleaned. Three
twenty-five an hour plus celery and you’re supposed to pay for
dry-cleaning your own shorts.
My one regret was that I didn’t see much of Sandi anymore.
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Naturally I had to find a new place to eat breakfast. There were
half a dozen coffeeshops in the area, and although I didn’t really
feel at home in any of them I discovered a new resource: news-
papers. On the tables, along with their gritty coffee cups and
orange rinds and croissant crumbs, people often left behind the
same day’s paper.
There was a lady named Jessie with wild white hair and floppy
rainboots who would dash into the restaurants and scrounge the
leftover fruit and melon rinds. “It’s not to eat,” she would explain
to any- and everybody as she clumped along the sidewalk push-
ing an interesting-smelling shopping cart that had at some point
in history belonged to Safeway. “It’s for still-lifes.” She told me she
painted nothing but madonnas: Orange-peel madonna. Madonna
and child with strawberries. Together we made a sort of mop-up
team. I nabbed the newspapers, and she took the rest.
Looking through the want ads every day gave new meaning to
my life. The For Rents, on the other hand, were a joke as far as I
was concerned, but often there would be ads looking for room-
mates, a possibility I hadn’t considered. I would circle anything
that looked promising, although people seemed unbelievably
picky about who they intended to live with:
“Mature, responsible artist or grad student wanted for cooper-
ative household; responsibilities shared, sensitivity a must.”
“Female vegetarian nonsmoker to share harmonious space
with insightful Virgo and cat.”
I began to suspect that sharing harmonious space with an
insightful Virgo might require even greater credentials than being
a licensed phlebotomist in the state of Arizona.
The main consideration, though, was whether or not I could
locate the address on my Sun-Tran maps of all the various bus
routes. At the end of the week I made up my mind to check out a
couple of possibilities. One ad said, among other things, “Must be
open to new ideas.” The other said, “New mom needs company.
Own room, low rent, promise I won’t bother you. Kids ok.” The first
sounded like an adventure, and the second sounded like I wouldn’t
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have to pass a test. I put on a pair of stiff, clean jeans and braided
my hair and gave Turtle a bath in the sink. She had acquired clothes
of her own by now, but just for old time’s sake I put her in my DAMN
I’M GOOD T-shirt from Kentucky Lake. Just for luck.
Both places were near downtown. The first was a big old
ramshackle house with about twelve kinds of wind chimes hang-
ing on the front porch. One was made from the silver keys of
some kind of musical instrument like a flute or clarinet, and even
Turtle seemed interested in it. A woman came to the door before
I even knocked.
She let me inside and called out, “The prospective’s here.”
Three silver earrings—a half moon, a star, and a grinning sun—
dangled from holes in her left ear so that she clinked when she
walked like some human form of wind chime. She was barefoot
and had on a skirt that reminded me of the curtains in my room
at the Republic. There was no actual furniture in the room, only
a colorful rug and piles of pillows here and there, so I waited to
see what she would do. She nested herself into one of the piles,
flouncing her skirt out over her knees. I noticed that she had thin
silver rings on four of her toes.
Another woman came out of the kitchen door, through which
I was relieved to see a table and chairs. A tall, thin guy with a
hairless chest hunkered in another doorway for a minute, rubbing
a head of orange hair that looked like a wet cat. He had on only
those beachcomber-type pants held up by a fake rope. I really
couldn’t tell how old these people were. I kept expecting a parent
to show up in another doorway and tell Beach Blanket Bingo to
put on his shirt, but then they could have been older than me.
We all settled down on the pillows.
“I’m Fay,” the toe-ring woman said, “spelled F-E-I, and this is
La-Isha and that’s Timothy. You’ll have to excuse Timothy; he
used caffeine yesterday and now his homeostasis is out of bal-
ance.” I presumed they were talking about his car, although I was
not aware of any automotive uses for caffeine.
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“That’s too bad,” I said. “I wouldn’t do anything with caffeine
but drink it.”
They all stared at me for a while.
“Oh. I’m Taylor. This is Turtle.”
“Turtle. Is that a spirit name?” La-Isha asked.
“Sure,” I said.
La-Isha was thick-bodied, with broad bare feet and round
calves. Her dress was a sort of sarong, printed all over with black
and orange elephants and giraffes, and she had a jungly-looking
scarf wrapped around her head. And to think they used to stare at
me for wearing red and turquoise together. Drop these three in
Pittman County and people would run for cover.
F-E-I took charge of the investigation. “Would the child be liv-
ing here too?”
“Right. We’re a set.”
“That’s cool, I have no problem with small people,” she said.
“La-Isha, Timothy?”
“It’s not really what I was thinking in terms of, but I can see it
happening. I’m flex on children,” La-Isha said, after giving it some
thought. Timothy said he thought the baby was cute, asked if it
was a boy or a girl.
“A girl,” I said, but I was drowned out by Fei saying, “Timothy,
I really don’t see that that’s an issue here.” She said to me,
“Gender is not an issue in this house.”
“Oh,” I said. “Whatever.”
“What does she eat?” La-Isha wanted to know.
“Mainly whatever she can get her hands on. She had half a
hot dog with mustard for breakfast.”
There was another one of those blank spells in the conversa-
tion. Turtle was grumpily yanking at a jingle bell on the corner of
a pillow, and I was beginning to feel edgy myself. All those knees
and chins at the same level. It reminded me of an extremely long
movie I had once seen about an Arabian sheik. Maybe La-Isha is
Arabian, I thought, though she looked very white, with blond hair
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on her arms and pink rims around her eyes. Possibly an albino
Arabian. I realized she was giving a lecture of some kind.
“At least four different kinds of toxins,” she was saying, more
to the room in general than to me. Her pink-rimmed eyes were
starting to look inflamed. “In a hot dog.” Now she was definitely
talking to me. “Were you aware of that?”
“I would have guessed seven or eight,” I said.
“Nitrites,” said Timothy. He was gripping his head between
his palms, one on the chin and one on top, and bending it from
side to side until you could hear a little pop. I began to under-
stand about the unbalanced homeostasis.
“We eat mainly soybean products here,” Fei said. “We’re just
starting a soy-milk collective. A house requirement is that each
person spend at least seven hours a week straining curd.”
“Straining curd,” I said. I wanted to say, Flaming nurd.
Raining turds. It isn’t raining turds, you know, it’s raining violets.
“Yes,” Fei went on in this abnormally calm voice that made me
want to throw a pillow at her. “I guess the child . . .”
“Turtle,” I said.
“I guess Turtle would be exempt. But we would have to make
adjustments for that in the kitchen quota. . . .”
I had trouble concentrating. La-Isha kept narrowing her eyes
and trying to get Fei’s attention. I remembered Mrs. Hoge with
her shakes, always looking like she was secretly saying, “Don’t do
it” to somebody behind you.
“So tell us about you,” Fei said eventually. I snapped out of my
daydreams, feeling like a kid in school that’s just been called on.
“What kind of a space are you envisioning for yourself?” she
wanted to know. Those were her actual words.
“Oh, Turtle and I are flex,” I said. “Right now we’re staying
downtown at the Republic. I jockeyed fried food at the Burger
Derby for a while, but I got fired.”
La-Isha went kind of stiff on that one. I imagined all the little
elephants on her shift getting stung through the heart with a tiny
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stun gun. Timothy was trying to get Turtle’s attention by making
faces, so far with no luck.
“Usually little kids are into faces,” he informed me. “She
seems kind of spaced out.”
“She makes up her own mind about what she’s into.”
“She sure has a lot of hair,” he said. “How old is she?”
“Eighteen months,” I said. It was a wild guess.
“She looks very Indian.”
“Native American,” Fei corrected him. “She does. Is her father
Native American?”
“Her great-great-grandpa was full-blooded Cherokee,” I said.
“On my side. Cherokee skips a generation, like red hair. Didn’t
you know that?”
The second house on my agenda turned out to be right across
the park from Jesus Is Lord’s. It belonged to Lou Ann Ruiz.
Within ten minutes Lou Ann and I were in the kitchen drink-
ing diet Pepsi and splitting our gussets laughing about homeosta-
sis and bean turds. We had already established that our
hometowns in Kentucky were separated by only two counties,
and that we had both been to the exact same Bob Seger concert
at the Kentucky State Fair my senior year.
“So then what happened?” Lou Ann had tears in her eyes. I
hadn’t really meant to put them down, they seemed like basically
good kids, but it just got funnier as it went along.
“Nothing happened. In their own way, they were so polite it
was pathetic. I mean, it was plain as day they thought Turtle was
a dimwit and I was from some part of Mars where they don’t have
indoor bathrooms, but they just kept on asking things like would
I like some alfalfa tea?” I had finally told them no thanks, that
we’d just run along and envision ourselves in some other space.
Lou Ann showed me the rest of the house except for her
room, where the baby was asleep. Turtle and I would have our
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own room, plus the screened-in back porch if we wanted it. She
said it was great to sleep out there in the summer. We had to
whisper around the house so we wouldn’t wake the baby.
“He was just born in January,” Lou Ann said when we were
back in the kitchen. “How old’s yours?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t even know. She’s adopted.”
“Well, didn’t they tell you all that stuff when you adopted her?
Didn’t she come with a birth certificate or something?”
“It wasn’t an official adoption. Somebody just kind of gave her
to me.”
“You mean like she was left on your doorstep in a basket?”
“Exactly. Except it was in my car, and there wasn’t any basket.
Now that I think about it, there should have at least been a bas-
ket. Indians make good baskets. She’s Indian.”
“Wasn’t there even a note? How do you know her name’s
Turtle?”
“I don’t. I named her that. It’s just temporary until I can figure
out what her real name is. I figure I’ll hit on it sooner or later.”
Turtle was in a high chair of Lou Ann’s that must have been
way too big for a kid born in January. On the tray there were
decals of Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy, which Turtle was slap-
ping with her hands. There was nothing there for her to grab. I
picked her up out of the chair and hefted her onto my shoulder,
where she could reach my braid. She didn’t pull it, she just held
on to it like a lifeline. This was one of our normal positions.
“I can’t get over it,” Lou Ann said, “that somebody would just
dump her like an extra puppy.”
“Yeah, I know. I think it was somebody that cared for her,
though, if you can believe it. Turtle was having a real rough time.
I don’t know if she would have made it where she was.” A fat gray
cat with white feet was sleeping on the windowsill over the sink.
Or so I thought, until all of a sudden it jumped down and
streaked out of the kitchen. Lou Ann had her back to the door,
but I could see the cat in the next room. It was walking around in
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circles on the living-room rug, kicking its feet behind it again and
again, throwing invisible sand over invisible cat poop.
“You wouldn’t believe what your cat is doing,” I said.
“Oh yes, I would,” Lou Ann said. “He’s acting like he just
went potty, right?”
“Right. But he didn’t, as far as I can see.”
“Oh, no, he never does. I think he has a split personality. The
good cat wakes up and thinks the bad cat has just pooped on the
rug. See, we got him as a kitty and I named him Snowboots but
Angel thought that was a stupid name so he always called him
Pachuco instead. Then a while back, before Dwayne Ray was born,
he started acting that way. Angel’s my ex-husband, by the way.”
It took some effort here to keep straight who was cats and
who was husbands.
Lou Ann went on. “So just the other day I read in a magazine
that a major cause of split personality is if two parents treat a kid
in real different ways, like one all the time tells the kid it’s good
and the other one says it’s bad. It gives them this idea they have
to be both ways at once.”
“That’s amazing,” I said. “Your cat ought to be in Ripley’s
Believe It or Not. Or one of those magazine columns where peo-
ple write in and tell what cute things their pets do, like parakeets
that whistle Dixie or cats that will only sleep on a certain towel
with pictures of goldfish on it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want anyone to know about Snowboots, it’s
too embarrassing. It’s just about proof-positive that he’s from a
broken home, don’t you think?”
“What does Pachuco mean?”
“It means like a bad Mexican boy. One that would go around
spray-painting walls and join a gang.”
Pachuco alias Snowboots was still going at it in the living room.
“Seriously,” I said, “you should send it in. They’d probably pay good
money—it’s unbelievable what kinds of things you can get paid for.
Or at the very least they’d send you a free case of cat chow.”
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“I almost won a year of free diapers for Dwayne Ray. Dwayne
Ray’s my son.”
“Oh. What does he do?”
Lou Ann laughed. “Oh, he’s normal. The only one in the
house, I guess. Do you want some more Pepsi?” She got up to
refill our glasses. “So did you drive out here, or fly, or what?”
I told her that driving across the Indian reservation was how
I’d ended up with Turtle. “Our paths would never have crossed if
it weren’t for a bent rocker arm.”
“Well, if something had to go wrong, at least you can thank
your stars you were in a car and not an airplane,” she said, whack-
ing an ice-cube tray on the counter. I felt Turtle flinch on my
shoulder.
“I never thought of it that way,” I said.
“I could never fly in an airplane. Oh Lord, never! Remember
that one winter when a plane went right smack dab into that frozen
river in Washington, D.C.? On TV I saw them pulling the bodies
out frozen stiff with their knees and arms bent like those little plas-
tic cowboys that are supposed to be riding horses, but then when
you lose the horse they’re useless. Oh, God, that was so pathetic.
I can just hear the stewardess saying, ‘Fasten your seat belts, folks,’
calm as you please, like ‘Don’t worry, we just have to say this,’ and
then next thing you know you’re a hunk of ice. Oh, shoot, there’s
Dwayne Ray just woke up from his nap. Let me go get him.”
I did remember that airplane crash. On TV they showed the
rescue helicopter dropping down a rope to save the only surviving
stewardess from an icy river full of dead people. I remember just
how she looked hanging on to that rope. Like Turtle.
In a minute Lou Ann came back with the baby. “Dwayne Ray,
here’s some nice people I want you to meet. Say hi.”
He was teeny, with skin you could practically see through. It
reminded me of the Visible Man we’d had in Hughes Walter’s
biology class. “He’s adorable,” I said.
“Do you think so, really? I mean, I love him to death of
course, but I keep thinking his head’s flat.”
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“They all are. They start out that way, and then after a while
their foreheads kind of pop out.”
“Really? I never knew that. They never told me that.”
“Sure. I used to work in a hospital. I saw a lot of newborns
coming and going, and every one of them’s head was flat as a
shovel.”
She made a serious face and fussed with the baby for a while
without saying anything.
“So what do you think?” I finally said. “Is it okay if we move in?”
“Sure!” Her wide eyes and the way she held her baby
reminded me for a minute of Sandi. The lady downtown could
paint either one of them: “Bewildered Madonna with Sunflower
Eyes.” “Of course you can move in,” she said. “I’d love it. I wasn’t
sure if you’d want to.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to?”
“Well, my gosh, I mean, here you are, so skinny and smart and
cute and everything, and me and Dwayne Ray, well, we’re just
lumping along here trying to get by. When I put that ad in the
paper, I thought, Well, this is sure four dollars down the toilet;
who in the world would want to move in here with us?”
“Stop it, would you? Quit making everybody out to be better
than you are. I’m just a plain hillbilly from East Jesus Nowhere
with this adopted child that everybody keeps on telling me is
dumb as a box of rocks. I’ve got nothing on you, girl. I mean it.”
Lou Ann hid her mouth with her hand.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.” I could see perfectly well that she was smiling.
“Come on, what is it?”
“It’s been so long,” she said. “You talk just like me.”
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S I X
Valentine’s Day
The first killing frost of the winter came on Valentine’s Day.
Mattie’s purple bean vines hung from the fence like long strips of
beef jerky drying in the sun. It broke my heart to see that colorful
jungle turned to black slime, especially on this of all days when
people everywhere were sending each other flowers, but it didn’t
faze Mattie. “That’s the cycle of life, Taylor,” she said. “The old
has to pass on before the new can come around.” She said frost
improved the flavor of the cabbage and Brussels sprouts. But I
think she was gloating. The night before, she’d listened to the
forecast and picked a mop bucket full of hard little marbles off
the tomato vines, and this morning she had green-tomato pies
baking upstairs. I know this sounds like something you’d no more
want to eat than a mud-and-Junebug pie some kid would whip
up, but it honestly smelled delicious.
I had taken a job at Jesus Is Lord Used Tires.
If there had been any earthly way around this, I would have
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found it. I loved Mattie, but you know about me and tires. Every
time I went to see her and check on the car I felt like John
Wayne in that war movie where he buckles down his helmet,
takes a swig of bourbon, and charges across the minefield yelling
something like “Live Free or Bust!”
But Mattie was the only friend I had that didn’t cost a mint in
long distance to talk to, until Lou Ann of course. So when she
started telling me how she needed an extra hand around the place
I just tried to change the subject politely. She had a lot of part-
time help, she said, but when people came and went they didn’t
have time to get the knack of things like patching and alignments.
I told her I had no aptitude whatsoever for those things, and was
that a real scorpion on that guy’s belt buckle that was just in here?
Did she think we’d get another frost? How did they stitch all
those fancy loops and stars on a cowboy boot, was there a special
kind of heavy-duty sewing machine?
But there was no steering Mattie off her course. She was pos-
itive I’d be a natural at tires. She chatted with me and Turtle
between customers, and then sent us on our way with a grocery
bag full of cabbage and peas, saying, “Just think about it, hon. Put
it in your swing-it-till-Monday basket.”
When Mattie said she’d throw in two new tires and would
show me how to fix my ignition, I knew I’d be a fool to say no.
She paid twice as much as the Burger Derby, and of course there
was no ridiculous outfit to be dry-cleaned. If I was going to get
blown up, at least it would be in normal clothes.
In many ways it was a perfect arrangement. You couldn’t ask
for better than Mattie. She was patient and kind and let me bring
Turtle in with me when I needed to. Lou Ann kept her some
days, but if she had to go out shopping or to the doctor, one baby
was two hands full. I felt a little badly about foisting her off on
Lou Ann at all, but she insisted that Turtle was so little trouble
she often forgot she was there. “She doesn’t even hardly wet her
diapers,” Lou Ann said. It was true. Turtle’s main goal in life,
other than hanging on to things, seemed to be to pass unnoticed.
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Mattie’s place was always hopping. She was right about peo-
ple always passing through, and not just customers, either. There
was another whole set of people who spoke Spanish and lived
with her upstairs for various lengths of time. I asked her about
them once, and she asked me something like had I ever heard of
a sanctuary.
I remembered my gas-station travel brochures. “Sure,” I said.
“It’s a place they set aside for birds, where nobody’s allowed to
shoot them.”
“That’s right. They’ve got them for people too.” This was all
she was inclined to say on the subject.
Usually the people were brought and taken away by the blue-
jeans priest in the station wagon I’d seen that first day. He also
wore an interesting belt buckle, not with a scorpion but with an
engraving of a small stick figure lost in a kind of puzzle. Mattie
said it was an Indian symbol of life: the man in the maze. The
priest was short, with a muscular build and white-blond, unruly
hair, not really my type but handsome in a just-rolled-out-of-bed
kind of way, though I suppose that saying such things about a
priest must be some special category of sin. His name was Father
William.
When Mattie introduced us I said, “Pleased to meet you,”
making an effort not to look at his belt buckle. What had popped
into my head was “You are old, Father William.” Now where did
that come from? He was hardly old, and even if he were, this isn’t
something you’d say.
He and Mattie went to the back of the shop to discuss some-
thing over coffee and pie while I held down the fort. It came to
me a little later while I was testing a stack of old whitewalls,
dunking them in the water and marking a yellow chalk circle
around each leak. I remembered three drawings of a little round
man: first standing on his head, then balancing an eel straight up
on his nose, then kicking a boy downstairs. “You Are Old, Father
William” was a poem in a book I’d had as a child. It had crayon
scribbles on some pages, so it must have been a donation from
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one of Mama’s people whose children had grown up. Only a rich
child would be allowed to scribble in a hardback book.
I decided that after work I would go down to one of Sandi’s
New To You toy stores and find a book for Turtle. New To You was
just like Mama’s people, only you had more choice about what
you got.
After I had marked all the tires I rolled them across the lot
and stacked them into leaky and good piles. I congratulated
myself on my steady hand, but later in the day Mattie saw me
jump when some hot-dog Chevy backfired out in the street. She
was with a customer, but later she came over and said she’d been
meaning to ask what I was always so jumpy about. I thought of
that column in Reader’s Digest where you write in and tell your
most embarrassing moment. Those were all cute: “The Day My
Retriever Puppy Retrieved the Neighbor’s Lingerie Off the
Clothes Line.” In real life, your most embarrassing moment is the
last thing in the world you would want printed in Reader’s Digest.
“Nothing,” I said.
We stood for a minute with our hands folded into our armpits.
Mattie’s gray bangs were more salt than they were pepper, cut
high and straight across, and her skin always looked a little sun-
burned. The wrinkles around her eyes reminded me of her Tony
Lama boots.
Mattie was like a rock in the road. You could stare at her till
the cows came home, but it wouldn’t budge the fact of her one
inch.
“Just don’t tell me you’re running from the law,” she said
finally. “I’ve got enough of that on my hands.”
“No.” I wondered what exactly she meant by that. Out on the
street a boy coasted by on a bicycle, his elbow clamped over a
large framed picture of a sportscar. “I have a fear of exploding
tires,” I said.
“Well, of all things,” she said.
“I know. I didn’t ever tell you because it sounds chickenshit.”
I stopped to consider if you ought to say “chickenshit” in a place
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called Jesus Is Lord’s, but then the damage was done. “Really it’s
not like it sounds. I don’t think there’s a thing you could name
that I’m afraid of, other than that.”
“Of all things,” she said again. I imagined that she was look-
ing at me the way you do when you first notice someone is
deformed. In sixth grade we had a new teacher for three weeks
before we realized his left hand was missing. He always kept his
hanky over it. We’d just thought it was allergies.
“Come over here a minute,” Mattie said. “I’ll show you some-
thing.” I followed her across the lot. She took a five-gallon jerry
can, the type that Jeeps have strapped on their backs, and filled
it a little better than halfway up with water.
“Whoa!” I said. While I wasn’t paying attention she’d thrown
the heavy can at me. I caught it, though it came near to bowling
me over.
“Knocked the wind out of you, but it didn’t kill you, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“That’s twenty-eight pounds of water. Twenty-eight pounds of
air is about what you put in a tire. When it hits you, that’s what it
feels like.”
“If you say so,” I said. “But I saw a guy get blown up in the air
once by a tire. All the way over the Standard Oil sign. It was a
tractor tire.”
“Well that’s another whole can of beans,” Mattie said. “If we
get a tractor tire in here, I’ll handle it.”
I had never thought of tire explosions in relative terms, though
it stood to reason that some would be worse than others. By no
means did this put my fears to rest, but still I felt better some-
how. What the hell. Live free or bust.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll handle it together, how’s that?”
“That’s a deal, hon.”
“Can I put this down now?”
“Sure, put it down.” She said it in a serious way, as if the can
of water were some important damaged auto part we’d been dis-
cussing. I blessed Mattie’s soul for never laughing at any point in
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this conversation. “Better yet,” she said, “pour it out on those
sweet peas.”
There was a whole set of things I didn’t understand about
plants, such as why hadn’t the sweet peas been killed by the
frost? The same boy sped by again on his bike, or possibly a dif-
ferent boy. This time he had a bunch of roses in a white paper
funnel tucked under his arm. While the water glugged out over
the sweet peas I noticed Mattie looking at me with her arms
crossed. Just watching. I missed Mama so much my chest hurt.
Turtle had managed to get through her whole life without a
book, I suppose, and then had two of them bought for her in
one day. I got her one called Old MacDonald Had an Apartment
House, which showed pictures of Old MacDonald growing cel-
ery in windowboxes and broccoli in the bathtub and carrots
under the living-room rug. Old MacDonald’s downstairs neigh-
bors could see the carrots popping down through the ceiling. I
bought it because it reminded me of Mattie, and because it had
stiff pages that I hoped might stand up to Turtle’s blood-out-of-
turnips grip.
While I was downtown I also looked for a late Valentine’s card
to send Mama. I still felt kind of awful about leaving her, and
changing my name just seemed like the final act of betrayal, but
Mama didn’t see it that way. She said I was smarter than anything
to think of Taylor, that it fit me like a pair of washed jeans. She
told me she’d always had second thoughts about Marietta.
I found just the right card to send her. On the cover there
were hearts, and it said, “Here’s hoping you’ll soon have some-
thing big and strong around the house to open those tight jar
lids.” Inside was a picture of a pipe wrench.
Lou Ann, meanwhile, had bought one of those name-your-
baby books in the grocery checkout line. When I came home she
had it propped open on the stove and was calling out names from
the girl section while she made dinner. Both Turtle and Dwayne
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Ray were propped up at the table in chairs too big for them.
Dwayne Ray’s head was all flopped over, he was too little to hold
it up by himself, and he was wiggling toward the floor like Snake
Man escaping from his basket. Turtle just sat and stared at noth-
ing. Or rather, at something on the table that was as real to her as
Snowboots’s invisible poop was to him.
Lou Ann was banging pot lids to wake the dead and boiling bot-
tles. She had stopped nursing and put Dwayne Ray on formula,
saying she was petrified she wouldn’t have enough milk for him.
“Leandra, Leonie, Leonore, Leslie, Letitia,” she called out,
watching Turtle over her shoulder as though she expected her to
spew out quarters like a slot machine when she hit the right com-
bination of letters.
“Lord have mercy,” I said. “Have you been doing this all the
way from the Agathas and Amys?”
“Oh, hi, I didn’t hear you come in.” She acted a little guilty,
like a kid caught using swear words. “I thought I’d do half today
and the rest tomorrow. You know what? Lou Ann is on the exact
middle page. I wonder if my mother had a book like this.”
“The book our mothers had was the Bible, not some fifty-cent
dealie they sell from the same rack as the National Enquirer.” I
knew very well that none of my various names had come out of a
Bible, nor Lou Ann’s either, but I didn’t care. I was just plain in a
bad mood. I put Turtle over my shoulder. “What do you really
expect her to do if you say the right name, Lou Ann? Jump up
and scream and kiss you like the people on those game shows?”
“Don’t be mad at me, Taylor, I’m just trying to help. She wor-
ries me. I’m not saying she’s dumb, but it seems like she doesn’t
have too much personality.”
“Sure she does,” I said. “She grabs onto things. That’s her per-
sonality.”
“Well, no offense, but that’s not personality. Babies do that
automatically. I haven’t worked in a hospital or anything, but at
least I know that much. Personality has to be something you
learn.”
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“And reading off a list of every name known to humankind is
going to teach her to have personality?”
“Taylor, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but all the mag-
azines say that you have to play with children to develop their
personality.”
“So? I play with her. I bought her a book today.”
“Okay, you play with her. I’m sorry.” Lou Ann ladled soup out
of the big pot on the stove and brought bowls over to the table.
Her bowl held about two teaspoons of the red-colored broth. She
was starving herself to lose the weight she’d gained with Dwayne
Ray, which was mostly between her ears as far as I could see.
“This is Russian cabbage-and-beet soup,” she announced. “It’s
called borscht. It’s the beets that turn it pink. You’re supposed to
put sour cream on top but that just seemed like calories up the
kazoo. I got it out of Ladies’ Home Journal.”
I could imagine her licking her index finger and paging
through some magazine article called “Toasty Winter Family
Pleasers,” trying to find something to do with all that cabbage I
kept bringing home from Mattie’s. I fished out a pink potato and
mushed it up in Turtle’s bowl.
“It’s good, Lou Ann. Nothing personal, I’m just in a crappy
mood.”
“Watch out, there’s peas in there. A child’s windpipe can be
blocked by anything smaller than a golf ball.”
For Lou Ann, life itself was a life-threatening enterprise.
Nothing on earth was truly harmless. Along with her clip file of
Hispanic bank presidents (which she had started to let slide, now
that Angel was talking divorce), she saved newspaper stories of
every imaginable type of freak disaster. Unsuspecting diners in a
restaurant decapitated by a falling ceiling fan. Babies fallen head-
first into the beer cooler and drowned in melted ice while the
family played Frisbee. A housewife and mother of seven stepping
out of a Wick ‘N’ Candle store, only to be shot through the heart
by a misfired high-pressure nail gun at a construction site across
the street. To Lou Ann’s way of thinking, this proved not only that
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ice chests and construction sites were dangerous, but also Wick
’N’ Candle stores and Frisbees.
I promised her that I wouldn’t give Turtle anything smaller
than a golf ball. I amused myself by thinking about the cabbage:
would you have to take into account the size of one leaf com-
pressed into golf-ball shape? Or could you just consider the size
of the entire cabbage and call the whole thing safe?
Lou Ann was fanning a mouthful that was still too hot to swal-
low. “I can just hear what my Granny Logan would say if I tried
to feed her Russian cabbage soup. She’d say we were all going to
turn communist.”
Later that night when the kids were in bed I realized exactly
what was bugging me: the idea of Lou Ann reading magazines
for child-raising tips and recipes and me coming home grouchy
after a hard day’s work. We were like some family on a TV com-
mercial, with names like Myrtle and Fred. I could just hear us
striking up a conversation about air fresheners.
Lou Ann came in wearing her bathrobe and a blue towel
wrapped around her hair. She curled up on the sofa and started
flipping through the book of names again.
“Oh, jeez, take this away from me before I start looking at the
boy section. There’s probably fifty thousand names better than
Dwayne Ray, and I don’t even want to know about them. It’s too
late now.”
“Lou Ann, have a beer with me. I want to talk about some-
thing, and I don’t want you to get offended.” She took the beer
and sat up like I’d given her an order, and I knew this wasn’t going
to work.
“Okay, shoot.” The way she said it, you would think I was tot-
ing an M-16.
“Lou Ann, I moved in here because I knew we’d get along. It’s
nice of you to make dinner for us all, and to take care of Turtle
sometimes, and I know you mean well. But we’re acting like
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Blondie and Dagwood here. All we need is some ignorant little
dog named Spot to fetch me my slippers. It’s not like we’re a fam-
ily, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got your own life to live, and I’ve got
mine. You don’t have to do all this stuff for me.”
“But I want to.”
“But I don’t want you to.”
It was like that.
By the time we had worked through our third beers, a bag of
deep-fried tortilla chips, a pack of individually wrapped pimiento-
cheese slices and a can of sardines in mustard, Lou Ann was cry-
ing. I remember saying something like “I never even had an old
man, why would I want to end up acting like one?”
It’s the junk food, I kept thinking. On a diet like this the Bean
Curd kids would be speaking in tongues.
All of a sudden Lou Ann went still, with both hands over her
mouth. I thought she must be choking (after all her talk about
golf balls), and right away thought of the Heimlich Maneuver
poster on the wall at Mattie’s store. That’s how often she fed peo-
ple there. I was trying to remember if you were or were not sup-
posed to slap the person on the back. But then Lou Ann moved
her hands from her mouth to her eyes, like two of the three No-
Evil monkey brothers.
“Oh, God,” she said. “I’m drunk.”
“Lou Ann, you’ve had three beers.”
“That’s all it takes. I never drink. I’m scared to death of what
might happen.”
I was interested. This house was full of surprises. But this
turned out to be nothing like the cat. Lou Ann said what she was
afraid of was just that she might lose control and do something
awful.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. How do I know? Just something. I feel like the
only reason I have any friends at all is because I’m always careful
not to say something totally dumb, and if I blow it just one time,
then that’s it.”
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“Lou Ann, honey, that’s a weird theory of friendship.”
“No, I mean it. For the longest time after Angel left I kept
thinking back to this time last August when his friend Manny and
his wife Ramona came over and we all went out to the desert to
look at the shooting stars? There was supposed to be a whole
bunch of them, a shower, they were saying on the news. But we
kept waiting and waiting, and in the meantime we drank a bottle
of José Cuervo plumb down to the worm. The next morning Angel
kept saying, ‘Man, can you believe that meteor shower? What, you
don’t even remember it?’ I honestly couldn’t remember a thing
besides looking for the star sapphire from Ramona’s ring that had
plunked out somewhere. It turned out she’d lost it way before. She
found it at home in their dog’s dish, can you believe it?”
I was trying to fit Angel into some pigeonhole or other in the
part of my brain that contained what I knew about men. I liked
this new version of an Angel who would go out looking for shoot-
ing stars, but hated what I saw of him the next morning, taunting
Lou Ann about something that had probably never even hap-
pened.
“Maybe he was pulling your leg,” I said. “Maybe there never
was any meteor shower. Did you ask Ramona?”
“No. I never thought of that. I just assumed.”
“Well, why don’t you call her up and ask?”
“She and Manny moved to San Diego,” she wailed. You’d
think they had moved for the sole purpose of keeping this infor-
mation from Lou Ann.
“Well, I’m sorry.”
She persisted. “But that’s not even really the point. It wasn’t
just that I’d missed something important. I kept on thinking that
if I could miss a whole meteor shower, well, I’d probably done
something else ridiculous. For all I know I could’ve run naked
through the desert singing ‘Skip to My Lou.’ ”
I shuddered. All those spiny pears and prickly whatsits.
She stared mournfully into the empty bag of chips. “And now
it’s Valentine’s Day,” she said. “And everybody else in the whole
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wide world is home with their husband smooching on the couch
and watching TV, but not Lou Ann, no sir. I ran off both my hus-
band and the TV.”
I couldn’t even think where to begin on this one. I thought of
another one of Mama’s hog sayings: “Hogs go deaf at harvest
time.” It meant that people would only hear what they wanted to
hear. Mama was raised on a hog farm.
Lou Ann looked abnormally flattened against the back of the
sofa. I thought of her father, who she’d told me was killed when
his tractor overturned. They’d found him pressed into a mud
bank, and when they pulled him out he left a perfect print. “A
Daddy print” she’d called it, and she’d wanted to fill the hole with
plaster of Paris to keep him, the way she’d done with her hand
print in school for Mother’s Day.
“I always wondered if that night we got drunk had something
to do with why I lost him,” she said. I was confused for a second,
still thinking of her father.
“I thought you were glad when Angel left.”
“I guess I was. But still, you know, something went wrong.
You’re supposed to love the same person your whole life long till
death do you part and all that. And if you don’t, well, you’ve got
to have screwed up somewhere.”
“Lou Ann, you read too many magazines.” I went into the
kitchen and checked the refrigerator for about the fifteenth time
that night. It was still the same: cabbages and peanut butter. I
opened a cabinet and peered behind the cans of refried beans
and tomato sauce. There was a bottle of black-strap molasses, a
box of Quick Hominy Grits, and a can of pink salmon. I consid-
ered all of these things in various combinations, then settled for
another bag of tortilla chips. This is what happens to people with-
out TVs, I thought. They die of junk food.
When I came back to the living room she was still depressed
about Angel. “I’ll tell you my theory about staying with one man
your whole life long,” I said. “Do you know what a flapper ball is?”
She perked up. “A whatter ball?”
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“Flapper ball. It’s that do-jobbie in a toilet tank that goes up
and down when you flush. It shuts the water off.”
“Oh.”
“So one time when I was working in this motel one of the toi-
lets leaked and I had to replace the flapper ball. Here’s what it
said on the package; I kept it till I knew it by heart: ‘Please Note.
Parts are included for all installations, but no installation requires
all of the parts.’ That’s kind of my philosophy about men. I don’t
think there’s an installation out there that could use all of my
parts.”
Lou Ann covered her mouth to hide a laugh. I wondered who
had ever told her laughing was a federal offense.
“I’m serious, now. I’m talking mental capacity and everything,
not just parts like what they cut a chicken into.” By this time she
was laughing out loud.
“I tell you my most personal darkest secret and you laugh,” I
said, playing vexed.
“They can always use a breast or a thigh or a leg, but nobody
wants the scroungy old neckbones!”
“Don’t forget the wings,” I said. “They always want to gobble
up your wings right off the bat.” I dumped the rest of the bag of
chips out into the bowl on the ottoman between us. I was actu-
ally thinking about going for the jar of peanut butter.
“Here, let me show you this Valentine’s card I got for Mama,”
I said, digging through my purse until I found it. But Lou Ann
was already having such a fit of giggles I could just as well have
shown her the electric bill and she would have thought it was the
funniest thing in recorded history.
“Oh, me,” she said, letting the card fall in her lap. Her voice
trailed down from all those high-pitched laughs like a prom
queen floating down the gymnasium stairs. “I could use me a
good wrench around here. Or better yet, one of them . . . what do
you call ’ems? That one that’s shaped like a weenie?”
I had no idea what she meant. “A caulking gun? An angle drill?
A battery-head cleaner?” Come to think of it, just about every tool
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was shaped like either a weenie or a pistol, depending on your
point of view. “The Washington Monument?” I said. This set Lou
Ann off again. If there really had been a law against laughing, both
of us would have been on our way to Sing Sing by now.
“Oh, Lordy, they ought to put that on a Valentine’s card,” she
said. “I can just see me sending something like that to my Mama.
She’d have a cow right there on the kitchen floor. And Granny
Logan jumping and twisting her hands saying, ‘What is it? I don’t
get it.’ She’d go running after the mailman and tell him, ‘Young
man, come back in here this minute. Ask Ivy what’s supposed to
be so funny.’
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy,” Lou Ann said again, drying her eyes. She
put a chip in her mouth with a flourish, licking each of her fingers
afterward. She was draped out on the sofa in her green terry
bathrobe and blue turban like Cleopatra cruising down the Nile,
with Snowboots curled at her feet like some insane royal pet. In
ancient Egypt, I’d read somewhere, schizophrenics were wor-
shiped as gods.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Lou Ann said. “When something was
bugging Angel, he’d never of stayed up half the night with me
talking and eating everything that wasn’t nailed down. You’re not
still mad, are you?”
I held up two fingers. “Peace, sister,” I said, knowing full well
that only a complete hillbilly would say this in the 1980s. Love
beads came to Pittman the same year as the dial tone.
“Peace and love, get high and fly with the dove,” she said.
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S E V E N
How They Eat
in Heaven
A red Indian thought he might eat tobacco in church!” Lou
Ann had closed her eyes and put herself in a trance to dig this
item out of her fourth-grade memory, the way witnesses at a
holdup will get themselves hypnotized to recollect the color of the
getaway car. “That’s it! Arithmetic!” she cried, bouncing up and
down. Then she said, “No offense to anyone present, about the
Indian.” No one seemed offended.
“Oh, sure, I remember those,” Mattie said. “There was one for
every subject. Geography was: George eats old gray rutabagas and
picks his—something. What would it be?”
“Oh, gross,” Lou Ann said. “Gag a maggot.”
I couldn’t think of a solitary thing George might pick that
started with Y. “Maybe you haven’t got it quite right,” I told
Mattie. “Maybe it’s something else, like ‘pulls his yarn.’ ”
“Plants his yard?” offered Lou Ann.
“Pets his yak,” said the dark, handsome man, who was half of
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a young couple Mattie had brought along on the picnic. Their
names I had not yet gotten straight: Es-something and Es-
something. The man had been an English teacher in Guatemala
City. This whole conversation had started with a rhyme he used
to help students remember how to pronounce English vowels.
Then we’d gotten onto spelling.
“What’s a yak?” Lou Ann wanted to know.
“It’s a type of very hairy cow,” he explained. He seemed a little
embarrassed. Lou Ann and I had already told him three or four
times that he spoke better English than the two of us combined.
We were flattened and sprawled across the rocks like a troop
of lizards stoned on the sun, feeling too good to move. Lou Ann’s
feet dangled into the water. She insisted that she looked like a
Sherman tank in shorts but had ended up wearing them anyway,
and a pink elastic tube top which, she’d informed us, Angel called
her boob tube. I’d worn jeans and regretted it. February had
turned mild again right after the frost, and March was staying
mainly on the sweaty end of pleasant. Lou Ann and Mattie kept
saying it had to be the warmest winter on record. The old-timers,
somewhere down the line, would look back on this as the year we
didn’t have a winter, except for that freeze God sent on
Valentine’s Day so we’d have green-tomato pie. When the sum-
mer wildflowers started blooming before Easter, Mattie said the
Lord was clearly telling us to head for the hills and have us a pic-
nic. You never could tell about Mattie’s version of the Lord.
Mainly, He was just one damn thing after another.
We’d come to a place you would never expect to find in the
desert: a little hideaway by a stream that had run all the way
down from the mountains into a canyon, where it jumped off a
boulder and broke into deep, clear pools. White rocks sloped up
out of the water like giant, friendly hippo butts. A ring of cotton-
wood trees cooled their heels in the wet ground, and overhead
leaned together, then apart, making whispery swishing noises. It
made me think of Gossip, the game we played as kids where you
whisper a message around a circle. You’d start out with “Randy
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walks to the hardware store” and end up with “Granny has rocks
in her underwear drawer.”
It had been Lou Ann’s idea to come here. It was a place she
and Angel used to go when she first came to Tucson with him. I
didn’t know if her choice was a good or bad sign, but she didn’t
seem unhappy to be here without him. She seemed more con-
cerned that the rest of us would like it.
“So is this place okay? You’re sure?” she asked us, until we
begged her to take our word for it, that it was the most wonderful
picnic spot on the face of the earth, and she relaxed.
“Me and Angel actually talked about getting married up here,”
she said, dipping her toes in and out. There were Jesus bugs here,
but not the long-legged, graceful kind we had back home. These
were shaped like my car and more or less careened around on top
of the water. The whole gang of them together looked like gradu-
ation night in Volkswagen land.
“That would have been a heck of a wedding,” Mattie said. “A
hefty hike for the guests.”
“Oh no. We were going to do the whole thing on horseback.
Can’t you just see it?”
I could see it in People Magazine, maybe. What with my dis-
gust for anything horsy, I always forgot that Angel had won Lou
Ann’s heart and stolen her away from Kentucky during his days as
a rodeo man.
“Anyway,” she went on, “we could never have gone through
with it on account of Angel’s mother. She said something like,
‘Okay, children, go ahead. When I get thrown off a horse and
bash my brains out on the rocks, just step over me and go on with
the ceremony.’ ”
The English teacher spoke softly in Spanish to his wife, and
she smiled. Most of our conversation seemed to be getting lost in
the translation, like some international form of the Gossip game.
But this story had come from Mrs. Ruiz’s Spanish (Lou Ann
claimed that the only English words her mother-in-law knew were
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names of diseases) into English, and went back again without any
trouble. A certain kind of mother is the same in any language.
Esperanza and Estevan were their names. It led you to expect
twins, not a young married couple, and really there was some-
thing twinnish about them. They were both small and dark, with
the same high-set, watching eyes and strong-boned faces I’d
admired in the bars and gas stations and postcards of the
Cherokee Nation. Mattie had told me that more than half the
people in Guatemala were Indians. I had no idea.
But where Estevan’s smallness made him seem compact and
springy, as though he might have steel bars inside where most
people had flab and sawdust, Esperanza just seemed to have
shrunk. Exactly like a wool sweater washed in hot. It seemed
impossible that her hands could be so small, that all the red and
blue diamonds and green birds that ran across the bosom of her
small blouse had been embroidered with regular-sized needles. I
had this notion that at one time in life she’d been larger, but that
someone had split her in two like one of those hollow wooden
dolls, finding this smaller version inside. She took up almost no
space. While the rest of us talked and splashed and laughed she
sat still, a colorful outgrowth of rock. She reminded me of Turtle.
There had been something of a scene between her and Turtle
earlier that day. We’d driven up in two cars, Lou Ann and me and
the kids leading the way on my brand-new retreads and the other
three following in Mattie’s pickup. When we got to the trail head
we parked in the skimpy shade you find under mesquite trees—
like gray lace petticoats—and pulled out the coolers and bed-
spreads and canteens. The last two things out of the car were
Dwayne Ray and Turtle.
Esperanza was just stepping out of the cab, and when she saw
the kids she fell back against the seat, just as if she’d been hit
with twenty-eight pounds of air. For the next ten minutes she
looked blanched, like a boiled vegetable. She couldn’t take her
eyes off Turtle.
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As we hiked up the trail I fell in behind Estevan and made
small talk. Lou Ann was in the lead, carrying Dwayne Ray in a
pouch on her back and holding his molded-plastic car seat over
her head like some space-age sunbonnet. Behind her, ahead of
us, went Esperanza. From behind you could have mistaken her
for a schoolgirl, with her two long braids swinging across her back
and her prim walk, one small sandal in front of the other. The
orange plastic canteen on her shoulder looked like some burden
thrust upon her from another world.
Eventually I asked Estevan if his wife was okay. He said cer-
tainly, she was okay, but he knew what I was talking about. A lit-
tle later he said that my daughter looked like a child they’d known
in Guatemala.
“She could be, for all I know.” I laughed. I explained to him
that she wasn’t really my daughter.
Later, while we sat on the rocks and ate baloney sandwiches,
Esperanza kept watching Turtle.
Estevan and I eventually decided to brave the cold water.
“Don’t look,” I announced, and stripped off my jeans.
“Taylor, no! You mustn’t,” Lou Ann said.
“For heaven’s sake, Lou Ann, I’ve got on decent underwear.”
“No, what I mean is, you’re not supposed to go in for an hour
after you eat. You’ll drown, both of you. It’s something about the
food in your stomach makes you sink.”
“I know I can depend on you, Lou Ann,” I said. “If we sink,
you’ll pull us out.” I held my nose and jumped in.
The water was so cold I couldn’t imagine why it hadn’t just
stayed frozen up there on the snow-topped mountain. The two of
us caught our breath and whooped and splashed the others until
Lou Ann was threatening our lives. Mattie, more inclined to the
direct approach, was throwing rocks the size of potatoes.
“If you think I’d go in there to drag either one of you out,
you’re off your rocker,” Mattie said. Lou Ann said, “If you all want
to go and catch pee-namonia, be my guest.”
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Estevan went from whooping to singing in Spanish, hamming
it up in this amazing yodely voice. He dog-paddled over to
Esperanza and rested his chin on the rock by her feet, still
singing, his head moving up and down with the words. What kind
of words, it was easy to guess: “My sweet nightingale, my rose,
your eyes like the stars.” He was unbelievably handsome, with
this smile that could just crack your heart right down the middle.
But she was off on her own somewhere. From time to time
she would gaze over to where the kids were asleep on the blue
bedspread. And who could blame her, really? It was a sweet sight.
With the cottonwood shade rippling over them they looked like a
drawing from one of those old-fashioned children’s books that
show babies in underwater scenes, blowing glassy bubbles and
holding on to fishes’ tails. Dwayne Ray had on a huge white sailor
hat and had nodded forward in his car seat, but Turtle’s mouth
was open to the sky. Her hair was damp and plastered down in
dark cords on her temples, showing more of her forehead than
usual. Even from a distance I could see her eyes dancing around
under eyelids as thin as white grape skins. Turtle always had des-
perate, active dreams. In sleep, it seemed, she was free to do all
the things that during her waking life she could only watch.
We went back at that time of evening when it’s dusky but the
headlights don’t really help yet. Mattie said she was stone-blind
this time of night, so Estevan drove. “Be careful now,” she
warned him as the three of them climbed into the cab. “The last
thing we need is to get stopped.” Lou Ann and the kids and I
followed in my car.
Fortunately the parking lot had a good slant to it so getting
started was a piece of cake. I hardly had time to curse, and we
caught right up. Mattie needn’t have worried; Estevan was a care-
ful driver. As we puttered along Lou Ann had to keep reaching
into the back seat, which wasn’t really a seat but a kind of pit where
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one used to be, to get the kids settled down. They had both slept
through the entire hike back, but now were wide awake.
“Oh, shoot, I’ve sunburned the top half of my boobs,” she
said, frowning down her chest. “Stretch marks and all.”
Mattie’s pickup stopped so fast I nearly rear-ended it. I
slammed on the brakes and we all pitched forward. There was a
thud in the back seat, and then a sound, halfway between a
cough and a squeak.
“Jesus, that was Turtle,” I said. “Lou Ann, that was her, wasn’t
it? She made that sound. Is her neck broken?”
“She’s fine, Taylor. Everybody’s fine. Look.” She picked up
Turtle and showed me that she was okay. “She did a somersault. I
think that sound was a laugh.”
It must have been true. She was hanging on to Lou Ann’s
boob tube for dear life, and smiling. We both stared at her. Then
we stared at the tailgate of the truck in front of us, stopped dead
in the road.
“What in the tarnation?” Lou Ann asked.
I said I didn’t know. Then I said, “Look.” In the road up ahead
there was a quail, the type that has one big feather spronging out
the front of its head like a forties-model ladies’ hat. We could just
make out that she was dithering back and forth in the road, and
then we gradually could see that there were a couple dozen
babies running around her every which way. They looked like
fuzzy ball bearings rolling around in a box.
Our mouths opened and shut and we froze where we sat. I
suppose we could have honked and waved and it wouldn’t have
raised any more pandemonium than this poor mother already had
to deal with, but instead we held perfectly still. Even Turtle. After
a long minute or two the quail got her family herded off the road
into some scraggly bushes. The truck’s brakelights flickered, like a
wink, and Estevan drove on. Something about the whole scene
was trying to make tears come up in my eyes. I decided I must be
about to get my period.
“You know,” Lou Ann said a while later, “if that had been
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Angel, he would’ve given himself two points for every one he
could hit.”
Knowing that Turtle’s first uttered sound was a laugh brought
me no end of relief. If I had dragged her halfway across the
nation only to neglect and entirely botch her upbringing, would
she have laughed? I thought surely not. Surely she would have
bided her time while she saved up whole words, even sen-
tences. Things like “What do you think you’re doing?”
I suppose some of Lou Ann had rubbed off on me, for me to
take this laugh as a sign. Lou Ann was the one who read her horo-
scope every day, and mine, and Dwayne Ray’s, and fretted that we
would never know Turtle’s true sign (which seemed to me the
least of her worries), and was sworn to a strange kind of logic that
said a man could leave his wife for missing a meteor shower or
buying the wrong brand of cookies. If the mail came late it meant
someone, most likely Grandmother Logan, had died.
But neither of us could interpret the significance of Turtle’s
first word. It was “bean.”
We were in Mattie’s backyard helping her put in the sum-
mer garden, which she said was way overdue considering the
weather. Mattie’s motto seemed to be “Don’t let the grass grow
under your feet, but make sure there’s something growing every-
where else.”
“Looky here, Turtle,” I said. “We’re planting a garden just like
Old MacDonald in your book.” Mattie rolled her eyes. I think her
main motive, in insisting that Turtle watch us do this, was to
straighten the child out. She was concerned that Turtle would
grow up thinking carrots grew under the rug.
“Here’s squash seeds,” I said. “Here’s pepper seeds, and here’s
eggplants.” Turtle looked thoughtfully at the little flat disks.
“That’s just going to discombobble her,” Mattie said. “Those
seeds don’t look anything like what you’re saying they’ll grow into.
When kids are that little, they don’t take much on faith.”
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“Oh,” I said. It seemed to me that Turtle had to take practically
everything on faith.
“Show her something that looks like what you eat.”
I scooped a handful of big white beans out of one of Mattie’s
jars. “These are beans. Remember white bean soup with
ketchup? Mmm, you like that.”
“Bean,” Turtle said. “Humbean.”
I looked at Mattie.
“Well, don’t just sit there, the child’s talking to you,” Mattie said.
I picked up Turtle and gave her a hug. “That’s right, that’s a
bean. And you’re just about the smartest kid alive,” I told her.
Mattie just smiled.
As I planted the beans, Turtle followed me down the row dig-
ging each one up after I planted it and putting it back in the jar.
“Good girl,” I said. I could see a whole new era arriving in Turtle’s
and my life.
Mattie suggested that I give her some of her own beans to
play with, and I did, though Lou Ann’s warning about windpipes
and golf balls was following me wherever I went these days.
“These are for you to keep,” I explained to Turtle. “Don’t eat
them, these are playing-with beans. There’s eating beans at home.
And the rest of these in here are putting-in-the-ground beans.”
Honest to God, I believe she understood that. For the next half
hour she sat quietly between two squash hills, playing with her
own beans. Finally she buried them there on the spot, where they
were forgotten by all until quite a while later when a ferocious
thicket of beans came plowing up through the squashes.
On the way home Turtle pointed out to me every patch of
bare dirt beside the sidewalk. “Humbean,” she told me.
Lou Ann was going through a phase of cutting her own hair
every other day. In a matter of weeks it had gone from shoulder
length to what she referred to as “shingled,” passing through
several stages with figure-skaters’ names in between.
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“I don’t know about shingled,” I said, “but you’ve got to draw
the line somewhere or you’re going to end up like this guy that
comes into Mattie’s all the time with a Mohawk. He has ‘Born to
Die’ tattooed onto the bald part of his scalp.”
“I might as well just shave it off,” said Lou Ann. I don’t think
she was really listening.
She was possessed of the type of blond, bone-straight hair that
was, for a brief period in history, the envy of every teenaged female
alive. I remember when the older girls spoke so endlessly of
bleaching and ironing techniques you’d think their hair was some-
thing to be thrown in a white load of wash. Lou Ann would have
been in high school by then, she was a few years older than me, but
she probably missed this whole craze. She would have been too
concerned with having the wrong kind of this or that. She’d told
me that in high school she prayed every night for glamour-girl legs,
which meant that you could put dimes between the knees, calves,
and ankles and they would stay put; she claimed her calves would
have taken a softball. I’m certain Lou Ann never even noticed that
for one whole year her hair was utterly perfect.
“It looks like it plumb died,” she said, tugging on a straight
lock over one eyebrow.
I was tempted to remind her that anything subjected so fre-
quently to a pair of scissors wouldn’t likely survive, but of course
I didn’t. I always tried to be positive with her, although I’d learned
that even compliments were a kind of insult to Lou Ann, causing
her to wrinkle her face and advise me to make an appointment
with an eye doctor. She despised her looks, and had more ways of
saying so than anyone I’d ever known.
“I ought to be shot for looking like this,” she’d tell the mirror
in the front hall before going out the door. “I look like I’ve been
drug through hell backwards,” she would say on just any ordinary
day. “Like death warmed over. Like something the cat puked up.”
I wanted the mirror to talk back, to say, “Shush, you do not,”
but naturally it just mouthed the same words back at her, leaving
her so forlorn that I was often tempted to stick little notes on it. I
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thought of my T-shirt, Turtle’s now, from Kentucky Lake. Lou
Ann needed a DAMN I’M GOOD mirror.
On this particular night we had invited Esperanza and
Estevan over for dinner. Mattie was going to be on TV, on the six-
o’clock news, and Lou Ann had suggested inviting them over to
watch it on a television set we didn’t have. She was constantly
forgetting about the things Angel had taken, generously offering
to loan them out and so forth. We’d settled it, however, by also
inviting some neighbors Lou Ann knew who had a portable TV.
She said she’d been meaning to have them over anyway, that they
were very nice. Their names were Edna Poppy and Virgie Mae
Valentine Parsons, or so their mailbox said. I hadn’t met them,
but before I’d moved in she said they had kept Dwayne Ray many
a time, including once when Lou Ann had to rush Snowboots to
the vet for eating a mothball.
Eventually Lou Ann gave up on berating her hair and set up
the ironing board in the kitchen. I was cooking. We had worked
things out: I cooked on weekends, and also on any week night
that Lou Ann had kept Turtle. It would be a kind of payment.
And she would do the vacuuming, because she liked to, and I
would wash dishes because I didn’t mind them. “And on the sev-
enth day we wash bean turds,” I pronounced. Before, it had
seemed picayune to get all bent out of shape organizing the
household chores. Now I was beginning to see the point.
The rent and utilities we split fifty-fifty. Lou Ann had savings
left from Angel’s disability insurance settlement—for some reason
he hadn’t touched this money—and also he sent checks, but only
once in a blue moon. I worried about what she would do when
the well ran dry, but I’d decided I might just as well let her run
her own life.
For the party I was making sweet-and-sour chicken, more or
less on a dare, out of one of Lou Ann’s magazines. The folks at
Burger Derby should see me now, I thought. I had originally
planned to make navy-bean soup, in celebration of Turtle’s first
word, but by the end of the week she had said so many new
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words I couldn’t have fit them all in Hungarian goulash. She
seemed to have a one-track vocabulary, like Lou Ann’s hypochon-
driac mother-in-law, though fortunately Turtle’s ran to vegetables
instead of diseases. I could just imagine a conversation between
these two: “Sciatica, hives, roseola, meningomalacia,” Mrs. Ruiz
would say in her accented English. “Corns, ’tato, bean,” Turtle
would reply.
“What’s so funny?” Lou Ann wanted to know. “I hope I can
even fit into this dress. I should have tried it on first, I haven’t
worn it since before Dwayne Ray.” I had noticed that Lou Ann
measured many things in life, besides her figure, in terms of
Before and After Dwayne Ray.
“You’ll fit into it,” I said. “Have you weighed yourself lately?”
“No, I don’t want to know what I weigh. If the scale even goes
up that high.”
“I refuse to believe you’re overweight, that’s all I’m saying. If
you say one more word about being fat, I’m going to stick my fin-
gers in my ears and sing ‘Blue Bayou’ until you’re done.”
She was quiet for a minute. The hiss of the steam iron and
the smell of warm, damp cotton reminded me of Sunday after-
noons with Mama.
“What’s Mattie going to be on TV about? Do you know?” she
asked.
“I’m not sure. It has something to do with the people that live
with her.”
“Oh, I’d be petrified to be on TV, I know I would,” Lou Ann
said. “I’m afraid I would just blurt out, ‘Underpants!’ or some-
thing. When I was a little girl I would get afraid in church, dur-
ing the invocation or some other time when it got real quiet, and
I’d all of a sudden be terrified that I was going to stand up and
holler, ‘God’s pee-pee!’ ”
I laughed.
“Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous. I mean, I didn’t even know
if God had one. In the pictures He’s always got on all those robes
and things. But the fact that I even wondered about it seemed
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like just the ultimate sin. If I was bad enough to think it, how did
I know I wasn’t going to stand up and say it?”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “There’s this Catholic priest
that comes to Mattie’s all the time, Father William. He’s real
handsome, I think he’s your type, maybe not. But sometimes I get
to thinking, What if I were to strut over and say something like,
‘Hey good looking, whatcha got cooking?’ ”
“Exactly! It’s like, did you ever have this feeling when you’re
standing next to a cliff, say, or by an upstairs window, and you can
just picture yourself jumping out? The worst time it happened to
me was in high school. On our senior trip we went to the state
capitol, which is at Frankfort. Of course, you know that, what am
I saying? So, what happened was, you can go way up in the dome
and there’s only this railing and you look down and the people are
like little miniature ants. And I saw myself just hoisting my leg
and going over. I just froze up. I thought: if I can think it, I might
do it. My boyfriend, which at that time was Eddie Tubbs, it was
way before I met Angel, thought it was fear of heights and told
everybody on the bus on the way home that I had ackero-phobia,
but it was way more complicated than that. I mean, ackero-
phobia doesn’t have anything to do with being afraid you’ll holler
out something god-awful in church, does it?”
“No,” I said. “I think what you mean is a totally different pho-
bia. Fear that the things you imagine will turn real.”
Lou Ann was staring at me, transfixed. “You know, I think
you’re the first person I’ve ever told this to that understood what
I was talking about.”
I shrugged. “I saw a Star Trek episode one time that was along
those lines. All the women on this whole planet end up naked. I
can’t remember exactly, but I think Captain Kirk gets turned into
a pipe wrench.”
The six o’clock news was half over by the time we got the TV
plugged in. There had been a mix-up with the women next door,
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who were waiting for us to come over and get the television.
They didn’t realize they had been invited for dinner.
Meanwhile, Estevan and Esperanza arrived. Estevan played
the gentleman flirt, saying how nice I looked, and didn’t he per-
haps know my tomboy sister who worked with a used-tire firm?
“Exquisite” was what he actually said, and “tom boy” as if it were
two words. I batted my eyelashes and said yes indeed, that she
was the sister who got all the brains of the family.
I suppose I did look comparatively elegant. Lou Ann had
parted my hair on the side (“What you need is one of those big
blowzy white flowers behind one ear,” she said, and “God, would
I kill for black hair like yours.” “Kill what?” I asked. “A skunk?”)
and forced me into a dress she had purchased “before Dwayne
Ray” in an uptown thrift shop. It was one of those tight black
satin Chinese numbers you have to try on with a girlfriend—you
hold your breath while she zips you in. I only agreed to wear it
because I thought sharing our clothes might shut her up about
being a Sherman tank. And because it fit.
But Esperanza was the one who truly looked exquisite. She
wore a long, straight dress made of some amazing woven material
that brought to mind the double rainbow Turtle and I saw on our
first day in Tucson: twice as many colors as you ever knew
existed.
“Is this from Guatemala?” I asked.
She nodded. She looked almost happy.
“Sometimes I get homesick for Pittman and it’s as ugly as a
mud stick fence,” I said. “A person would have to just ache for a
place where they make things as beautiful as this.”
Poor Lou Ann was on the phone with Mrs. Parsons for the
fourth time in ten minutes, and apparently still hadn’t gotten it
straight because Mrs. Parsons and Edna walked in the front door
with the TV just as Lou Ann ran out the back to get it.
One of the women led the way and the other, who appeared
to be the older of the two, carried the set by its handle, staggering
a little with the weight like a woman with an overloaded purse. I
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rushed to take it from her and she seemed a little startled when
the weight came up out of her hands. “Oh my, I thought it had
sprouted wings,” she said. She told me she was Edna Poppy.
I liked her looks. She had bobbed, snowy hair and sturdy, wiry
arms and was dressed entirely in red, all the way down to her
perky patent-leather shoes.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I love your outfit. Red’s my
color.”
“Mine too,” she said.
Mrs. Parsons had on a churchy-looking dress and a small, flat
white hat with a dusty velveteen bow. She didn’t seem too
friendly, but of course we were all dashing around trying to get set
up. I didn’t even know what channel we were looking for until
Mattie’s face loomed up strangely in black and white.
Signatory to the United Nations something-something on
human rights, Mattie was saying, and that means we have a legal
obligation to take in people whose lives are in danger.
A man with a microphone clipped to his tie asked her, What
about legal means? And something about asylum. They were
standing against a brick building with short palm trees in front.
Mattie said that out of some-odd thousand Guatemalans and
Salvadorans who had applied for this, only one-half of one per-
cent of them had been granted it, and those were mainly relatives
of dictators, not the people running for their lives.
Then the TV showed both Mattie and the interview man talk-
ing without sound, and another man’s voice told us that the
Immigration and Naturalization Service had returned two illegal
aliens, a woman and her son, to their native El Salvador last
week, and that Mattie “claimed” they had been taken into cus-
tody when they stepped off the plane in San Salvador and later
were found dead in a ditch. I didn’t like this man’s tone. I had no
idea how Mattie would know such things, but if she said it was
so, it was.
But it was all garbled anyhow. Mrs. Parsons had been talking
the whole time about not being able to sit in a certain type of
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chair or her back would go out, and then Lou Ann flew in the
back door and called out, “Damn it, they’re not home. Oh.”
Mrs. Parsons made a little sniffing sound. “We’re here, if you
want to know.”
“What program did you want to see?” Edna asked. “I hope we
haven’t spoiled it by coming late?”
“That was it, we just saw it,” I said, though it seemed ridicu-
lous. Thirty seconds and it was all over. “She’s a friend of ours,” I
explained.
“All I could make out was some kind of trouble with illegal
aliens and dope peddlers,” said Mrs. Parsons. “Dear, I need a pil-
low for the small of my back or I won’t be able to get out of bed
tomorrow. Your cat has just made dirt in the other room.”
I went for a cushion and Lou Ann rushed to put the cat out.
Estevan and Esperanza, I realized, had been sitting together on
the ottoman the whole time, more or less on the fringe of all the
commotion. I said, “I’d like you to meet my friends . . .”
“Steven,” Estevan said, “and this is my wife, Hope.” This was
a new one on me.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Edna said.
Mrs. Parsons said, “And is this naked creature one of theirs?
She looks like a little wild Indian.” She was talking about Turtle,
who was not naked, although she didn’t exactly have a shirt on.
“We have no children,” Estevan said. Esperanza looked as
though she had been slapped across the face.
“She’s mine,” I said. “And she is a little wild Indian, as a mat-
ter of fact. Why don’t we start dinner?” I picked up Turtle and
stalked off into the kitchen, leaving Lou Ann to fend for herself.
Why she would call this old pruneface a nice lady was beyond my
mental powers. I did the last-minute cooking, which the recipe
said you were supposed to do “at the table in a sizzling wok before
the admiring guests.” A sizzling wok, my hind foot. Who did they
think read those magazines?
A minute later Esperanza came into the kitchen and quietly
helped set the table. I touched her arm. “I’m sorry,” I said.
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It wasn’t until everyone came in and sat down to dinner that I
really had a chance to look these women over. The fact that they
couldn’t possibly have had time to dress up for dinner made their
outfits seem to tell everything. (Though of course Mrs. Parsons
would have had time to powder her nose and reach for the little
white hat.) Edna even had red bobby pins in her hair, two over
each ear. I couldn’t imagine where you would buy such items, a
drugstore I suppose. I liked thinking about Edna finding them
there on the rack, along with the purple barrettes and Oreo-
cookie hair clips, and saying, “Why, look, Virgie Mae, red bobby
pins! That’s my color.” Virgie Mae would be the type to sail past
the douche aisle with her nose in the air and lecture the boy at
the register for selling condoms.
Estevan produced a package, which turned out to be chop-
sticks. There were twenty or so of them wrapped together in
crackly cellophane with black Chinese letters down one side. “A
gift for the dishwasher,” he said, handing each of us a pair of
sticks. “You use them once, then throw them away.” I couldn’t
think how he knew we were going to have Chinese food, but then
I remembered running into him a day or two ago in the Lee Sing
Market, where we’d discussed a product called “wood ears.” The
recipe called for them, but I had my principles.
“The dishwasher thanks you,” I said. I noticed Lou Ann
whisking a pair out of Dwayne Ray’s reach, and could hear the
words “put his eyes out” as plainly as if she’d said them aloud.
Dwayne Ray started squalling, and Lou Ann excused herself to go
put him to bed.
“What is it, eating sticks?” Edna ran her fingers along the thin
shafts. “It sounds like a great adventure, but I’ll just stick to what
I know, if you don’t mind. Thank you all the same.” I noticed that
Edna ate very slowly, with gradual, exact movements of her fork.
Mrs. Parsons said she wasn’t game for such foolishness either.
“I never said it was foolishness,” Edna said.
The rest of us gave it a try, spearing pieces of chicken and
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looping green-pepper rings and chasing the rice around our
plates. Even Esperanza tried. Estevan said we were being too
aggressive.
“They are held this way.” He demonstrated, holding them like
pencils in one hand and clicking the ends together. I loved his
way of saying, “It is” and “They are.”
Turtle was watching me, imitating. “Don’t look at me, I’m not
the expert.” I pointed at Estevan.
Lou Ann came back to the table. “Where’d you learn how to
do that?” she asked Estevan.
“Ah,” he said, “this is why I like chopsticks: I work in a
Chinese restaurant. I am the dishwasher.”
“I didn’t know that. How long have you worked there?” I
asked, realizing that I had no business thinking I knew everything
about Estevan. His whole life, really, was a mystery to me.
“One month,” he said. “I work with a very kind family who
speak only Chinese. Only the five-year-old daughter speaks
English. The father has her explain to me what I must do.
Fortunately, she is very patient.”
Mrs. Parsons muttered that she thought this was a disgrace.
“Before you know it the whole world will be here jibbering and
jabbering till we won’t know it’s America.”
“Virgie, mind your manners,” Edna said.
“Well, it’s the truth. They ought to stay put in their own dirt,
not come here taking up jobs.”
“Virgie,” Edna said.
I felt like I’d sat on a bee. If Mama hadn’t brought me up to
do better, I think I would have told that old snake to put down
her fork and get her backside out the door. I wanted to scream at
her: This man you are looking at is an English teacher. He did not
come here so he could wash egg foo yung off plates and take
orders from a five-year-old.
But Estevan didn’t seem perturbed, and I realized he must
hear this kind of thing every day of his life. I wondered how he
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could stay so calm. I would have murdered somebody by now, I
thought, would have put a chopstick to one of the many deadly
uses that only Lou Ann could imagine for it.
“Can I get anybody anything?” Lou Ann asked.
“We’re fine,” Edna said, obviously accustomed to being Virgie
Mae’s public-relations department. “You children have made a
delightful meal.”
Esperanza pointed at Turtle. It was the first time I ever saw
her smile, and I was struck with what a lovely woman she was
when you really connected. Then the smile left her again.
Turtle, wielding a chopstick in each hand, had managed to pick
up a chunk of pineapple. Little by little she moved it upward toward
her wide-open mouth, but the sticks were longer than her arms. The
pineapple hung in the air over her head and then fell behind her
onto the floor. We laughed and cheered her on, but Turtle was so
startled she cried. I picked her up and held her on my lap.
“Tortolita, let me tell you a story,” Estevan said. “This is a
South American, wild Indian story about heaven and hell.” Mrs.
Parsons made a prudish face, and Estevan went on. “If you go to
visit hell, you will see a room like this kitchen. There is a pot of
delicious stew on the table, with the most delicate aroma you can
imagine. All around, people sit, like us. Only they are dying of
starvation. They are jibbering and jabbering,” he looked extra hard
at Mrs. Parsons, “but they cannot get a bite of this wonderful
stew God has made for them. Now, why is that?”
“Because they’re choking? For all eternity?” Lou Ann asked.
Hell, for Lou Ann, would naturally be a place filled with sharp
objects and small round foods.
“No,” he said. “Good guess, but no. They are starving because
they only have spoons with very long handles. As long as that.” He
pointed to the mop, which I had forgotten to put away. “With
these ridiculous, terrible spoons, the people in hell can reach into
the pot but they cannot put the food in their mouths. Oh, how
hungry they are! Oh, how they swear and curse each other!” he
said, looking again at Virgie. He was enjoying this.
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“Now,” he went on, “you can go and visit heaven. What? You
see a room just like the first one, the same table, the same pot of
stew, the same spoons as long as a sponge mop. But these people
are all happy and fat.”
“Real fat, or do you mean just well-fed?” Lou Ann asked.
“Just well-fed,” he said. “Perfectly, magnificently well-fed, and
very happy. Why do you think?”
He pinched up a chunk of pineapple in his chopsticks, neat
as you please, and reached all the way across the table to offer it
to Turtle. She took it like a newborn bird.
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E I G H T
The Miracle of
Dog Doo Park
Of all the ridiculous things, Mama was getting married. To
Harland Elleston no less, of El-Jay’s Paint and Body fame. She
called on a Saturday morning while I’d run over to Mattie’s, so
Lou Ann took the message. I was practically the last to know.
When I called back Mama didn’t sound normal. She was out
of breath and kept running on about Harland. “Did I get you in
out of the yard?” I asked her. “Are you planting cosmos?”
“Cosmos, no, it’s not even the end of April yet, is it? I’ve got
sugar peas in that little bed around to the side, but not cosmos.”
“I forgot,” I told her. “Everything’s backwards here. Half the
stuff you plant in the fall.”
“Missy, I’m in a tither,” she said. She called me Taylor in let-
ters, but we weren’t accustomed to phone calls. “With Harland
and all. He treats me real good, but it’s happened so fast I don’t
know what end of the hog to feed. I wish you were here to keep
me straightened out.”
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“I do too,” I said.
“You plant things in the fall? And they don’t get bit?”
“No.”
At least she did remember to ask about Turtle. “She’s great,” I
said. “She’s talking a blue streak.”
“That’s how you were. You took your time getting started, but
once you did there was no stopping you,” Mama said.
I wondered what that had to do with anything. Everybody
behaved as if Turtle was my own flesh and blood daughter. It was
a conspiracy.
Lou Ann wanted to know every little detail about the wed-
ding, which was a whole lot more than I knew myself, or cared to.
“Everybody deserves their own piece of the pie, Taylor,” Lou
Ann insisted. “Who else has she got?”
“She’s got me.”
“She does not, you’re here. Which might as well be Red
Taiwan, for all the good it does her.”
“I always thought I’d get Mama out here to live. She didn’t
even consult me, just ups and decides to marry this paint-and-
body yahoo.”
“I do believe you’re jealous.”
“That is so funny I forgot to laugh.”
“When my brother got married I felt like he’d deserted us. He
just sends this letter one day with a little tiny picture, all you could
make out really was dogs, and tells us he’s marrying somebody by
the name of She-Wolf Who Hunts by the First Light.” Lou Ann
yawned and moved farther down the bench so her arms were more
in the sun. She’d decided she was too pale and needed a tan.
“Granny Logan liked to died. She kept saying, did Eskimos
count as human beings? She thought they were half animal or
something. And really what are you supposed to think, with a
name like that? But I got used to the idea. I like to think of him
up there in Alaska with all these little daughters in big old furry
coats. I’ve got in my mind that they live in an igloo, but that can’t
be right.”
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We were sitting out with the kids in Roosevelt Park, which
the neighbor kids called such names as Dead Grass Park and
Dog Doo Park. To be honest, it was pretty awful. There were
only a couple of shade trees, which had whole dead parts, and
one good-for-nothing palm tree so skinny and tall that it threw
its shade onto the roof of the cooler-pad factory down the block.
The grass was scraggly, struggling to come up between shiny
bald patches of dirt. Mostly it put me in mind of an animal with
the mange. Constellations of gum-wrapper foil twinkled around
the trash barrels.
“Look at it this way, at least she’s still kicking,” Lou Ann said.
“I feel like my mama’s whole life stopped counting when Daddy
died. You want to know something? They even got this double
gravestone. Daddy’s on the right hand side, and the other side’s
already engraved for Mama. ‘Ivy Louise Logan, December 2,
1934—to blank.’ Every time I see it it gives me the willies. Like
it’s just waiting there for her to finish up her business and die so
they can fill in the blank.”
“It does seem like one foot in the grave,” I said.
“If Mama ever got married again I’d dance a jig at her wed-
ding. I’d be thrilled sideways. Maybe it would get her off my back
about moving back in with her and Granny.” Dwayne Ray
coughed in his sleep, and Lou Ann pushed his stroller back and
forth two or three times. Turtle was pounding the dirt with a plas-
tic shovel, a present from Mattie.
“Cabbage, cabbage, cabbage,” she said.
Lou Ann said, “I know a guy that would just love her. Did you
ever know that fellow downtown that sold vegetables out of his
truck?” But Turtle and Bobby Bingo would never get to discuss
their common interest. He had disappeared, probably to run off
with somebody’s mother.
“Your mother wouldn’t be marrying Harland Elleston,” I told
Lou Ann, getting back to the subject at hand.
“Of course not! That big hunk is already spoken for.”
“Lou Ann, you’re just making a joke of this whole thing.”
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“Well, I can’t help it, I wouldn’t care if my mother married the
garbage man.”
“But Harland Elleston! He’s not even . . .” I was going to say
he’s not even related to us, but of course that wasn’t what I
meant. “He’s got warts on his elbows and those eyebrows that
meet in the middle.”
“I’ll swan, Taylor, you talk about men like they’re a hangnail.
To hear you tell it, you’d think man was only put on this earth to
keep urinals from going to waste.”
“That’s not true, I like Estevan.” My heart sort of bumped
when I said this. I knew exactly how it would look on an EKG
machine: two little peaks and one big one.
“He’s taken. Who else?”
“Just because I don’t go chasing after every Tom’s Harry Dick
that comes down the pike.”
“Who else? You never have one kind thing to say about any of
your old boyfriends.”
“Lou Ann, for goodness’ sakes. In Pittman County there was
nothing in pants that was worth the trouble, take my word for it.
Except for this one science teacher, and the main thing he had
going for him was clean fingernails.” I’d never completely realized
how limited the choices were in Pittman. Poor Mama. If only I
could have gotten her to Tucson.
“Well, where in the heck do you think I grew up, Paris,
France?”
“I notice you didn’t stick with home-grown either. You had to
ride off with a Wild West rodeo boy.”
“Fat lot of good it did me, too.”
“Well, you did get Dwayne Ray out of the deal.” I remembered
what Mama always said about me and the Jackson Purchase.
“But oh, Taylor, if you could have seen him. How handsome
he was.” She had her eyes closed and her face turned up toward
the sun. “The first time I laid eyes on him he was draped on this
fence like the Marlboro man, with his arms out to the sides and
one boot up on the bottom rung. Just chewing on a match and
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hanging out till it was time to turn out the next bull. And do you
know what else?” She sat up and opened her eyes.
“What?” I said.
“Right at that exact moment there was this guy in the ring set-
ting some kind of a new world’s record for staying on a bull, and
everybody was screaming and throwing stuff and of course me
and my girlfriend Rachel had never seen a rodeo before so we
thought this was the wildest thing since Elvis joined the army.
But Angel didn’t even look up. He just squinted off at the dis-
tance toward the hay field behind the snack bar. Rachel said,
‘Look at that tough guy over by that fence, what an asshole, not
even paying attention.’ And you know what I thought to myself? I
thought, I bet I could get him to pay attention to me.”
A child in a Michael Jackson tank shirt rumbled down the
gravel path on a low-slung trike with big plastic wheels, making
twice as much noise as his size would seem to allow for. “This is
a O-R-V,” he told us. Now I knew.
“I know you.” He pointed at Lou Ann. “You’re the one gives
out money at Halloween.”
Lou Ann rolled her eyes. “I’m never going to live that down.
This year they’ll be coming in from Phoenix and Flagstaff to beat
down our door.”
“Watch out when the bums come,” he told us. “Go straight
home.” He tore off again, pedaling like someone possessed.
The gravel path cut through the middle of the park from a
penis-type monument, up at the street near Mattie’s, down to the
other end where we liked to sit in a place Lou Ann called the
arbor. It was the nicest thing about the park. The benches sat in
a half-circle underneath an old wooden trellis that threw a shade
like a cross-stitched tablecloth. The trellis had thick, muscly vines
twisting up its support poles and fanning out overhead. Where
they first came out of the ground, they reminded me of the arms
of this guy who’d delivered Mattie’s new refrigerator by himself.
All winter Lou Ann had been telling me they were wisteria vines.
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They looked dead to me, like everything else in the park, but she
always said, “Just you wait.”
And she was right. Toward the end of March they had
sprouted a fine, shivery coat of pale leaves and now they were get-
ting ready to bloom. Here and there a purplish lip of petal stuck
out like a pout from a fat green bud. Every so often a bee would
hang humming in the air for a few seconds, checking on how the
flowers were coming along. You just couldn’t imagine where all
this life was coming from. It reminded me of that Bible story
where somebody or other struck a rock and the water poured out.
Only this was better, flowers out of bare dirt. The Miracle of Dog
Doo Park.
Lou Ann went on endlessly about Mama. “I can just see your
mama. . . . What’s her name, anyway?”
“Alice,” I said. “Alice Jean Stamper Greer. The last thing she
needs is an Elleston on top of all that.”
“. . . I can just see Alice and Harland running for the sugar
shack. If she’s anything like you, she goes after what she wants. I
guess now she’ll be getting all the paint and body jobs she needs.”
“He’s only half owner, with Ernest Jakes,” I said. “It’s not like
the whole shop belongs to him.”
“Alice and Harland sittin’ in a tree,” she sang, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
I plugged my ears and sang, “I’m going back someday! Come
what may! To Blue Bayou!” Turtle whacked the dirt and sang a
recipe for succotash.
I spotted Mrs. Parsons and Edna Poppy coming down the
gravel path with their arms linked. From a great distance you
could have taken them for some wacked-out geriatric couple
marching down the aisle in someone’s sick idea of a garden wed-
ding. We waved our arms at them, and Turtle looked up and
waved at us.
“No, we’re waving at them,” I said, and pointed. She turned
and folded and unfolded her hand in the right direction.
Now and again these days, not just in emergencies, we were
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leaving the kids with Edna and Virgie Mae on their front porch to
be looked after. Edna was so sweet we just hoped she would can-
cel out Virgie’s sour, like the honey and vinegar in my famous
Chinese recipe. It was awfully convenient, anyway, and Turtle
seemed to like them okay. She called them Poppy and Parsnip.
She knew the names of more vegetables than many a greengrocer,
I’d bet. Her favorite book was a Burpee’s catalogue from Mattie’s,
which was now required reading every night before she would go
to bed. The plot got old, in my opinion, but she was crazy about
all the characters.
“Ma Poppy,” Turtle said when they were a little closer. She
called every woman Ma something. Lou Ann was Ma Wooahn,
which Lou Ann said sounded like something you’d eat with chop-
sticks, and I was just Ma. We never told her these names, she just
came to them on her own.
The two women were still moving toward us at an unbeliev-
ably slow pace. I thought of a game we used to play in school at
the end of recess: See who can get there last. Edna had on a red
knit top, red plaid Bermuda shorts, and red ladies’ sneakers with
rope soles. Virgie had on a tutti-frutti hat and a black dress
printed all over with what looked like pills. I wondered if there
was an actual place where you could buy dresses like that, or if
after hanging in your closet for fifty years, regular ones would
somehow just transform.
“Good afternoon, Lou Ann, Taylor, children,” Mrs. Parsons
said, nodding to each one of us. She was so formal it made you
want to say something obscene. I thought of Lou Ann’s compul-
sions in church.
“Howdy do,” Lou Ann said, and waved at a bench. “Have a
sit.” But Mrs. Parsons said no thank you, that they were just out
for their constitutional.
“I see you’re wearing my favorite color today, Edna,” I said.
This was a joke. I’d never seen her in anything else. When she
said red was her color, she meant it in a way most people don’t.
“Oh, yes, always.” She laughed. “Do you know, I started to
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dress in red when I was sixteen. I decided that if I was to be a
Poppy, then a Poppy I would be.”
Edna said the most surprising things. She didn’t exactly look
at you when she spoke, but instead stared above you as though
there might be something wonderful hanging just over your head.
“Well, we’ve heard all about that before, haven’t we?” said
Mrs. Parsons, clamping Edna’s elbow in a knucklebone vice-grip.
“We’ll be going along. If I stand still too long my knees are
inclined to give out.” They started to move away, but then Mrs.
Parsons stopped, made a little nod, and turned around. “Lou Ann,
someone was looking for you this morning. Your husband, or
whatever he may be.”
“You mean Angel?” She jumped so hard she bumped the
stroller and woke up Dwayne Ray, who started howling.
“I wouldn’t know,” Virgie said, in such a way that she might as
well have said, “How many husbands do you have?”
“When, this morning while I was at the laundromat?”
“I have no idea where you were, my dear, only that he was
here.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he would come back later.”
Lou Ann bounced the baby until he stopped crying. “Shit,”
she said, quite a few minutes later when they’d moved out of
earshot. “What do you think that means?”
“Maybe he wanted to deliver a check in person. Maybe he
wants to go on a second honeymoon.”
“Sure,” she said, looking off at the far side of the park. She
was still jiggling Dwayne Ray, possibly hadn’t noticed he’d
stopped crying.
“Why do you think she puts up with that coot?” I asked.
“What coot, old Vicious Virgie you mean? Oh, she’s harmless.”
Lou Ann settled the baby back into his stroller. “She reminds me
of Granny Logan. She’s that type. One time Granny introduced
me to some cousins by marriage of hers, I was wearing this brand-
new midi-skirt I’d just made? And she says, ‘This is my grand-
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daughter Lou Ann. She isn’t bowlegged, it’s just her skirt makes
her look that way.’ ”
“Oh, Lou Ann, you poor thing.”
She frowned and brushed at some freckles on her shoulder, as
though they might suddenly have decided to come loose. “I read
a thing in the paper this morning about the sun giving you skin
cancer,” she said. “What does it look like in the early stages, do
you know?”
“No. But I don’t think you get it from sitting out one after-
noon.”
She pushed the stroller back and forth in an absent-minded
way, digging a matched set of ruts into the dust. “Come to think
of it, though, I guess that’s a little different from the way Mrs.
Parsons is. Somehow it’s more excusable to be mean to your own
relatives.”
She rubbed her neck and turned her face to the sun again.
Lou Ann’s face was small and rounded in a pretty way, like an egg
sunny side up. But in my mind’s eye I could plainly see her dash-
ing out the door on any given day, stopping to say to the mirror:
“Ugly as homemade sin in the heat of summer.” No doubt she
could see Granny Logan in there too, staring over her shoulder.
After a while I said, “Lou Ann, I have to know something for
Turtle’s and my sake, so tell me the honest truth. If Angel wanted
to come back, I mean move back in and have everything the way
it was before, would you say yes?”
She looked at me, surprised. “Well, what else could I do? He’s
my husband, isn’t he?”
There may have been a world of things I didn’t understand, but
I knew when rudeness passed between one human being and
another. The things Mrs. Parsons had said about aliens were
wrong and unkind, and I still felt bad even though weeks had
passed. Eventually I apologized to Estevan. “She’s got a mean
streak in her,” I told him. “If you’re unlucky enough to get ahold
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of a dog like that, you give it away to somebody with a big farm.
I don’t know what you do about a neighbor.”
Estevan shrugged. “I understand,” he said.
“Really, I don’t think she knew what she was saying, about
how the woman and kid who got shot must have been drug deal-
ers or whatever.”
“Oh, I believe she did. This is how Americans think.” He was
looking at me in a thoughtful way. “You believe that if something
terrible happens to someone, they must have deserved it.”
I wanted to tell him this wasn’t so, but I couldn’t. “I guess
you’re right,” I said. “I guess it makes us feel safe.”
Estevan left Mattie’s every day around four o’clock to go to
work. Often he would come down a little early and we’d chat
while he waited for his bus. “Attending my autobus” was the way
he put it.
“Can I tell you something?” I said. “I think you talk so beauti-
fully. Ever since I met you I’ve been reading the dictionary at
night and trying to work words like constellation and scenario into
the conversation.”
He laughed. Everything about him, even his teeth, were so
perfect they could have come from a book about the human body.
“I have always thought you had a wonderful way with words,” he
said. “You don’t need to go fishing for big words in the dictionary.
You are poetic, mi’ija.”
“What’s miha?”
“Mi hija,” he pronounced it slowly.
“My something?”
“My daughter. But it doesn’t work the same in English. We
say it to friends. You would call me mi’ijo.”
“Well, thank you for the compliment,” I said, “but that’s the
biggest bunch of hogwash, what you said. When did I ever say
anything poetic?”
“Washing hogs is poetic,” he said. His eyes actually twinkled.
His bus pulled up and he stepped quickly off the curb, catch-
ing the doorway and swinging himself in as it pulled away. That is
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just how he would catch a bus in Guatemala City, I thought. To
go teach his classes. But he carried no books, no graded exams,
and the sleeves of his pressed white shirt were neatly rolled up for
a night of dishwashing.
I felt depressed that evening. Mattie, who seemed to know no
end of interesting things, told me about the history of Roosevelt
Park. I had just assumed it was named after one of the
Presidents, but it was for Eleanor. Once when she had been trav-
eling across the country in her own train she had stopped here
and given a speech right from a platform on top of her box car. I
suppose it would have been a special type of box car, decorated,
and not full of cattle and bums and such. Mattie said the people
sat out in folding chairs in the park and listened to her speak
about those less fortunate than ourselves.
Mattie didn’t hear Eleanor Roosevelt’s speech, naturally, but
she had lived here a very long time. Thirty years ago, she said, the
homes around this park belonged to some of the most fortunate
people in town. But now the houses all seemed a little senile,
with arthritic hinges and window screens hanging at embarrass-
ing angles. Most had been subdivided or otherwise transformed
in ways that favored function over beauty. Many were duplexes.
Lee Sing’s was a home, grocery, and laundromat. Mattie’s, of
course, was a tire store and sanctuary.
Slowly I was coming to understand exactly what this meant.
For one thing, people came and went quietly. And stayed quietly.
Around to the side of Mattie’s place, above the mural Lou Ann and
I called Jesus Around the World, there was an upstairs window that
looked out over the park. I saw faces there, sometimes Esperanza’s
and sometimes others, staring across the empty space.
Mattie would occasionally be gone for days at a time, leaving
me in charge of the shop. “How can you just up and go? What if
I get a tractor tire in here?” I would ask her, but she would just
laugh and say, “No chance.” She said that tire dealers were like
veterinarians. There’s country vets, that patch up horses and birth
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calves, and there’s the city vets that clip the toenails off poodles.
She said she was a city vet.
And off she would go. Mattie had numerous cars that ran, but
for these trips she always took the four-wheel Blazer and her
binoculars, and would come back with the fenders splattered
with mud. “Going birdwatching” is what she always told me.
After she returned, a red-haired man named Terry sometimes
came by on his bicycle and would spend an hour or more upstairs
at Mattie’s. He didn’t look any older than I was, but Mattie told
me he was already a doctor. He carried his doctor bag in a special
rig on the back of his bike.
“He’s a good man,” she said. “He looks after the ones that get
here sick and hurt.”
“What do you mean, that get here hurt?” I asked.
“Hurt,” she said. “A lot of them get here with burns, for
instance.”
I was confused. “I don’t get why they would have burns,” I
persisted.
She looked at me for so long that I felt edgy. “Cigarette
burns,” she said. “On their backs.”
The sun was setting, and most of the west-facing windows on
the block reflected a fierce orange light as if the houses were on
fire inside, but I could see plainly into Mattie’s upstairs. A woman
stood at the window. Her hair was threaded with white and fell
loose around her shoulders, and she was folding a pair of men’s
trousers. She moved the flats of her hands slowly down each
crease, as if folding these trousers were the only task ahead of her
in life, and everything depended on getting it right.
True to his word, Angel came back. He didn’t come to move in,
but to tell Lou Ann he was going away for good. I had taken
Turtle for a doctor’s appointment so I didn’t witness the scene;
all I can say is that the man had a genuine knack for dropping
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bombshells at home while someone was sitting in Dr. Peli-
nowsky’s waiting room. But of course, I had no real connection
to Angel’s life. It was just a coincidence.
Turtle was healthy as corn, but as time went by I got to think-
ing she should have been taken to a doctor, in light of what had
been done to her. (Lou Ann’s main question was: Shouldn’t you tell
the police? Call 88-CRIME or something? But of course it was all
in the past now.) I had thought of asking Terry, the red-haired doc-
tor on the bicycle, but couldn’t quite get up the gumption. Finally
I called for an appointment with the famous Dr. P., on Lou Ann’s
recommendation, even though he wasn’t exactly the right kind of
doctor. His nurse agreed that he could see my child this once.
We found the doctor’s office all right, but checking her in was
another story. They gave me a form to fill out which contained
every possible question about Turtle I couldn’t answer. “Have you
had measles?” I asked her. “Scabies? Date of most recent polio
vaccination?” The one medical thing I did know about her past
was not on the form, unless they had a word for it I didn’t know.
Turtle was in my lap but had turned loose of me completely,
since she needed both arms to turn through the pages of her
magazine in search of vegetables. She wasn’t having much luck.
Every other woman in that waiting room was pregnant, and every
magazine was full of nursing-bra ads.
I knew how to trample my way through most any situation,
but you can’t simply invent a person’s medical history. I went up
and tapped on the glass to get the nurse’s attention. I saw that she
was actually pregnant too, and I felt an old panic. In high school
we used to make jokes about the water fountains outside of cer-
tain home rooms.
“Yes?” she said. Her name tag said Jill. She had white skin and
broad pink stripes of rouge in front of her ears.
“I can’t answer these questions,” I said.
“Are you the parent or guardian?”
“I’m the one responsible for her.”
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“Then we need the medical history before we can fill out an
encounter form.”
“But I don’t know that much about her past,” I said.
“Then you are not the parent or guardian?”
This was getting to be a trip around the fish pond. “Look,” I
said. “I’m not her real mother, but I’m taking care of her now.
She’s not with her original family anymore.”
“Oh, you’re a foster home.” Jill was calm again, shuffling
through a new stack of papers. She blinked slowly in a knowing
way that revealed pink and lavender rainbows of makeup on her
eyelids. She handed me a new form with far fewer questions on
it. “Did you bring in your DES medical and waiver forms?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, remember to bring them next time.”
By the time we got in to see Dr. Pelinowsky I felt as though
I’d won this man in one of those magazine contests where you
answer fifty different questions about American cheese. He was
fiftyish and a little tired-looking. His shoulders slumped, leaving
empty space inside the starched shoulders of his white coat. He
wore black wing-tip shoes, I noticed, and nylon socks with tiny
sea horses above the ankle bones.
Turtle became clingy again when I pulled off her T-shirt. She
squeezed wads of my shirt tail in both fists while Dr. Pelinowsky
thumped on her knees and shined his light into her eyes.
“Anybody home?” he asked. The only time she perked up at all
was when he looked in her ears and said, “Any potatoes in there?”
Her mouth made a little O, but then she spaced out again.
“I didn’t really think she’d turn out to be sick, or anything like
that. She’s basically in good shape,” I said.
“I wouldn’t expect to turn up anything clinically. She appears
to be a healthy two-year-old.” He looked at his clip board.
“The reason I brought her in is I’m concerned about some stuff
that happened to her awhile ago. She wasn’t taken care of very
well.” Dr. Pelinowsky looked at me, clicking his ballpoint pen.
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“I’m a foster parent,” I said, and then he raised his eyebrows and
nodded. It was a miracle, this new word that satisfied everyone.
“You’re saying that she was subjected to deprivation or abuse
in the biological parents’ home,” he said. His main technique
seemed to be telling you what you’d just said.
“Yes. I think she was abused, and that she was,” I didn’t know
how to put this. “That she was molested. In a sexual way.”
Dr. Pelinowsky took in this information without appearing to
notice. He was scribbling something on the so-called encounter
form. I waited until he finished, thinking that I was going to have
to say it again, but he said, “I’ll give her a complete exam, but
again I wouldn’t expect to turn up anything now. This child has
been in your care for five months?”
“More or less,” I said. “Yes.”
While he examined her he explained about abrasions and con-
tusions and the healing process. I thought of how I’d handled
Jolene Shanks exactly this way, as calm as breakfast toast, while
her dead husband lay ten feet away under a sheet. “After this
amount of time we might see behavioral evidence,” Dr. P. said,
“but there is no residual physical damage.” He finished scribbling
on the form and decided it would be a good idea to do a skeletal
survey, and that sometime soon we ought to get her immuniza-
tions up to date.
I was curious to see the x-ray room, which was down a hall in
another part of the office. Everything was large and clean, and
they had a machine that turned out the x-rays instantly like a
Polaroid camera. I don’t believe Dr. Pelinowsky really understood
how lucky he was. I used to spend entire afternoons in a little
darkroom developing those things, sopping the stiff plastic sheets
through one and another basin of liquid, then hanging them up
on a line with tiny green clothespins. I used to tell Mama it was
nothing more than glorified laundry.
We had to wait awhile to see him again, while he saw another
patient and then read Turtle’s x-rays. I hung around asking the
technician questions and showing Turtle where the x-rays came
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out, though machines weren’t really her line. She had one of her
old wrestling holds on my shoulder.
When we were called back to Dr. Pelinowsky’s office again he
looked just ever so slightly shaken up. “What is it?” I asked him.
All I could think of was brain tumors, I suppose from hanging
around Lou Ann, who had learned all she knew about medicine
from General Hospital.
He laid some of the x-rays against the window. Dr. Pelinowsky’s
office window looked out onto a garden full of round stones and
cactus. In the dark negatives I could see Turtle’s thin white bones
and her skull, and it gave me the same chill Lou Ann must have felt
to see her living mother’s name carved on a gravestone. I shivered
inside my skin.
“These are healed fractures, some of them compound,” he
said, pointing with his silver pen. He moved carefully through the
arm and leg bones and then to the hands, which he said were an
excellent index of age. On the basis of height and weight he’d
assumed she was around twenty-four months, he said, but the
development of cartilage in the carpals and metacarpals indicated
that she was closer to three.
“Three years?”
“Yes.” He seemed almost undecided about telling me this.
“Sometimes in an environment of physical or emotional depriva-
tion a child will simply stop growing, although certain internal
maturation does continue. It’s a condition we call failure to
thrive.”
“But she’s thriving now. I ought to know, I buy her clothes.”
“Well, yes, of course. The condition is completely reversible.”
“Of course,” I said.
He put up more of the x-rays in the window, saying things like
“spiral fibular fracture here” and “excellent healing” and “some
contraindications for psychomotor development.” I couldn’t really
listen. I looked through the bones to the garden on the other side.
There was a cactus with bushy arms and a coat of yellow spines
as thick as fur. A bird had built her nest in it. In and out she flew
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among the horrible spiny branches, never once hesitating. You
just couldn’t imagine how she’d made a home in there.
Mattie had given me the whole day off, so I had arranged to
meet Lou Ann at the zoo after Turtle’s appointment. We took
the bus. Mattie and I hadn’t gotten around to fixing the ignition
on my car, so starting it up was a production I saved for special
occasions.
On the way over I tried to erase the words “failure to thrive”
from my mind. I prepared myself, instead, for the experience of
being with Lou Ann and the kids in a brand-new set of hazards.
There would be stories of elephants going berserk and trampling
their keepers; of children’s little hands snapped off and swallowed
whole by who knows what seemingly innocent animal. When I
walked up to the gate and saw her standing there with tears
streaming down her face, I automatically checked Dwayne Ray in
his stroller to see if any of his parts were missing.
People were having to detour around her to get through the
turnstile, so I led her to one side. She sobbed and talked at the
same time.
“He says he’s going to join up with any rodeo that will take a
one-legged clown, which I know isn’t right because the clown’s
the hardest job, they jump around and distract them so they won’t
tromple on the cowboys’ heads.”
I was confused. Was there an elephant somewhere in this
story? “Lou Ann, honey, you’re not making sense. Do you want to
go home?”
She shook her head.
“Then should we go on into the zoo?”
She nodded. I managed to get everybody through the turnstile
and settled on a bench in the shade between the duck pond and
the giant tortoises. The sound of water trickling over a little
waterfall into the duck pond made it seem cool. I tried to get the
kids distracted long enough for Lou Ann to tell me what was up.
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“Look, Turtle, look at those old big turtles,” I said. The words
“childhood identity crisis” from one of Lou Ann’s magazines
sprang to mind, but Turtle seemed far more interested in the nib-
bled fruit halves strewn around their pen. “Apple,” she said. She
seemed recovered from her doctor’s visit.
“He said something about the Colorado-Montana circuit,
which I don’t even know what that means, only that he’s leaving
town. And he said he might not be sending any checks for a while
until he’d got on his feet. He actually said on his foot, can you
believe that? The way Angel sees himself, it’s like he’s an artificial
leg with a person attached.”
A woman on a nearby bench stopped reading and tilted her
head back a little, the way people do when they want to overhear
your conversation. She had on white sneakers, white shorts, and
a visor. It looked as if she must have been on her way to a coun-
try club to play tennis before some wrongful bus change landed
her here.
“It’s her husband that’s the problem,” I told the woman. “He’s
a former rodeo man.”
“Taylor!” Lou Ann whispered, but the woman ignored us and
took a drag from her cigarette, which she balanced beside her on
the front edge of the bench. She shook out her newspaper and
folded back the front page. It showed a large color picture of Liz
Taylor with a black man in a silver vest and no shirt, and there
was a huge block headline that said, WORLD’S YOUNGEST MOM-TO-
BE: INFANT PREGNANT AT BIRTH. Apparently the headline wasn’t
related to the picture.
A kid with orange foam-rubber plugs in his ears whizzed by on
a skateboard. Another one whizzed right behind him. They had a
fancy way of tipping up their boards to go over the curbs.
“They shouldn’t allow those in here. Somebody will get
killed,” Lou Ann said, blowing her nose. I noticed that one of the
giant tortoises in the pen was pursuing another one around and
around a clump of shrubby palm trees.
“So what about Angel?” I asked.
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A woman in a flowery dress sat down on the bench with the
country-club woman. She had very dark, tightly wrinkled skin and
wore enormous green high-heeled pumps. The country-club
woman’s cigarette, on the bench between them, waved up a little
boundary line of smoke.
“He said there would be papers to sign for the divorce,” Lou
Ann said.
“So what’s the problem, exactly?” I didn’t mean to be unkind.
I really didn’t know.
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“Well, to be honest, I don’t think it much matters what you
do. It probably doesn’t make any difference what kind of a
divorce you get, or even if you get one at all. The man is gone,
honey. If he stops sending checks I don’t imagine there’s anything
to be done, not if he’s out riding the range in God’s country. I
guess you’ll have to look for a job, sooner or later.”
Lou Ann started sobbing again. “Who would want to hire me?
I can’t do anything.”
“You don’t necessarily have to know how to do something to
get a job,” I reasoned. “I’d never made a french fry in my life
before I got hired at the Burger Derby.” She blew her nose again.
“So how’d she get born pregnant?” the green-shoes woman
asked the woman with the newspaper.
“It was twins, a boy and a girl,” the woman told her. “They had
sexual intercourse in the womb. Doctors say the chances against
it are a million to one.”
“Yeah,” the green-shoes woman said in a tired way. She bent
over and shuffled through a large paper shopping bag, which was
printed with a bright paisley pattern and had sturdy-looking green
handles. All three of us waited for her to say something more, or
to produce some wonderful answer out of her bag, but she didn’t.
Lou Ann said to me, in a quieter voice, “You know, the worst
thing about it is that he wouldn’t ask me to come with him.”
“Well, how in the world could you go with him? What about
Dwayne Ray?”
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“It’s not that I’d want to, but he could have asked. He did say
if I wanted to come along he wouldn’t stop me, but he wouldn’t
actually say he wanted me to.”
“I don’t follow you, exactly.”
“You know, that was always just the trouble with Angel. I
never really felt like he would put up a fight for me. I would have
left him a long time ago, but I was scared to death he’d just say,
‘Bye! Don’t let the door hit your butt on the way out.’ ”
“Well, maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want you, Lou Ann.
Maybe he’s just got better sense than to ask you and a four-
month-old baby to come along on the Montana-Colorado circuit,
or whatever. I can just see it. Dwayne Ray growing up to be one
of those tattooed midgets that do somersaults in the sideshow
and sell the popcorn at intermission.”
“It’s not a circus, for God’s sake, it’s a rodeo.” Lou Ann honked
in her handkerchief and laughed in spite of herself.
At the edge of the pond there was a gumball machine full of
peanuts, for feeding to the ducks, I presumed. But these ducks
were so well fed that even where peanuts were scattered by the
fistful at the water’s edge they just paddled right on by with beady,
bored eyes.
Turtle dug one out of the mud and brought it to me. “Bean,”
she said.
“This is a peanut,” I told her.
“Beanut.” She made trip after trip, collecting peanuts and
mounding them into a pile. Dwayne Ray, in his stroller, was sleep-
ing soundly through his first zoo adventure.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the x-rays, and how Turtle’s
body was carrying around secret scars that would always be there.
I wanted to talk to Lou Ann about it, but this wasn’t the time.
“So why are you taking his side?” Lou Ann wanted to know.
“I’m not taking his side. Whose side?”
“You are too. Or at least you’re not taking mine. Whenever I
complain about Angel you won’t agree with me that he’s a scum
bucket. You just listen and don’t say anything.”
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I picked up a green bottle cap and threw it in the duck pond.
The ducks didn’t even turn their heads. “Lou Ann,” I said, “in
high school I used to lose friends that way like crazy. You think
he’s a scum bucket now, but sooner or later you might want him
back. And then you’d be too embarrassed to look me in the eye
and admit you’re still in love with this jerk whose anatomical parts
we’ve been laughing about for the last two months.”
“It’s over between me and Angel. I know it is.”
“Just the same. I don’t want you to have to choose him or me.”
She dug through her purse looking for a clean handkerchief.
“I just can’t get over him leaving like that.”
“When, now or last October?” I was starting to get annoyed.
“He moved out over six months ago, Lou Ann. Did you think he’d
just stepped out for some fresh air? It’s April now, for God’s sake.”
“Did you see that?” Lou Ann pointed at Turtle. Her head had
bobbed up like an apple on a string, and her eyes fixed on me as
if she had seen the Lord incarnate.
“What’s up, Turtle?” I asked, but she just stared fearfully from
her pile of peanuts.
“She did that one other time that I know of. When we were
talking about the phone bill you thought we’d got gypped on,”
Lou Ann said.
“So what are you saying, that she understands when we’re
mad? I already knew that.”
“No, I’m saying that bill was for April. She looks up when you
say April, especially if you sound mad.”
Turtle did look up again.
“Don’t you get it?” Lou Ann asked.
I didn’t.
“That’s her name! April’s her name!” Now Lou Ann was kind
of hopping in her seat. “April, April. Looky here, April. That’s your
name, isn’t it? April!”
If it was her name, Turtle had had enough of it. She had gone
back to patting the sides of her peanut mound.
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“You have to do it scientifically,” I said. “Say a bunch of other
words and just casually throw that one in, and see if she looks up.”
“Okay, you do it. I can’t think of enough words.”
“Rhubarb,” I said. “Cucumber. Porky Pig. Budweiser. April.”
Turtle looked up right on cue.
“May June July August September!” Lou Ann shouted. “April!”
“Lord, Lou Ann, the child isn’t deaf.”
“It’s April,” she declared. “That’s her legal name.”
“Maybe it’s something that just sounds like April. Maybe it’s
Mabel.”
Lou Ann made a face.
“Okay, April, that’s not bad. I think she’s kind of used to Turtle
though. I think we ought to keep calling her that now.”
A fat duck with a shiny green head had finally decided Turtle’s
cache of peanuts was too much to ignore. He came up on shore
and slowly advanced, stretching his neck forward.
“Ooooh, oooh!” Turtle shouted, shaking her hands so vigor-
ously that he wheeled around and waddled back toward the
water.
“Turtle’s okay for a nickname,” Lou Ann said, “but you have to
think of the future. What about when she goes to school? Or like
when she’s eighty years old? Can you picture an eighty-year-old
woman being called Turtle?”
“An eighty-year-old Indian woman, I could. You have to
remember she’s Indian.”
“Still,” Lou Ann said.
“April Turtle, then.”
“No! That sounds like some weird kind of air freshener.”
“So be it,” I said, and it was.
We sat for a while listening to the zoo sounds. There were more
trees here than most places in Tucson. I’d forgotten how trees full of
bird sounds made you sense the world differently: that life didn’t
just stop at eye level. Between the croaks and whistles of the black-
birds there were distant cat roars, monkey noises, kid noises.
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“I’ll swan, the sound of that running water’s making me have
to go,” Lou Ann said.
“There’s bathrooms over by where we came in.”
Lou Ann took a mirror out of her purse. “Death warmed over,”
she said, and went off to find a bathroom.
The giant tortoise, I noticed, had caught up to its partner and
was proceeding to climb on top of it from behind. Its neck and
head strained forward as it climbed, and to tell the truth, it
looked exactly like a bald, toothless old man. The knobby shells
scraping together made a hollow sound. By the time Lou Ann
came back from the bathroom, the old fellow on top was letting
out loud grunts that rang out all the way down to the military
macaws.
“What on earth? I could hear that noise up by the bathrooms,”
Lou Ann declared. “Well, I’ll be. I always did wonder how they’d
do it in those shells. That’d be worse than those panty girdles we
used to wear in high school to hold our stockings up. Remember
those?”
A teenage couple holding hands bounced up to investigate,
giggled, and moved quickly away. A woman with an infant on her
hip turned the baby’s head away and walked on. Lou Ann and I
laughed till we cried. The country-club woman gave us a look,
folded her paper, stabbed out her cigarette, and crunched off
down the gravel path.
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N I N E
Ismene
Esperanza tried to kill herself. Estevan came to the back door
and told me in a quiet voice that she had taken a bottle of baby
aspirin.
I couldn’t really understand why he had come. “Shouldn’t you
be with her?” I asked.
He said she was with Mattie. Mattie had found her almost
immediately and rushed her to a clinic she knew of in South
Tucson where you didn’t have to show papers. I hadn’t even
thought of this—all the extra complications that must have filled
their lives even in times of urgency. Mattie once told me about a
migrant lemon picker in Phoenix who lost a thumb in a machine
and bled to death because the nearest hospital turned him away.
“Is she going to be all right?”
How could he know? But he said yes, that she was. “They
might or might not have to vacuum her stomach,” he explained.
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He seemed to know the whole story, including the ending, and I
began to suspect it was something that had happened before.
It was after sunset and the moon was already up. A fig grew
by the back door, an old, stubborn tree that was slow to leaf out.
The moon threw shadows of fig branches that curled like empty
hands across Estevan’s face and his chest. Something inside this
man was turning inside out.
He followed me into the kitchen where I had been cutting up
carrots and cubes of cheese for Turtle’s lunch tomorrow.
To keep my hands from shaking I pushed the knife carefully
through stiff orange carrot flesh against the cutting board. “I don’t
really know what to say when something like this happens,” I told
him. “Anything I can think of to talk about seems ridiculous next
to a person’s life or death.”
He nodded.
“Can I get you something? Did you eat?” I opened the refrig-
erator door, but he waved it shut. “At least a beer, then,” I said. I
opened two beers and set one on the table in front of him. From
my earliest memory, times of crisis seemed to end up with women
in the kitchen preparing food for men. “I can see right now that
I’m going to do one of two things here,” I told Estevan. “Either
shove food at you, or run off at the mouth. When I get nervous I
fall back on good solid female traditions.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not hungry, so talk.” I had never heard
him say, “It’s okay,” before. Restaurant work was corrupting
Estevan’s perfect English.
I took his statement to mean that it was okay to talk about
things that weren’t especially important, so I did. “Lou Ann took
the baby over to her mother-in-law’s for some kind of a weekend-
long reunion,” I said, swallowing too much beer. “They still con-
sider her part of the family, but of course she won’t go over when
Angel’s there so they have to work it all out, but now of course it’s
easier since Angel’s left town. It’s totally nuts. See, they’re
Catholic, they don’t recognize divorce.” I felt my face go red. “I
guess you’re Catholic too.”
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But he wasn’t offended. “More or less,” he said. “Catholic by
birth.”
“Did you have any idea she was going to do this?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“There’s not a thing you could have done, anyway. Really.” I
swept the carrot pieces into a plastic bag and put it in the refrig-
erator. “I knew this kid in high school, Scotty Richey? Everybody
said Scotty was a genius, mainly because he was real quiet and
wore these thick glasses and understood trigonometry. He killed
himself on his sixteenth birthday, just when everybody else was
thinking, ‘Well, now Scotty’ll learn to drive and maybe get a car
and go out on dates,’ you know, and that his complexion was
bound to clear up and so forth. Bang, they find him dead in a
barn with all these electrical wires strung around his neck. In the
paper they said it was an accident but nobody actually believed
that. Scotty had done probably five hundred different projects
with electricity for 4-H.”
“Four-H?”
“It’s a club for farm kids where you raise lambs or make an
apron or wire a den lamp out of a bowling pin, things like that. I
never was in it. You had to pay.”
“I see.”
“Do you want to sit in the living room?” I asked him. He fol-
lowed me into the other room and I scooted Snowboots off the
sofa. When Estevan sat down next to me my heart was bumping
so hard I wondered if I was going to have a heart attack. Just what
Estevan needed would be another woman falling apart on him.
“So nobody could understand about Scotty,” I said. “But the
way I see it is, he just didn’t have anybody. In our school there
were different groups you would run with, depending on your sta-
tion in life. There were the town kids, whose daddies owned the
hardware store or what have you—they were your cheerleaders
and your football players. Then there were hoodlums, the motor-
cycle types that cut down trees on Halloween. And then there
were the rest of us, the poor kids and the farm kids. Greasers, we
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were called, or Nutters. The main rule was that there was abso-
lutely no mixing. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes,” he said. “In India they have something called the caste
system. Members of different castes cannot marry or even eat
together. The lowest caste is called the Untouchables.”
“But the Untouchables can touch each other?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s it, exactly. The Nutters were the bottom of the
pile, but we had each other. We all got invited to the prom and
everything, from inside our own group. But poor Scotty with his
electricity and his trigonometry, he just didn’t belong to any
group. It was like we were all the animals on Noah’s ark that
came in pairs, except of his kind there was only the one.”
It struck me how foolishly I was chattering about something
that was neither here nor there. Mama would call this “rattling
your teeth.” I drank about half my beer without saying another
word.
Then I said, “I could kind of see it with Scotty, but Esperanza
had somebody. Has somebody. How could she want to leave you?
It’s not fair.” I realized I was furious with Esperanza. I wondered
if he was too, but didn’t dare ask. We sat there in the shadowy liv-
ing room thinking our thoughts. You could hear us swallowing
beer.
Then out of the clear blue sky he said, “In Guatemala City
the police use electricity for interrogation. They have something
called the ‘telephone,’ which is an actual telephone of the type
they use in the field. It has its own generator, operated by a han-
dle.” He held up one hand and turned the other one in a circle in
front of the palm.
“A crank? Like the old-fashioned telephones?”
“Operated with a crank,” he said. “The telephones are made
in the United States.”
“What do you mean, they use them for interrogation? Do you
mean they question you over the telephone?”
Estevan seemed annoyed with me. “They disconnect the
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receiver wire and tape the two ends to your body. To sensitive
parts.” He just stared at me until it hit me like a truck. I felt it in
my stomach muscles, just the way I did when I realized that for
nearly an hour I had been in the presence of Newt Hardbine’s
corpse. There is this horrible thing staring you in the face and
you’re blabbering about bowling-pin lamps and 4-H.
“I’ll get us another beer,” I said. I went to the kitchen and
brought back the rest of the six pack, carrying it by the plastic
rings like a purse. I popped two of them open and plumped back
down on the sofa, no longer caring what I looked like. The
schoolgirl nerves that had possessed me half an hour ago seemed
ridiculous now; this was like having a crush on some guy only to
find out he’s been dating your mother or your math teacher. This
man was way beyond me.
“I don’t know exactly how to say this,” I said. “I thought I’d
had a pretty hard life. But I keep finding out that life can be hard
in ways I never knew about.”
“I can see that it would be easier not to know,” he said.
“That’s not fair, you don’t see at all. You think you’re the for-
eigner here, and I’m the American, and I just look the other way
while the President or somebody sends down this and that,
shiploads of telephones to torture people with. But nobody asked
my permission, okay? Sometimes I feel like I’m a foreigner too. I
come from a place that’s so different from here you would think
you’d stepped right off the map into some other country where
they use dirt for decoration and the national pastime is having
babies. People don’t look the same, talk the same, nothing. Half
the time I have no idea what’s going on around me here.”
A little shadow moved in the doorway and we both jumped. It
was Turtle.
“You’re a rascal,” I said. “You hop back to bed this minute.”
She took one hop backwards, and both Estevan and I tried
not to smile. “This minute,” I said, in the meanest voice I could
muster. She hopped backwards through the door, clapping her
hands one time with each hop. We could hear her hopping and
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clapping all the way back through the kitchen and into bed.
Snowboots jumped onto the back of the sofa and sat behind my
neck, waiting for something. He made me nervous.
“All I am saying is, don’t be so sure until you have all the
facts,” Estevan said. “You cannot know what Esperanza has had
to live through.”
I was confused. He was picking up the middle of a conversa-
tion I didn’t even know we’d started.
“No,” I said. “I don’t. Or you either.”
He looked away from me and touched the corners of his eyes,
and I knew he was crying in the secret way men feel they have to
do. He said something I couldn’t hear very well, and a name,
“Ismene.”
I shoved Snowboots gently away from the back of my neck.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you remember the day we walked in the desert? And you
asked why Esperanza was staring at Turtle, and I told you she
looked very much like a child we knew in Guatemala.” I nodded.
“The child was Ismene.”
I was afraid to understand this. I asked him if he meant that
Ismene was their daughter, and Estevan said yes, that she was.
She was taken in a raid on their neighborhood in which
Esperanza’s brother and two friends were killed. They were mem-
bers of Estevan’s teachers’ union. He told me in what condition
they had found the bodies. He wasn’t crying as he told me this,
and I wasn’t either. It’s hard to explain, but a certain kind of hor-
ror is beyond tears. Tears would be like worrying about water-
marks on the furniture when the house is burning down.
Ismene wasn’t killed; she was taken.
Try as I would, I couldn’t understand this. I was no longer so
stupid as to ask why they didn’t call the police, but still I couldn’t
see why they hadn’t at least tried to get her back if they knew the
police had taken her, and where. “Don’t be upset with me,” I said.
“I know I’m ignorant, I’m sorry. Just explain it to me.”
But he wasn’t upset. He seemed to get steadier and more
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patient when he explained things, as if he were teaching a class.
“Esperanza and I knew the names of twenty other union mem-
bers,” he said. “The teachers’ union did not have open meetings.
We worked in cells, and communicated by message. Most people
knew only four other members by name. This is what I am say-
ing: In Guatemala, you are careful. If you want to change some-
thing you can find yourself dead. This was not the—what do you
call? The P.T.A.”
“I understand.”
“Three members had just been killed, including Esperanza’s
brother, but seventeen were still alive. She and I knew every one
of those seventeen, by name. Can you understand that this made
us more useful alive than dead? For us to go after Ismene is what
they wanted.”
“So they didn’t kill her, they just held her? Like . . . I don’t
know what. A worm on a goddamn hook?”
“A goddamn hook.” He was looking away from me again.
“Sometimes, after a while, usually . . . these children are adopted.
By military or government couples who cannot have children.”
I felt numb, as if I had taken some drug. “And you picked the
lives of those seventeen people over getting your daughter back?”
I said. “Or at least a chance at getting her back?”
“What would you do, Taylor?”
“I don’t know. I hate to say it, but I really don’t know. I can’t
even begin to think about a world where people have to make
choices like that.”
“You live in that world,” he said quietly, and I knew this, but I
didn’t want to. I started to cry then, just tears streaming out all
over and no stopping them. Estevan put his arm around me and I
sobbed against his shoulder. The dam had really broken.
I was embarrassed. “I’m going to get snot on your clean shirt,”
I said.
“I don’t know what it is, snot.”
“Good,” I said.
There was no way on earth I could explain what I felt, that my
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whole life had been running along on dumb luck and I hadn’t
even noticed.
“For me, even bad luck brings good things,” I told him finally.
“I threw out a rocker arm on my car and I got Turtle. I drove over
broken glass on an off ramp and found Mattie.” I crossed my
arms tightly over my stomach, trying to stop myself from gulping
air. “Do you know, I spent the first half of my life avoiding moth-
erhood and tires, and now I’m counting them as blessings?”
Turtle showed up in the doorway again. I don’t know how long
she had been there, but she was looking at me with eyes I hadn’t
seen on her since that night on the Oklahoma plain.
“Come here, pumpkin,” I said. “I’m okay, just sprung a leak,
don’t you worry. Do you want a drink of water?” She shook her
head. “Just want to cuddle a few minutes?” She nodded, and I
took her on my lap. Snowboots jumped onto the sofa again. I
could feel the weight of him moving slowly across the back and
down the other arm, and from there he curled into Estevan’s lap.
In less than a minute Turtle was asleep in my arms.
When I was a child I had a set of paper dolls. They were
called the Family of Dolls, and each one had a name written on
the cardboard base under the feet. Their names were Mom, Dad,
Sis, and Junior. I played with those dolls in a desperate, loving
way until their paper arms and heads disintegrated. I loved them
in spite of the fact that their tight-knit little circle was as far
beyond my reach as the football players’ and cheerleaders’ circle
would be in later years.
But that night I looked at the four of us there on the sofa and
my heart hurt and I thought: in a different world we could have
been the Family of Dolls.
Turtle wiggled. “No,” she said, before she was even awake.
“Yes,” I said. “Time for bed.” I carried her in and tucked her
under the sheet, prying her hand off my T-shirt and attaching it
to her yellow stuffed bear, which had a pink velvet heart sewed
onto its chest.
“Sleep tight, don’t let the potato bugs bite.”
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“Tato bite,” she said.
When I came back Snowboots had moved from Estevan’s lap
and curled into the little depression where I had been. I sat in the
space between them with my feet tucked under me. I no longer
felt self-conscious, though I could feel almost a pull, like a flow
of warm water, at the point where our knees touched.
“It seems like, if you get to know them well enough, every-
body has had something awful happen to them. All this time I’ve
been moping around because of having the responsibility of
Turtle forced on me, and now I feel guilty.”
“That responsibility is terrible if you don’t want it.”
“Oh, big deal. The exact same thing happened to about sixty
percent of the girls in my high school, if not the whole world.”
“If you look at it that way,” he said. He was falling asleep.
“I guess that’s just the way the world has got to go around. If
people really gave it full consideration, I mean, like if you could
return a baby after thirty days’ examination like one of those
Time-Life books, then I figure the entire human species would go
extinct in a month’s time.”
“Some people wouldn’t send them back,” he said. “I would
have kept Ismene.” His eyes were closed.
“Did you get up in the middle of the night to do the feeding
and diapering?”
“No,” he said, smiling a little.
“I can’t believe I’m even asking you that. Does it hurt you a lot
to talk about Ismene?”
“At first, but not so much now. What helps me the most is to
know her life is going on somewhere, with someone. To know she
is growing up.”
“Sure,” I said, but I knew there was another side to this, too.
Where she was growing up, what they would raise her to be. I
thought of Turtle being raised by Virgie Mae Parsons, learning to
look down her nose and wear little hats, and then I got it mixed
up with police uniforms. A little later I realized I had been asleep.
We both rolled in and out of sleep in a friendly way. You can’t be
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nervous if you’re sleeping on the same sofa with somebody, I
thought. Letting your mouth fall open any old way.
Snowboots jumped off the sofa. I heard his claws scratch the
carpet as he covered up his sins.
“Why did they call you Nutters?” I remember Estevan asking
at some point. I thought and thought about it, trying to fight my
way out of some dream where Turtle and I were trying to get to
the other side of a long, flat field. We had to follow the telephone
wires to get to civilization.
“Nutters,” I said finally. “Oh, because of walnuts. In the fall,
the kids that lived in the country would pick walnuts to earn
money for school clothes.”
“Did you have to climb the trees?” Estevan amazed me. That
he would be interested in details like that.
“No. Basically you waited till they fell, and then picked them
up off the ground. The worst part was that to get the hulls off
you’d have to put them in the road for cars to run over, and then
you’d pick the nuts out of the mess. It stained your hands black,
and then you were marked. That was the worst part, to go to
school with black hands and black fingernails. That was proof
positive you were a Nutter.”
“But otherwise you would have no new clothes.”
“Right. So you were damned if you didn’t and damned if you
did. I guess the ideal thing,” I conjectured, half dreaming, “would
have been to get clothes with good, deep pockets.” I meant so
that you could hide your hands, but I had a picture in my mind
of skirts and trousers with pockets full of pounds and pounds of
walnuts. Ten cents a pound is what we got for them. A hundred
and fifty pounds equaled one pair of Levi’s.
Later I woke up again, feeling the pressure of Snowboots’s
feet walking down my leg, then hearing them thump on the floor.
Estevan and I were curled like spoons on the sofa, his knees
against the backs of my knees and his left hand on my ribs, just
under my breast. When I put my hand on top of his I could feel
my heart beating under his fingers.
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I thought of Esperanza, her braids on her shoulders. Esperanza
staring at the ceiling. She would be lying on a cot somewhere,
sweating the poison out of her system. Probably they had given her
syrup of ipecac, which makes you keep throwing up until you can
feel the sides of your stomach banging together. All of Esperanza’s
hurts flamed up in my mind, a huge pile of burning things that
the world just kept throwing more onto. Somewhere in that pile
was a child that looked just like Turtle. I lifted Estevan’s hand from
my ribcage and kissed his palm. It felt warm. Then I slid off the
sofa and went to my own bed.
Moonlight was pouring in through the bedroom window like a
watery version of my mother’s potato soup. Moon soup, I thought,
hugging myself under the covers. Somewhere in the neighborhood
a cat yowled like a baby, and somewhere else, closer by, a rooster
crowed, even though it was nowhere near daybreak.
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T E N
The Bean Trees
Even a spotted pig looks black at night. This is another thing
Mama used to tell me quite often. It means that things always
look different, and usually better, in the morning.
And they did. Mattie called first thing to say that Esperanza
was going to be all right. They hadn’t pumped her stomach after
all because she hadn’t taken enough to do much harm. I made
Estevan a big breakfast, eggs scrambled with tomatoes and pep-
pers and green chile sauce, and sent him home before I could
start falling in love with him again over the breakfast dishes.
Turtle woke up in one of those sweet, eye-rubbing moods that
kids must know by instinct as a means of saving the human
species from extinction. Lou Ann came home from the Ruiz fam-
ily reunion singing “La Bamba.”
It’s surprising, considering Roosevelt Park, but we always
heard birds in the morning. There must be transients in the bird
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world too, rumple-feathered outcasts that naturally seek out each
other’s company in inferior and dying trees. In any case, there
were lots of them. There was a type of woodpecker that said, “Ha,
ha, ha, to hell with you!” I swear it did. And another one, a little
pigeony-looking bird, said, “Hip hip hurroo.” Lou Ann insisted
that it was saying “Who Cooks for Who?” She said she had read it
in a magazine. I had a hard time imagining what kind of magazine
would go into something like that, but I wasn’t about to argue. It
was the first time I could remember her hanging on to her own
opinion about something—Lou Ann not normally being inclined
in that direction. One time in a restaurant, she’d once told me, a
waiter mistakenly brought her somebody else’s dinner and she
just ate it, rather than make trouble. It was beef shingles on toast.
Gradually Lou Ann and I were changing the house around,
filling in the empty spaces left behind by Angel with ABC books
and high chairs and diaper totes and all manner of toys, all larger
than a golf ball. I had bought Turtle a real bed, junior size, from
New To You. We turned the screen porch in the back into a play-
room for the kids, not that Dwayne Ray did any serious playing
yet, but he liked to sit out there strapped in his car seat watching
Turtle plant her cars in flowerpots. The fire engine she called
“domato,” whereas the orange car was “carrot.” Or sometimes she
called it “Two-Two,” which is what I had named my Volkswagen,
after the man who profited from my rocker arm disaster.
I had considered putting Turtle’s bed out there on the porch
too, but Lou Ann said it wouldn’t be safe, that someone might
come along and slash the screen and kidnap her before you could
say Jack Robinson. I never would have thought of that.
But it didn’t matter. The house was old and roomy; there was
plenty of space for Turtle’s bed in my room. It was the type of
house they called a “rambling bungalow” (the term reminded me
somehow of Elvis Presley movies), with wainscoting and steam
radiators and about fifty coats of paint on the door frames, so that
you could use your thumbnail to scrape out a history of all the
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house’s tenants as far back as the sixties, when people were fond
of painting their woodwork apple green and royal blue. The ceil-
ings were so high you just learned to live with the cobwebs.
It wasn’t unreasonably hot yet, and the kids were bouncing
around the house like superballs (this was mainly Turtle, with
Dwayne Ray’s participation being mainly vocal), so we took them
out to sit under the arbor for a while. The wisteria vines were a
week or two past full bloom, but the bees and the perfume still
hung thick in the air overhead, giving it a sweet purplish hue. If
you ignored the rest of the park, you could imagine this was a
special little heaven for people who had lived their whole lives
without fear of bees.
Lou Ann was full of gossip from her weekend with the Ruiz
cousins. Apparently most of them spoke English, all the men
were good-looking and loved to dance, and all the women had
children Dwayne Ray’s age. She had about decided that every sin-
gle one of them was nicer than Angel, a conclusion to which they
all heartily agreed, even Angel’s mother. A large portion of the
flock were preparing to move to San Diego.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, “first Manny and Ramona, you
remember, the friends I told you about that saw the meteor
shower? And now two of Angel’s brothers and their wives and
kids. You’d think they’d discovered gold out there. Angel used to
always talk about moving to California too, but I’ll tell you this
right now, Mama would have had an apoplectic. She thinks in
California they sell marijuana in the produce section of the gro-
cery store.”
“Maybe they do. Maybe that’s why everybody wants to live
there.”
“Not me,” Lou Ann said. “Not for a million, and I’ll tell you
why, too. In about another year they’re due to have the biggest
earthquake in history. I read about it someplace. They say all of
San Diego might just end up in the ocean, like noodle soup.”
“I guess the sharks will be happy,” I said.
“Taylor, I swear! These are my relatives you’re talking about.”
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“Angel’s relatives,” I said. “You’re practically divorced.”
“Not to hear them tell it,” Lou Ann said.
Turtle was staring up at the wisteria flowers. “Beans,” she said,
pointing.
“Bees,” I said. “Those things that go bzzzz are bees.”
“They sting,” Lou Ann pointed out.
But Turtle shook her head. “Bean trees,” she said, as plainly as
if she had been thinking about it all day. We looked where she
was pointing. Some of the wisteria flowers had gone to seed, and
all these wonderful long green pods hung down from the
branches. They looked as much like beans as anything you’d ever
care to eat.
“Will you look at that,” I said. It was another miracle. The
flower trees were turning into bean trees.
On the way home Lou Ann went to the corner to buy a news-
paper. She was seriously job-hunting now, and had applied at a
couple of nursery schools, though I could just hear how Lou Ann
would ask for a job: “Really, ma’am, I could understand why you
wouldn’t want to hire a dumb old thing such as myself.”
Turtle and I walked the other way, since we needed to stop in
at the Lee Sing Market for eggs and milk. Lou Ann refused to set
foot in there these days, saying that Lee Sing always gave her the
evil eye. Lou Ann’s theory was that she was mad at her for having
had Dwayne Ray instead of a girl, going against some supposedly
foolproof Chinese method of prediction. My theory was that Lou
Ann suffered from the same disease as Snowboots: feeling guilty
for things beyond your wildest imagination.
In any case, today Lee Sing was nowhere to be seen. She
often went back to check on her famous century-old mother, the
source of Mattie’s purple beans, whom neither Lou Ann nor I had
ever laid eyes on, though not for lack of curiosity. According to
Mattie no one had sighted her for years, but you always had the
feeling she was back there.
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Lee Sing had left her usual sign by the cash register: BE BACK
ONE MINUTE, PLEASE DO NO STEAL ANY THING. LEE SING. I spotted
Edna Poppy in paper goods, the next aisle over from the dairy
case. As best I could see, Edna was sniffing different brands of
toilet tissue.
“Edna! Miss Poppy!” I called out. When I needed to call her
by name I generally hedged my bets and used both first and last.
Her head popped up and she seemed confused, looking all around.
“It’s me, Taylor. Over here.” I came around into the aisle
where she had parked her cart. “Where’s Mrs. Parsons today?” I
stopped dead in my tracks. Edna had a white cane.
“Virgie is ill in bed with a croup, I’m sorry to say. She sent me
out to get fresh lemons and a drop of whiskey. And of course a
few other unmentionables.” She smiled, dropping a package of
orange toilet paper into the cart. “Can you tell me, dear, if these
are lemons or limes I have?” She ran her hand over her goods and
held up a lopsided plastic bag of yellow fruits.
Edna Poppy was blind. I stood for a minute staring, trying to
reorganize things in my mind the way you would rearrange a
roomful of furniture. Edna buying all her clothes in one color,
ever since age sixteen. Virgie’s grip on her elbow. I remembered
the fantasy I’d constructed the day of our dinner party: Edna hap-
pily discovering red bobby pins in the drug-store. I’d had it com-
pletely wrong. It would have been Virgie Mae who found them,
plucked them down off the rack of Oreo-cookie barrettes, and
purchased them for her friend.
“Are you with me, dear?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Lemons. They’re kind of small, but they
look just fine.”
When I got home I asked Lou Ann if she knew. She insisted I
was making the whole thing up. “Is this a joke?” she kept asking.
“Because if it is, it’s a sick one.”
“It’s not a joke. She had a white cane. She asked me if what
she had was lemons or limes. Think about it, the way she kind of
looks over your head when she talks. The way Virgie leads her
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around. How Virgie always says everybody’s name when the two
of them come into a room.”
Lou Ann was horrified. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my mer-
ciful heavens, I feel about this big. When I think about all the
times I’ve just bounced over there and said, ‘See ya this! See ya
that! Thanks for keeping an eye on Dwayne Ray.’ ”
“I don’t think she’d mind. Her eyes are her hands. And Virgie.
She has her own special ways of keeping an eye on things,” I told
Lou Ann, and this seemed to make her feel better.
On Monday afternoon I asked if it would be okay if I went up to
see Esperanza. I had never been upstairs at Mattie’s and for
some reason I felt it was off limits, but she said fine, to go on
up. I went through the cramped study, which of course was still
piled high with Mattie’s dead husband’s magazines (I knew by
now that he had been dead many years, so it seemed unlikely
that his mess would clear up any time soon) and on up the stair-
case into Mattie’s living room.
It had the same crowded, higgledy-piggledy look as the office
downstairs, though the stuff here had more to do with everyday
living: junk mail, bills, pencils, magazines with color pictures of
people like Tom Selleck and the President (not Jesus), a folded
newspaper with a half-worked crossword puzzle, the occasional
pliers or screwdriver. It was the type of flotsam and jetsam (a pair
of words I had just learned from the dictionary) that washes up
on your coffee table, lies around for a week or so, and then makes
way for whatever comes in on the next tide.
Every surface was covered: tables, chairs, walls. Over the fire-
place there was a big cross made up of hundreds of small, brightly
glazed pieces of tile, each one shaped like something: a boy, a
dog, a house, a palm tree, a bright blue fish. Together they all
added up to a cross. I had never seen anything like it.
The wall across from the fireplace was covered with pictures
of every imaginable size and shape. There were snapshots of peo-
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ple squinting into the sun, a few studio portraits of children, pic-
tures of Mattie flanked by other people, all of them dark and
shorter than herself. There were a number of children’s drawings.
I remembered Mattie telling me when we’d first met that she had
“something like” grandchildren around, how that had struck me
as such a peculiar thing to say.
I noticed that practically all the kids’ drawings had guns in
them somewhere, and huge bullets suspended in the air, hanging
on the dotted lines that flowed like waterfalls out of the gun bar-
rels. There were many men in turtle-shaped army helmets. One
picture showed a helicopter streaming blood.
The living room had no windows, just doors opening off in
four directions. An older woman came in with a cardboard box
and looked at me with surprise, asking something in Spanish. I
had never before seen anyone whose entire body looked sad. Her
skin just seemed to hang from her, especially from her arms above
the elbows, and her jaw.
“Esperanza,” I said, and she nodded toward a door at the
back.
That room seemed to belong in another house—it was empty.
The walls were an antique-looking shade of light pink, completely
bare except for a cross with two palm fronds stuck behind it, over
one of the beds. The two beds were neatly made up with rough-
looking blue blankets that surely no one would sleep under in this
weather. Esperanza was not in either bed, but sitting up in a
straight-backed chair by the window. She looked up when I
knocked on the door casement.
“Hi, I came to see how you were doing.”
She got up from the chair and offered it to me. She sat on the
bed. I don’t believe she had been doing anything at all, just sitting
with her hands in her lap.
We looked at each other for a second, then looked at other
things in the room, of which there were painfully few. I didn’t
know why I’d thought I’d have the nerve to do this.
“How are you feeling now? Are you feeling better? Your stom-
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ach’s okay?” I put my hand on my stomach. Esperanza nodded,
then looked at her hands.
I had lost my directions somewhere when I came into the
house. I looked out the window expecting to see Roosevelt Park,
but this was not that window. We were at the back of the house.
From here you got a terrific bird’s-eye view of Lee Sing’s back gar-
den. I wondered if you might catch a peek at Lee Sing’s old
mother from up here, if you stayed at your post long enough.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I said, “I think Esperanza’s a
beautiful name. Estevan told me it means to wait, and also to
hope. That in Spanish the same word means both things. But I
thought it was pretty even before I knew it meant anything. It
reminded me of, I don’t know, a waterfall or something.”
She nodded.
“Taylor doesn’t mean anything that interesting. A tailor hems
up people’s pants and stuff like that.”
Her mouth stretched a little bit in the direction of a smile.
But her eyes looked blank. Dark, black holes.
“You understand basically everything I’m saying, right?”
She nodded again.
“I think that’s how Turtle is, too, but people always forget.
They think she doesn’t take in any more than she puts out, but I
know better, I can tell she understands stuff. It’s something about
the way she looks at you.”
Esperanza kept staring at her empty hands. I wished I had
something to put in them, something that would be wonderful for
her to look at.
“I hope you don’t mind me talking about Turtle.”
Her eyes flew up at me like a pair of blackbirds scared out of
safe hiding.
“Estevan told me about Ismene,” I said. “I’m sorry. When I
first found out you’d taken pills, I couldn’t understand it, why
you’d do such a thing to yourself. To Estevan. But when he told
me that. God, how does a person live with something like that?”
She looked away. This conversation would have been hard
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enough even with two people talking. No matter what I said, it was
sure to be the exact wrong thing to say to someone who recently
swallowed a bottle of baby aspirin. But what would be right? Was
there some book in the library where you could look up such things?
“I guess the main thing I came up here to tell you is, I don’t
know how you go on, but I really hope you’ll keep doing it. That
you won’t give up esperanza. I thought of that last night.
Esperanza is all you get, no second chances. What you have to do
is try and think of reasons to stick it out.”
She had tears in her eyes, but that seemed better somehow
than nothing at all. “It’s terrible to lose somebody,” I said, “I mean,
I don’t know firsthand, but I can imagine it must be. But it’s also
true that some people never have anybody to lose, and I think
that’s got to be so much worse.”
After a long time I said, “He’s crazy about you.”
I went over and took one of the hands in her lap and held it
for a second. Her skin felt cold and emptied-out, like there was
nobody home.
As I left to go back to work I saw the woman with the card-
board box, still in the living room. She was sorting through a
handful of possessions she had laid out on the sofa—a black skirt,
a small book bound in red vinyl, a framed photograph, a pair of
baby’s sneakers tied together by the laces—and carefully putting
them back into the box.
On Wednesday, just as I was finishing up the last patch of the
day and getting ready to head for home, I spotted Lou Ann step-
ping off the bus at the Roosevelt stop. I yelled for her to wait
up, and she came over and talked to me while I used the water
hose to wash the black dust off my hands. One thing I can tell
you right now about tires: they’re dirty business.
Lou Ann had just been for a job interview at a convenience
store on the north side. She’d left Turtle and Dwayne Ray with
Edna and Mrs. Parsons.
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“So the first thing the guy says to me is ‘We get a lot of armed
robberies in here, sweetheart.’ He kept on calling me sweetheart
and talking to my boobs instead of my face, this big flabby guy
with greasy hair and you just know he reads every one of those
porno magazines they keep behind the counter. ‘Lots of stickups,
sweetheart, how do you hold up under pressure?’ he says.
Holdup, that was his idea of a big hilarious joke. Jeez, the whole
thing gave me the creeps from the word go.”
I could see that she had dressed up for this interview: a nice
skirt, ironed blouse, stockings, pumps. In this heat. The humilia-
tion of it made me furious. “Something better’s bound to come
along,” I said. “You can hold out.” I wiped my hands on a towel,
hollered goodbye to Mattie, and we headed down the sidewalk.
“I hate that place,” she said, nodding back over her shoulder
at Fanny Heaven.
“Yeah,” I said. “But on the bright side, Mattie says they don’t
do a whole lot of business. She thinks having a place called Jesus
Is Lord right next door kind of puts a hex on it.”
Lou Ann shuddered. “That door’s what gets me. The way they
made that door handle. Like a woman is something you shove on
and walk right through. I try to ignore it, but it still gets me.”
“Don’t ignore it, then,” I said. “Talk back to it. Say, ‘You can’t
do that number on me you shit-for-brains,’ or something like that.
Otherwise it kind of weasels its way into your head whether you
like it or not. You know those hard-boiled eggs they keep around
in jars of vinegar, in bars? It’s like that. After a while they get to
tasting awful, and it’s not the egg’s fault. What I’m saying is you
can’t just sit there, you got to get pissed off.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
“The thing about you, Taylor, is that you just don’t let anybody
put one over on you. Where’d you ever learn to be like that?” Lou
Ann wanted to know.
“Nutter school.”
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E L E V E N
Dream Angels
In the third week of May, Lou Ann got a job as a packer in the
Red Hot Mama’s salsa factory. This meant that she stood elbow
to elbow with about a hundred other people in a sweaty packing
line dicing chiles and tomatillos and crushing garlic cloves into
moving vats, with so much salsa slopping onto the floor that by
the end of the day it sloshed around their ankles. The few who
hoped to preserve their footwear wore those clear, old-fashioned
rainboots that button on over your shoes. Most people gave up
the effort. On days when they were packing extra hot, their
ankles burned as if they were standing on red ant hills.
The ones that handled the chiles grew accustomed to tingling
fingertips, and learned never to touch their eyes or private parts
(or anyone else’s), not even on their days off. No matter how they
scrubbed their hands, the residue of Red Hot Mama had a way of
sticking around, as pesty and persistent as a chaperone at a high
school dance.
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Truly this was a sweatshop. Half the time the air conditioner
didn’t work at all, and all the time the fumes made everyone’s
eyes water so furiously that contact lenses could not be worn on
the premises. Lou Ann’s vision was 20/20, so this wasn’t a prob-
lem, nor was any of the rest of it for that matter. Lou Ann loved
her job.
If Red Hot Mama’s had given out enthusiastic-employee
awards Lou Ann would have needed a trophy case. She brought
home samples and tried out recipes, some of which would even-
tually be printed on the jar labels, and some of which would not,
God willing. She gave us lectures on how the tiniest amount of
cilantro could make or break the perfect salsa. Six months ago I’d
never heard of salsa. Now I was eating it on anything from avoca-
dos to pot roast.
It came in three speeds: the jars with green lids were “mild,”
whereas pink meant “hot.” The red-lidded jars were so-called
“firecracker style.” The latter was not a big hit with the kids.
Turtle would cry and pant at just the slightest taste, fanning her
tongue and eyeing Lou Ann like she was some spy that had tried
to poison us. Dwayne Ray had better sense than to let the stuff
enter his mouth.
“Enough already,” I told Lou Ann. “How about we just put the
jar on the table and use the honor system?” On my nights to cook
I made the blandest things I could think of: broiled white fish and
mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese, to give our taste buds
a chance to grow back.
But Lou Ann had bought the company propaganda, hook,
line, and sinker. “It’s good for you,” she said. “Some doctors rec-
ommend a teaspoon a day to prevent ulcers. Plus it clears your
sinuses.”
I informed Lou Ann that, thank you very much, my sinuses
had just about vacated the premises.
Telling it this way it sounds like a lot of fights, but actually I
was liking Lou Ann a great deal these days. In the few weeks
since she’d started working, she had begun to cut her hair far less
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often and finally stopped comparing her figure to various farm
animals. Having a job of her own seemed to even out some of
Lou Ann’s wrinkled edges.
She mostly worked swing shift, which meant that she left at
three in the afternoon, leaving the kids with Edna Poppy and
Mrs. Parsons until I came home a couple of hours later. For the
longest time Lou Ann was scared to say two words to Edna, for
fear she might let slip some reference to eyes. Finally I cleared
the air, just stating right out to Edna that for a great while we
hadn’t realized she was blind, because she got on so well. Edna
had just assumed we knew all along. She took it as a compliment,
that it wasn’t the first thing we noticed about her.
Once she started swing shift Lou Ann’s experimental family
dinners, featuring Five-Alarm Casserole and so forth, were lim-
ited to her days off. Most of the time I fed the kids and put them
to bed before Lou Ann came home at eleven. Then she and I
would eat a late supper, or on nights when it was still too hot to
look a plate of food in the eye, we’d sit at the kitchen table fan-
ning ourselves in our underwear, reading the paper, and drinking
iced coffee. Sleep was hopeless anyway. But mostly we’d talk. At
first all she could ever talk about was cilantro and tomatillos and
the people at Red Hot Mama’s, but after a time things got back
to normal. She would leaf through the paper and read me all the
disasters.
“Listen at this: ‘Liberty, Kansas. The parents and doctor of
severely deformed Siamese twins joined at the frontal lobe of the
brain have been accused of attempting to murder the infants by
withholding medical care.’ Lord, you can’t really blame them, can
you? I mean, what would you do? Is it better to be totally retarded
and deformed and miserable, or just plain old dead?”
“I honestly couldn’t say,” I said. “Not having been either one.”
Although, when I thought about it, being dead seemed a lot like
not being born yet, and I hadn’t especially minded that. But I
didn’t give it a lot of thought. I was interested in the weather fore-
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cast. We hadn’t had a drop of rain since that double-rainbow hail-
storm back in January, and the whole world was looking parched.
When you walked by a tree or a bush it just looked like it ached,
somehow. I had to drag the water hose around to the back every
day for Mattie’s squash and beans. The noise of the cicadas was
enough to drive you to homicide. Mattie said it was their love
call, that they mated during the hottest, driest weeks of the year,
but it was beyond belief that any creature—even another
cicada—would be attracted by that sound. It was a high, scream-
ing buzz, a sound that hurt your eyes and made your skin shrink,
a sound in the same class with scratched-up phonograph records
and squeaking chalk.
Lou Ann, who had lived here long enough to make the associ-
ation, said the sound of the cicadas made her hot. For me it went
way beyond that. I used the air hose to blast the accursed insects
out of the low branches of the Palo Verde trees around Mattie’s,
sending them diving and screaming off through the air like bottle
rockets. Every time I walked past the mural of Jesus Is Lord I
begged Him for rain.
But every day the paper said: No precipitation expected.
“Remember that time at the zoo?” Lou Ann asked, still occu-
pied with the Liberty, Kansas, horror. “About those Siamese twins
born pregnant, or whatever it was?”
“I remember the giant turtles,” I said.
Lou Ann laughed. “Now how’s a turtle manage to be pregnant,
I’d like to know. Do they get maternity shells? I almost feel like
going back to see how she’s doing.”
“Do you know what Estevan told me?” I asked Lou Ann. “In
Spanish, the way to say you have a baby is to say that you give it
to the light. Isn’t that nice?”
“You give the baby to the light?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I was reading a piece about earthquakes under
the ocean. They cause giant waves, but in a ship you can’t feel it
at all, it just rolls under you.
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I twisted my hair into a knot to try and get it off my sweaty
neck. I looked enviously at Lou Ann’s blond head, cropped like a
golf course.
“I was so sure Dwayne Ray was going to be a Siamese twin or
something,” she said. “Because I was so big. When he was born I
had to ask the doctor about fifteen times if he was normal, before
it sunk in. I just couldn’t believe he was okay.”
“And now you just can’t believe he’s going to get through a day
without strangling or drowning in an ice chest,” I said, but in a
nice way. I put down the paper and gave Lou Ann my attention.
“Why do you think you’re such a worry wart, if you don’t mind my
asking?”
“Taylor, can I tell you something? Promise you won’t tell any-
body. Promise me you won’t laugh.”
“Cross my heart.”
“I had this dream, one week after he was born. This angel
came down, I guess from the sky—I didn’t see that part. He was
dressed kind of modern, in a suit, you know? With a brown tie?
But he was an angel, I’m positive—he had wings. And he said: ‘I
was sent to you from the future of this planet.’ Then he told me
my son would not live to see the year two thousand.”
“Lou Ann, please.”
“But no, that’s not even the scariest part. The next morning
my horoscope said, ‘Listen to the advice of a stranger.’ Now don’t
you think that’s got to mean something? That part’s real, it’s not a
dream. I cut it out and saved it. And Dwayne Ray’s said some-
thing about avoiding unnecessary travel, which I took to mean,
you know, traveling through life. Not that you could avoid that. So
what on earth was I supposed to do? It scared me to death.”
“You were just looking for a disaster, that’s all. You can’t deny
you hunt for them, Lou Ann, even in the paper. If you look hard
enough you can always come up with what you want.”
“Am I just completely screwed up, Taylor, or what? I’ve always
been this way. My brother and I used to play this game when we
were little, with a cigar box. That box was our best toy. It had this
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slinky lady in a long red dress on the inside of the lid, with her
dress slit way up to here. It’s a wonder Granny Logan didn’t con-
fiscate it. She was holding out a cigar I think, I s’pose she was a
Keno girl or something, but we said she was a gypsy. We’d make
believe that you could say to her, ‘Myself at the age of fourteen.’
Or whatever age, you know, and then we’d look in the box and
pretend we could see what we looked like. My brother would go
all the way up to ninety. He’d say, ‘I see myself with a long beard.
I live in a large white house with seventeen dogs’ and on and on.
He loved dogs, see, and Mama and Granny would only let him
have just Buster. But me, I was such a chicken liver, I’d just go a
couple of weeks into the future at the very most. I’d look at
myself the day school was going to start in September, maybe,
and say, ‘I am wearing a new pink dress.’ But I’d never, never go
up even to twenty or twenty-five. I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“That I’d be dead. That I’d look in the box and see myself
dead.”
“But it was just pretend. You could have seen yourself any way
you wanted to.”
“I know it. But that’s what I thought I’d see. Isn’t that the
most ridiculous thing?”
“Maybe it was because of your father. Maybe you got kind of
hung up on death, because of him dying.”
“I’m just totally screwed up, that’s all there is to it.”
“No, Lou Ann. You have your good points too.”
Usually Lou Ann spit out compliments you tried to feed her
like some kind of nasty pill, but that night her blue eyes were
practically pleading with me. “What good points?” she wanted to
know.
“Oh gosh, tons of them,” I faltered. It’s not that it was a hard
question, but I was caught off guard. I thought a minute.
“The flip side of worrying too much is just not caring, if you
see what I mean,” I explained. “Dwayne Ray will always know
that, no matter what, you’re never going to neglect him. You’ll
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never just sit around and let him dehydrate, or grow up without a
personality, or anything like that. And that would be ever so much
worse. You read about it happening in the paper all the time.” I
meant it; she did. “Somebody forgetting a baby in a car and let-
ting it roast, or some such thing. If anything, Lou Ann, you’re just
too good of a mother.”
She shook her head. “I’m just a total screwed-up person,” she
said. “And now I’m doing the same thing to poor Dwayne Ray.
But I can’t help it, Taylor, I can’t. If I could see the future, if
somebody offered to show me a picture of Dwayne Ray in the
year 2001, I swear I wouldn’t look.”
“Well, nobody’s going to,” I said gently, “so you don’t have to
worry about it. There’s no such thing as dream angels. Only in the
Bible, and that was totally another story.”
In June a package came from Montana, all cheery and colorful
with stamps and purple postage marks. It contained, among
other things, a pair of child-sized cowboy boots—still years too
big for Dwayne Ray—and a beautiful calfskin belt for Lou Ann.
It was carved or stamped somehow with acorns, oak leaves, and
her name. There was also a red-and-black Indian-beaded hair
clip, which was of course no use to Lou Ann at this particular
point in the life of her hair.
Angel had changed his mind about the divorce. He missed
her. He wanted her to come up and live in Montana in something
called a yurt. If that was not an acceptable option, then he would
come back to Tucson to live with her.
“What in the heck is a yurt anyway?” Lou Ann asked. “It
sounds like dirt.”
“Beats me,” I said. “Look it up.”
She did. “A circular domed tent of skins stretched over a lat-
tice framework,” she read, pronouncing each word slowly without
a Kentucky accent. She pronounced “a” like the letter “A.” “Used
by the Mongol nomads of Siberia.”
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As they say in the papers, I withheld comment.
“So what do you think, Taylor? Do you think it would have a
floor, or plaster walls inside, anything like that? Think the bugs
would get in?”
What popped into my head was: George eats old gray rutaba-
gas and plasters his yurt.
“The part I can’t get over is that he asked for me,” she said.
“He actually says here that he misses me.” She mulled it over and
over, twisting her gold wedding band around her finger. She had
stopped wearing it about the time she started working at the salsa
factory, but now had put it on again, almost guiltily, as though
Angel might have packed a spy into the box along with the belt
and the boots.
“But I’ve got responsibilities now,” she argued, with herself
certainly because I was giving no advice one way or the other. “At
Red Hot Mama’s.”
This was surely true. In just three weeks’ time she had been
promoted to floor manager, setting some kind of company record,
but she refused to see this as proof that she was a good worker.
“They just didn’t have anybody else to do it,” she insisted.
“Practically everybody there’s fifteen years old, or worse.
Sometimes they send over retardeds from that Helpless program,
or whatever the heck it’s called.”
“It’s called the Help-Yourself program, and you know it, so
don’t try to change the subject. The word is handicapped, not
retardeds.”
“Right, that’s what I meant.”
“What about that woman you told me about that breeds
Pekingeses and drives a baby-blue Trans Am? What’s-her-name,
that gave you the I Heart My Cat bumper stickers? And what
about the guy that’s building a hot-air blimp in his backyard? Are
they fifteen?”
“No.” She was flipping the dictionary open and closed, staring
out the window.
“And Sal Monelli, how old’s he?”
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Lou Ann rolled her eyes. Sal Monelli was an unfortunate fel-
low whose name had struck such terror in her heart she forbade
him to touch any food item that wasn’t sealed and crated. Lou
Ann’s life was ruled by the fear of salmonella, to the extent that
she claimed the only safe way to eat potato salad was to stick your
head in the refrigerator and eat it in there.
“He actually wants me to go,” she kept repeating, and even
though she said she wasn’t going to make up her mind right away,
I felt in my bones that sooner or later she’d go. If I knew Lou
Ann, she would go.
It seemed like the world was coming apart at the gussets.
Mattie was gone more than she was home these days, “bird-
watching.” Terry, the red-haired doctor, had moved to the Navajo
reservation up north (to work, not because he had head rights).
Father William looked like he had what people in Pittman call a
case of the nerves.
The last time I’d really had a chance to talk with Mattie, she’d
said there was trouble in the air. Esperanza and Estevan were
going to have to be moved to a safe house farther from the bor-
der. The two best possibilities were Oregon and Oklahoma.
Flat, hopeless Oklahoma. “What would happen if they stayed
here?” I asked.
“Immigration is making noises. They could come in and arrest
them, and they’d be deported before you even had time to sit
down and think about it.”
“Here?” I asked. “They would come into your house?”
Mattie said yes. She also said, as I knew very well, that in that
case Estevan’s and Esperanza’s lives wouldn’t be worth a plugged
nickel.
“That just can’t be right,” I said, “that they would do that to a
person, knowing they’d be killed. There’s got to be some other
way.”
“The only legal way a person from Guatemala can stay here is
if they can prove in court that their life was in danger when they
left.”
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“But they were, Mattie, and you know it. You know what hap-
pened to them. To Esperanza’s brother, and all.” I didn’t say, To
their daughter. I wondered if Mattie knew, but of course she
would have to.
“Their own say-so is no good; they have to have hard proof.
Pictures and documents.” She picked up a whitewall and I
thought she was going to throw it across the lot, but she only
hoisted it onto the top of a pile beside me. “When people run for
their lives they frequently neglect to bring along their file cabinets
of evidence,” she said. Mattie wasn’t often bitter but when she
was, she was.
I didn’t want to believe the world could be so unjust. But of
course it was right there in front of my nose. If the truth was a
snake it would have bitten me a long time ago. It would have had
me for dinner.
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T W E L V E
Into the
Terrible Night
At three o’clock in the afternoon all the cicadas stopped
buzzing at once. They left such an emptiness in the air it hurt
your ears. Around four o’clock we heard thunder. Mattie turned
over the “Closed” sign in the window and said, “Come on. I want
you to smell this.”
She wanted Esperanza to come too, and surprisingly she
agreed. I went upstairs to phone Edna and Mrs. Parsons, though
I practically could have yelled to them across the park, to say I’d
be home later than usual. Edna said that was fine, just fine, the
kids were no trouble, and we prepared to leave. At the last minute
it turned out that Estevan could come too; he had the night off.
The restaurant was closed for some unexpected family celebra-
tion. We all piled into the cab of Mattie’s truck with Esperanza on
Estevan’s lap and me straddling the stick shift. The three of us
had no idea where we were headed, or why, but the air had sparks
in it. I felt as though I had a blind date with destiny, and some-
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one had heard a rumor that destiny looked like Christopher
Reeve.
Mattie said that for the Indians who lived in this desert, who
had lived here long before Tucson ever came along, today was
New Year’s Day.
“What, July the twelfth?” I asked, because that’s what day it
was, but Mattie said not necessarily. They celebrated it on what-
ever day the summer’s first rain fell. That began the new year.
Everything started over then, she said: they planted their crops,
the kids ran naked through the puddles while their mothers
washed their clothes and blankets and everything else they
owned, and they all drank cactus-fruit wine until they fell over
from happiness. Even the animals and plants came alive again
when the drought finally broke.
“You’ll see,” Mattie said. “You’ll feel the same way.”
Mattie turned onto a gravel road. We bounced through several
stream beds with dry, pebbled bottoms scorched white, and even-
tually pulled over on high ground about a mile or so out of town.
We picked our way on foot through the brush to a spot near a
grove of black-trunked mesquite trees on the very top of the hill.
The whole Tucson Valley lay in front of us, resting in its cradle
of mountains. The sloped desert plain that lay between us and
the city was like a palm stretched out for a fortuneteller to read,
with its mounds and hillocks, its life lines and heart lines of dry
stream beds.
A storm was coming up from the south, moving slowly. It
looked something like a huge blue-gray shower curtain being
drawn along by the hand of God. You could just barely see
through it, enough to make out the silhouette of the mountains
on the other side. From time to time nervous white ribbons of
lightning jumped between the mountaintops and the clouds. A
cool breeze came up behind us, sending shivers along the spines
of the mesquite trees.
The birds were excited, flitting along the ground and perching
on thin, wildly waving weed stalks.
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What still amazed me about the desert was all the life it had
in it. Hillbilly that I was, I had come to Arizona expecting an end-
less sea of sand dunes. I’d learned of deserts from old Westerns
and Quickdraw McGraw cartoons. But this desert was nothing
like that. There were bushes and trees and weeds here, exactly
the same as anywhere else, except that the colors were different,
and everything alive had thorns.
Mattie told us the names of things, but the foreign words
rolled right back out of my ears. I only remembered a few. The
saguaros were the great big spiny ones, as tall as normal trees but
so skinny and personlike that you always had the feeling they
were looking over your shoulder. Around their heads, at this time
of year, they wore crowns of bright red fruits split open like
mouths. And the ocotillos were the dead-looking thorny sticks
that stuck up out of the ground in clusters, each one with a flam-
ing orange spike of flower buds at its top. These looked to me like
candles from hell.
Mattie said all the things that looked dead were just dormant.
As soon as the rains came they would sprout leaves and grow. It
happened so fast, she said, you could practically watch it.
As the storm moved closer it broke into hundreds of pieces so
that the rain fell here and there from the high clouds in long,
curving gray plumes. It looked like maybe fifty or sixty fires scat-
tered over the city, except that the tall, smoky columns were flow-
ing in reverse. And if you looked closely you could see that in
some places the rain didn’t make it all the way to the ground.
Three-quarters of the way down from the sky it just vanished into
the dry air.
Rays of sunlight streamed from between the clouds, like the
Holy Ghost on the cover of one of Mattie’s dead husband’s mag-
azines. Lightning hit somewhere nearby and the thunder made
Esperanza and me jump. It wasn’t all that close, really, about two
miles according to Mattie. She counted the seconds between the
lightning strike and the thunder. Five seconds equaled one mile,
she told us.
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One of the plumes of rain was moving toward us. We could
see big drops spattering on the ground, and when it came closer
we could hear them, as loud as pebbles on a window. Coming
fast. One minute we were dry, then we were being pelted with
cold raindrops, then our wet shirts were clinging to our shoulders
and the rain was already on the other side of us. All four of us
were jumping and gasping because of the way the sudden cold
took our breath away. Mattie was counting out loud between the
lightning and thunderclaps: six, seven, boom! . . . four, five, six,
boom! Estevan danced with Esperanza, then with me, holding his
handkerchief under his arm and then twirling it high in the air—
it was a flirtatious, marvelous dance with thunder for music. I
remembered how he and I had once jumped almost naked into
an icy stream together, how long ago that seemed, and how inno-
cent, and now I was madly in love with him, among other people.
I couldn’t stop laughing. I had never felt so happy.
That was when we smelled the rain. It was so strong it
seemed like more than just a smell. When we stretched out our
hands we could practically feel it rising up from the ground. I
don’t know how a person could ever describe that scent. It cer-
tainly wasn’t sour, but it wasn’t sweet either, not like a flower.
“Pungent” is the word Estevan used. I would have said “clean.” To
my mind it was like nothing so much as a wonderfully clean,
scrubbed pine floor.
Mattie explained that it was caused by the greasewood
bushes, which she said produced a certain chemical when it
rained. I asked her if anybody had ever thought to bottle it, it was
so wonderful. She said no, but that if you paid attention you
could even smell it in town. That you could always tell if it was
raining in any part of the city.
I wondered if the smell was really so great, or if it just seemed
that way to us. Because of what it meant.
It was after sunset when we made our way back to the
truck. The clouds had turned pink, then blood red, and then
suddenly it was dark. Fortunately Mattie, who was troubled by
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night-blindness, had thought to bring a flashlight. The night was
full of sounds—bird calls, a high, quivery owl hoot, and some-
thing that sounded like sheep’s baahs, only a hundred times
louder. These would ring out from the distance and then startle
us by answering right from under our feet. Mattie said they
were spadefoot toads. All that noise came from something no
bigger than a quarter. I would never have believed it, except that
I had seen cicadas.
“So how does a toad get into the middle of the desert?” I
wanted to know. “Does it rain toad frogs in Arizona?”
“They’re here all along, smarty. Burrowed in the ground. They
wait out the dry months kind of deadlike, just like everything else,
and when the rain comes they wake up and crawl out of the
ground and start to holler.”
I was amazed. There seemed to be no end to the things that
could be hiding, waiting it out, right where you thought you could
see it all.
“Jeez,” I said, as one of them let out a squall next to my
sneaker.
“Only two things are worth making so much noise about:
death and sex,” Estevan said. He had the devil in him tonight. I
remembered a dream about him from a few nights before, one
that I had not until that minute known I’d had. A very detailed
dream. I felt a flush crawling up my neck and was glad for the
dusk. We were following Mattie’s voice to keep to the trail, con-
centrating on avoiding the embrace of spiny arms in the darkness.
“It’s all one to a toad,” Mattie said. “If it’s not the one, it’s the
other. They don’t have long to make hay in weather like this. We
might not get another good rain for weeks. By morning there’ll be
eggs in every one of these puddles. In two days’ time, even less,
you can see tadpoles. Before the puddles dry up they’ve sprouted
legs and hit the high road.”
We were following behind Mattie in single file now, holding to
one another’s damp sleeves and arms in the darkness. All at once
Esperanza’s fingers closed hard around my wrist. The flashlight
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beam had found a snake, just at eye level, its muscular coils
looped around a smooth tree trunk.
“Better step back easy, that’s a rattler,” Mattie said in a calm
voice. With the flashlight she followed the coils to the end and
pointed out the bulbs on the tail, as clear and fragile-looking as
glass beads. The rattle was poised upright but did not shake.
“I didn’t know they could get up in trees,” I said.
“Sure, they’ll climb. After birds’ eggs.”
A little noise came from my throat. I wasn’t really afraid, but
there is something about seeing a snake that makes your stomach
tighten, no matter how you make up your mind to feel about it.
“Fair’s fair,” Mattie pointed out, as we skirted a wide path
around the tree. “Everybody’s got her own mouths to feed.”
I knew right away that something had gone wrong. Lou Ann was
standing on the front porch waiting and she looked terrible, not
just because she was under a yellow light bulb. She had been
crying, possibly screaming—her mouth looked stretched. She
wasn’t even supposed to be home yet.
I ran up the sidewalk, almost tripping twice on the steps.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
“It’s not me. Taylor, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. I’m so
sorry, Taylor. It’s Turtle.”
“Oh God, no.” I went past her into the house.
Edna Poppy was sitting on the sofa with Turtle in her lap, all
in one piece as far as I could see, but Turtle was changed. All
these months we had spent together were gone for her. I knew it
from her eyes: two cups of black coffee. I remembered exactly,
exactly, how the whites of her eyes had been thin slivers of moon
around the dark centers, how they had glowed orange, on and off,
with the blinking neon sign from that Godforsaken bar.
I didn’t go to her, because I couldn’t. It is that simple. I didn’t
want any of this to be happening.
Mrs. Parsons was standing in the kitchen door with a broom.
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“A bird has got into the house,” she explained, and disappeared
into the kitchen again, and for a confused second I thought she
meant that this was the terrible thing that had happened.
But Lou Ann was right behind me. “They were in the park,
Edna and Turtle. It was so cool after the rain they thought they’d
enjoy the air for a little bit, and Virgie was to come tell them if it
looked like another storm was coming. But Virgie didn’t come,
and Edna never realized it was getting dark.”
“So what happened?” I was sick to my stomach.
“We don’t know, exactly. I’ve called the police and they’re
coming over with a medical examiner or a social worker or,
Christ, I don’t know, somebody that can talk to Turtle.”
“But what happened? How much do you know happened?”
Edna’s eyes looked more glassy than usual. I noticed, now that
I looked at her, that her clothes were a little messed up. Just
traces, the red sweater pulled down on one shoulder, a hole in her
stocking.
“I heard a peculiar sound,” Edna said. She seemed almost in
another world, a hypnotized person speaking out of a trance. “It
sounded just like a bag of flour hitting the dirt. Turtle had been
talking, or singing I suppose would be more like it, and then she
was quiet, just didn’t make a peep, but I heard struggling sounds.
I called out, and then I swung my cane. Oh, I swung it high, so I
wouldn’t hit the baby. I know how tall she is.” She held her hand
just where Turtle’s head would be, if she had been standing on
the floor in front of Edna.
“Did you hit anything?”
“Oh, yes, dear. Yes. I don’t know what, but something that had
some—I’d say some give to it. Do you understand what I mean?
Oh, and I shouted too, some terrible things. The next thing I
knew, I felt a great heavy weight on the hem of my skirt, and that
was Turtle.”
“It took us twenty minutes to get her to turn loose,” Lou Ann
said. Now she was holding on to Edna’s sleeve instead of her hem.
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“Oh my dear, I feel terrible. If I had only thought to come in a
little sooner.”
“It could have happened to anybody, Edna,” Lou Ann said.
“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen, I might
have done the exact same thing. You saved her, is what you did.
Anybody else might have been scared to swing at him.”
Anybody else, I thought, might have seen he had a gun, or a
knife.
Someone knocked at the door and we all jumped. It was the
police, of course, a small man who showed his detective badge
and a woman who said she was a social worker, both of them
dressed in ordinary clothes. Edna told what there was of her story
again. The social worker was a prim-looking strawberry blonde
who was carrying two rag dolls with yarn hair, a boy and a pigtail-
girl. She asked if I was the mother. I nodded, a dumb animal, not
really a mother, and she took me into the hallway.
“Don’t you think a doctor should look at her?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. If we find evidence that she’s been molested
we’ll need to talk with the child about it.”
“She won’t talk,” I said. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”
The social worker put her hand on my arm. “Children do
recover from this kind of thing,” she said. “Eventually they want
to talk about what’s happened to them.”
“No, you don’t understand. She may not talk again at all.
Period.”
“I think you’ll find that your daughter can be a surprisingly
resilient little person. But it’s very important that we let her say
what she needs to say. Sometimes we use these dolls. They’re
anatomically accurate,” she said, and showed me. They were. “A
child generally doesn’t have the vocabulary to talk about these
things, so we encourage her to play with these dolls and show us
what has happened.”
“Excuse me,” I said, and went to the bathroom.
But Mrs. Parsons was in there with the broom. “A bird is in
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the house,” she repeated. “A song sparrow. It came down the
chimney.”
I took the broom out of her hands and chased the bird off its
perch above the medicine cabinet. It swooped through the door-
way into the kitchen, where it knocked against the window above
the sink with an alarming crack, and fell back on the counter.
“It’s dead!” Virgie cried, but it wasn’t. It stood up, hopped to a
sheltered place between a mixing bowl and Lou Ann’s recipe file,
and stood blinking. In the living room they were asking about
medical records. I heard Lou Ann spelling out Dr. Pelinowsky’s
name.
Virgie moved toward the bird slowly, crooning, with her hand
stretched out in front of her. But it took off again full tilt before
she could reach it. I batted it gently with the broom, heading it
off from the living room full of policemen and anatomically accu-
rate dolls, and it veered down the hallway toward the back porch.
Snowboots, at least, didn’t seem to be anywhere around.
“Open the screen door,” I commanded Virgie. “It’s locked, you
have to flip that little latch. Now hold it open.”
Slowly I moved in on the terrified bird, which was clinging
sideways to the screen. You could see its little heart beating
through the feathers. I had heard of birds having heart attacks
from fright.
“Easy does it,” I said. “Easy, we’re not going to hurt you, we
just want to set you free.”
The sparrow darted off the screen, made a loop back toward
the hallway, then flew through the open screen door into the ter-
rible night.
The medical examiner said that there was no evidence Turtle
had been molested. She was shaken up, and there were finger-
shaped bruises on her right shoulder, and that was all.
“All!” I said, over and over. “She’s just been scared practically
back into the womb is all.” Turtle hadn’t spoken once in the days
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since the incident, and was back to her old ways. Now I knew a
word for this condition: catatonic.
“She’ll snap out of it,” Lou Ann said.
“Why should she?” I wanted to know. “Would you? I’ve just
spent about the last eight or nine months trying to convince her
that nobody would hurt her again. Why should she believe me
now?”
“You can’t promise a kid that. All you can promise is that you’ll
take care of them the best you can, Lord willing and the creeks
don’t rise, and you just hope for the best. And things work out,
Taylor, they do. We all muddle through some way.”
This from Lou Ann, who viewed most of life’s activities as
potential drownings, blindings, or asphyxiation; who believed in
dream angels that predicted her son would die in the year 2000.
Lou Ann who had once said to me: “There’s so many germs in the
world it’s a wonder we’re not all dead already.”
I didn’t want to talk to her about it. And she was furious with
me, anyway, saying that I had practically abandoned Turtle since
that night. “Why didn’t you go to her and pick her up? Why did
you just leave her there, with the police and all, chasing that
dumb bird around for heaven’s sake? Chasing that bird like it was
public enemy number one?”
“She was already good and attached to Edna,” I said.
“That’s the biggest bunch of baloney and you know it. She
would have turned loose of Edna for you. The poor kid was look-
ing around the whole time, trying to see where you’d gone.”
“I don’t know what for. What makes anybody think I can do
anything for her?”
I couldn’t sleep nights. I went to work early and left late, even
when Mattie kept telling me to go home. Lou Ann took off a
week from Red Hot Mama’s, putting her new promotion at risk,
just to stay home with Turtle. The three of them—she, Edna, and
Virgie—would sit together on the front porch with the kids, mak-
ing sure we all understood it was nobody’s fault.
And she stalked the neighborhood like a TV detective. “We’re
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going to catch this jerk,” she kept saying, and went knocking on
every door that faced onto the park, insisting to skeptical house-
wives and elderly, hard-of-hearing ladies that they must have seen
something or somebody suspicious. She called the police at least
twice to try and get them to come take fingerprints off Edna’s
cane, on the off-chance that she’d whacked him on the hand.
“I know it was probably some pervert that hangs out at that
sick place by Mattie’s,” Lou Ann told me, meaning Fanny Heaven
of course. “Those disgusting little movies they have, some of
them with kids. Did you know that? Little girls! A guy at work
told me. It had to have been somebody that saw those movies,
don’t you think? Why else would it even pop into a person’s
head?”
I told her I didn’t know.
“If you ask me,” Lou Ann said more than once, “that’s like
showing a baby how to put beans in its ears. I’m asking you,
where else would somebody get the idea to hurt a child?”
I couldn’t say. I sat on my bed for hours looking up words.
Pedophilia. Perpetrator. Deviant. Maleficent. I checked books out
of the library but there weren’t any answers in there either, just
more words. At night I lay listening to noises outside, listening to
Turtle breathe, thinking: she could have been killed. So easily she
could be dead now.
After dinner one night Lou Ann came into my room while the
kids were listening to their “Snow White” record in the living
room. I’d skipped dinner; I wasn’t eating much these days. When
I was young and growing a lot, and Mama couldn’t feed me
enough, she used to say I had a hollow leg. Now I felt like I had
a hollow everything. Nothing in the world could have filled that
space.
Lou Ann knocked softly at the door and then walked in, bal-
ancing a bowl of chicken-noodle soup on a tray.
“You’re going to dry up and blow away, hon,” she said. “You’ve
got to eat something.”
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I took one look and started crying. The idea that you could
remedy such evil with chicken-noodle soup.
“It’s the best I can do,” Lou Ann offered. “I just don’t think
you’re going to change anything with your own personal hunger
strike.”
I put down my book and accepted her hug. I couldn’t remem-
ber when I had felt so hopeless.
“I don’t know where to start, Lou Ann,” I told her. “There’s
just so damn much ugliness. Everywhere you look, some big guy
kicking some little person when they’re down—look what they do
to those people at Mattie’s. To hell with them, people say, let
them die, it was their fault in the first place for being poor or in
trouble, or for not being white, or whatever, how dare they try to
come to this country.”
“I thought you were upset about Turtle,” Lou Ann said.
“About Turtle, sure.” I looked out the window. “But it just
goes on and on, there’s no end to it.” I didn’t know how to explain
the empty despair I felt. “How can I just be upset about Turtle,
about a grown man hurting a baby, when the whole way of the
world is to pick on people that can’t fight back?”
“You fight back, Taylor. Nobody picks on you and lives to tell
the tale.”
I ignored this. “Look at those guys out in the park with no
place to go,” I said. “And women, too. I’ve seen whole families out
there. While we’re in here trying to keep the dry-cleaner bags out
of the kids’ reach, those mothers are using dry-cleaner bags for
their children’s clothes, for God’s sake. For raincoats. And feeding
them out of the McDonald’s dumpster. You’d think that life alone
would be punishment enough for those people, but then the cops
come around waking them up mornings, knocking them around
with their sticks. You’ve seen it. And everybody else saying hooray,
way to go, I got mine, power to the toughest. Clean up the neigh-
borhood and devil take the riffraff.”
Lou Ann just listened.
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“What I’m saying is nobody feels sorry for anybody anymore,
nobody even pretends they do. Not even the President. It’s like
it’s become unpatriotic.” I unfolded my wad of handkerchief and
blew my nose.
“What’s that supposed to teach people?” I demanded. “It’s no
wonder kids get the hurting end of the stick. And she’s so little,
so many years ahead of her. I’m just not up to the job, Lou Ann.”
Lou Ann sat with her knees folded under her, braiding and
unbraiding the end of a strand of my hair.
“Well, don’t feel like the Lone Ranger,” she said. “Nobody is.”
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T H I R T E E N
Night-Blooming
Cereus
Turtle turned out to be, as the social worker predicted, resilient.
Within a few weeks she was talking again. She never did anything
with the anatomical rag dolls except plant them under Cynthia’s
desk blotter, but she did talk some about the “bad man” and how
Ma Poppy had “popped him one.” I had no idea where Turtle had
learned to talk like that, but then Edna and Virgie Mae did have
TV. Cynthia was concerned about Turtle’s tendency to bury the
dollies, believing that it indicated a fixation with death, but I
assured her that Turtle was only trying to grow dolly trees.
Cynthia was the strawberry blonde social worker. We went to
see her on Mondays and Thursdays. Of the two of us, Turtle and
me, I believe I was the tougher customer.
It was a miserable time. As wonderful as the summer’s first
rains had been, they soon wore out their welcome as it rained
every day and soaked the air until it felt like a hot, stale dishcloth
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on your face. No matter how hard I tried to breathe, I felt like I
couldn’t get air. At night I’d lie on top of the damp sheets and
think: breathe in, breathe out. It closed out every other thought,
and it closed out the possibility of sleep, though sometimes I
wondered what was the point of working so hard to stay alive, if
that’s what I was doing. I remembered my pep talk to Esperanza
a few months before, and understood just how ridiculous it was.
There is no point in treating a depressed person as though she
were just feeling sad, saying, There now, hang on, you’ll get over
it. Sadness is more or less like a head cold—with patience, it
passes. Depression is like cancer.
Cynthia had spent a lot of time talking with both of us about
Turtle’s earlier traumas, the things that had happened before I
ever knew her. The story came out of me a little at a time.
But apparently it was no news to a social worker. Cynthia said
that, as horrible as it was, this kind of thing happened often, not
just on Indian reservations but in the most everyday-looking white
frame houses and even places a whole lot fancier than that. She
told me that maybe one out of every four little girls is sexually
abused by a family member. Maybe more.
Surprisingly, hearing this wasn’t really what upset me the
most. Maybe by then I was already numb, or could only begin to
think about the misfortunes of one little girl at a time. But also, I
reasoned, this meant that Turtle was not all alone. At least she
would have other people to talk to about it when she grew up.
But there was other bad news. During the third week of ses-
sions with Cynthia she informed me that it had recently come to
the attention of the Child Protection Services Division of the
Department of Economic Security, in the course of the police
investigation, that I had no legal claim to Turtle.
“No more legal claim than the city dump has on your
garbage,” I said. I think Cynthia found me a little shocking. “I told
you how it was,” I insisted. “Her aunt just told me to take her. If
it hadn’t been me, it would have been the next person to come
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down the road with an empty seat in the car. I guarantee you,
Turtle’s relatives don’t want her.”
“I understand that. But the problem is that you have no legit-
imate claim. A verbal agreement with a relative isn’t good enough.
You can’t prove to the police that it happened that way. That you
didn’t kidnap her, for instance, or that the relatives weren’t
coerced.”
“No, I can’t prove anything. I don’t understand what you’re
getting at. If I don’t have a legal claim on Turtle, I don’t see where
anybody else does either.”
Cynthia had these tawny gold eyes like some member of the
cat family, as certain fair-haired people do. But unlike most peo-
ple she could look you straight in the eye and stay there. I sup-
pose that is part of a social worker’s training.
“The state of Arizona has a claim,” she said. “If a child has no
legal guardian she becomes a ward of the state.”
“You mean, like orphan homes, that kind of thing?”
“That kind of thing, yes. There’s a chance that you could
adopt her eventually, depending on how long you’ve been a resi-
dent of the state, but you would have to qualify through the state
agency. It would depend on a number of factors, including your
income and stability.”
Income and stability. I stared at Cynthia’s throat. In this hot
weather, when everybody else was trying to wear as little as they
could without getting arrested, Cynthia had on a pink-checked
blouse with the collar pinned closed. I remembered hearing her
say, at some point, that she was cool-blooded by nature.
“How soon would this have to happen?” I asked.
“It will take two or three weeks for the paperwork to get to a
place where it’s going to get noticed. After that, someone from
Child Protection and Placement will be in touch with you.”
The pin at her throat was an ivory and flesh-colored cameo
that looked antique. As Turtle and I were leaving I asked if it was
something that had come down through her family.
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Cynthia fingered the cameo and laughed. “I found it in the
one-dollar bin at the Salvation Army.”
“Figures,” I said.
Lou Ann had a fit. I had never seen her so mad. The veins on
her forehead stood out and her face turned pink, all the way up
to her scalp.
“Who in the hell do those people think they are? That they
have the right to take her out of a perfectly good home and put
her in some creepy orphanage where they probably make them
sleep on burlap bags and feed them pig slop!”
“I don’t think it’s quite that bad,” I said.
“I can’t believe you,” she said.
But I was ready to give in. “What else can I do? How can I
fight the law?” I asked her. “What am I going to do, get a gun and
hold Turtle hostage in here while the cops circle the house?”
“Taylor, don’t. Just don’t. You’re acting like it’s a lost cause, and
that I’m telling you to do something stupid. All I’m saying is,
there’s got to be some way around them taking her, and you’re not
even trying to think of it.”
“Why should I, Lou Ann? Why should I think Turtle’s better
off with me than in a state home? At least there they know how to
take care of kids. They won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Well, that’s sure a chickenshit thing to say.”
“Maybe it is.”
She stared at me. “I cannot believe you’re just ready to roll
over and play dead about this, Taylor. I thought I knew you. I
thought we were best friends, but now I don’t hardly know who
in the heck you are.”
I told her that I didn’t know either, but that didn’t satisfy Lou
Ann in the slightest.
“Do you know,” she told me, “in high school there was this
girl, Bonita Jankenhorn, that I thought was the smartest and the
gutsiest person that ever walked. In English when we had to work
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these special crossword puzzles about Silas Marner and I don’t
know what all, the rest of us would start to try out different words
and then erase everything over and over again, but Bonita worked
hers with an ink pen. She was that sure of herself, she’d just
screw off the cap and start going. The first time it happened, the
teacher started to tell her off and Bonita said, ‘Miss Myers, if I
turn in a poor assignment then you’ll have every right to punish
me, but not until then.’ Can you even imagine? We all thought
that girl was made out of gristle.
“But when I met you, that day you first came over here, I
thought to myself, ‘Bonita Jankenhorn, roll over. This one is worth
half a dozen of you, packed up in a box and gift-wrapped.’ ”
“I guess you were wrong,” I said.
“I was not wrong! You really were like that. Where in the world
did it all go to?”
“Same place as your meteor shower,” I said. I hadn’t intended
to hurt Lou Ann’s feelings, but I did. She let me be for a while
after that.
But only for a while. Then she started up again. Really, I
don’t think the argument stopped for weeks, it would just take a
breather from time to time. Although it wasn’t an argument,
strictly speaking. I couldn’t really disagree with Lou Ann—what
Cynthia and the so-called Child Protectors wanted to do was
wrong. But I didn’t know what was right. I just kept saying how
this world was a terrible place to try and bring up a child in.
And Lou Ann kept saying, For God’s sake, what other world
have we got?
Mattie had her own kettle of fish to worry about. She hadn’t
been able to work out a way to get Esperanza and Estevan out
of Tucson, much less all the way to a sanctuary church in some
other state. Apparently several people had offered, but each
time it didn’t work out. Terry the doctor had made plans to drive
them to San Francisco, where they would meet up with another
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group going to Seattle. But because of his new job on the
Indian reservation the government liked to keep track of his
comings and goings. Mattie always said she trusted her nose. “If
I don’t like the smell of something,” she said, “then it’s not
worth the risk.”
Even with this on her mind, she spent a lot of time talking
with me about Turtle. She told me some things I didn’t know.
Obviously Mattie knew what there was to know about loopholes.
She was pretty sure that there were ways a person could adopt a
child without going through the state.
But I confessed to Mattie that even if I could find a way I
wasn’t sure it would be the best thing for Turtle.
“Remember when I first drove up here that day in January?” I
asked her one morning. We were sitting in the back in the same
two chairs, drinking coffee out of the same two mugs, though this
time I had the copulating rabbits. “Tell me the honest truth. Did
you think I seemed like any kind of a decent parent?”
“I thought you seemed like a bewildered parent. Which is per-
fectly ordinary. Usually the bewilderment wears off by the time the
kid gets big enough to eat peanut butter and crackers, but know-
ing what I do now, I can see you were still in the stage most moth-
ers are in when they first bring them home from the hospital.”
I was embarrassed to think of how Mattie must have seen
straight through my act. Driving up here like the original tough
cookie in jeans and a red sweater, with my noncommittal answers
and smart remarks, acting like two flat tires were all in a day’s
work and I just happened to have been born with this kid growing
out of my hip, that’s how cool I was. I hadn’t felt all that tough on
the inside. The difference was, now I felt twice that old, and too
tired to put on the show.
“You knew, didn’t you? I didn’t know the first thing about how
to take care of her. When you told me that about babies getting
dehydrated it scared the living daylights out of me. I realized I
had no business just assuming I could take the responsibility for
a child’s life.”
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“There’s not a decent mother in the world that hasn’t realized
that.”
“I’m serious, Mattie.”
She smiled and sipped her coffee. “So am I.”
“So how does a person make a decision that important?
Whether or not they’re going to do it?”
“Most people don’t decide. They just don’t have any choice.
I’ve heard you say yourself that you think the reason most people
have kids is because they get pregnant.”
I stared at the coffee grounds that made a ring in the bottom
of the white mug. Back in Pittman I’d heard of a fairly well-to-do
woman who made her fortune reading tea leaves and chicken
bones, which she kept in a bag and would scatter across her
kitchen floor like jacks. On the basis of leaves and bones, she
would advise people on what to do with their lives. No wonder
she was rich. It seems like almost anything is better than having
only yourself to blame when you screw things up.
“Taylor, honey, if you don’t mind my saying so I think you’re
asking the wrong question.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re asking yourself, Can I give this child the best possible
upbringing and keep her out of harm’s way her whole life long?
The answer is no, you can’t. But nobody else can either. Not a
state home, that’s for sure. For heaven’s sake, the best they can do
is turn their heads while the kids learn to pick locks and snort
hootch, and then try to keep them out of jail. Nobody can protect
a child from the world. That’s why it’s the wrong thing to ask, if
you’re really trying to make a decision.”
“So what’s the right thing to ask?”
“Do I want to try? Do I think it would be interesting, maybe
even enjoyable in the long run, to share my life with this kid and
give her my best effort and maybe, when all’s said and done, end
up with a good friend.”
“I don’t think the state of Arizona’s looking at it that way.”
“I guarantee you they’re not.”
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It occurred to me to wonder whether Mattie had ever raised
kids of her own, but I was afraid to ask. Lately whenever I’d
scratched somebody’s surface I’d turned up a ghost story. I made
up my mind not to bring it up.
I called for an appointment to meet with Cynthia alone, with-
out Turtle. In past appointments she had talked about legal claim
and state homes and so forth in Turtle’s presence. Granted Turtle
had been occupied with the new selection of toys offered by the
Department of Economic Security, but in my experience she usu-
ally got the drift of what was going on, whether or not she
appeared to be paying attention. If either I or the state of Arizona
was going to instill in this child a sense of security, discussing her
future and ownership as though she were an item of commerce
wasn’t the way to do it. The more I thought about this, the mad-
der I got. But that wasn’t what I intended to discuss with
Cynthia.
The appointment was on a Friday afternoon. I started to lose
my nerve again when I saw her in her office, her eyes made up
with pale green shadows and her hair pulled back in a gold bar-
rette. I don’t believe Cynthia was much older than I was, but you
put somebody in high-heeled pumps and sit her behind a big
desk and age is no longer an issue—she is more important than
you are, period.
“Proof of abandonment is very, very difficult,” she was explain-
ing to me. “In this case, probably impossible. But you’re right,
there are legal alternatives. The cornerstone of an adoption of this
type would have to be the written consent of the child’s natural
parents. And you would need to be named in the document.”
“What if there are no natural parents? If they were to be dead,
for instance.”
“Then it would have to come from the nearest living relative,
the person who would normally have custody, and a death certifi-
cate would have to be presented as well. But the most important
thing, as I said, is that the document would name you, specifi-
cally, as the new guardian.”
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“What kind of document exactly?”
“The law varies. In some states the mother would have to
acknowledge her consent before a judge or a representative of the
Department of Economic Security. In others, a simple written
statement, notarized and signed before witnesses, is sufficient.”
“What about on an Indian reservation? Do you know that
sometimes on Indian reservations they don’t give birth or death
certificates?”
Cynthia wasn’t the type that liked to be told anything. “I’m
aware of that,” she said. “In certain cases, exceptions are made.”
Cynthia’s office was tiny, really, and her desk wasn’t actually
all that big. She didn’t even have a window in there.
“Don’t you miss knowing what the weather’s like?” I asked her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t have a window. I just wondered if you ever kind of
lost touch with what was going on outside, being cooped up in
here all day with the air conditioning and the fluorescent light-
ing.” It was the first time in my life I’d ever said anything like “flu-
orescent lighting” out loud.
“As you recall, I came to your house on the evening that your,
that April was assaulted.” Cynthia always called Turtle by her
more conventional name. “I do my share of field work,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Have I answered your questions, Taylor?”
“Mostly. Not completely. I’d like to know how a person would
go about finding the information you mentioned. About the laws
in different states. Like Oklahoma, for instance.”
“I can look that up and get back to you. If you like, I can get
you the name of someone in Oklahoma City who could help you
formalize the papers.”
This took me by surprise. “You’d be willing to help me out?”
“Certainly. I’m on your side here, Taylor.” She leaned for-
ward and folded her hands on her desk blotter, and I noticed
her fingernails were in bad shape. It’s possible that Cynthia was
a nailbiter.
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“Are you saying that you’d rather see Turtle stay with me than
go into a state home?”
“There has never been any doubt in my mind about that.”
I stood up, walked around the chair, and sat down again.
“Excuse my French, but why in hell didn’t you say so before
now?”
She blinked her gold-coin eyes. “I thought that ought to be
your decision.”
At the end of my hour I was halfway out the door, but then
stopped and came back, closing the door behind me. “Thank
you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
“Can I ask you a kind of personal question? It’s about the
cameo brooch.”
She looked amused. “You can ask,” she said.
“Do you have to shop at the Salvation Army? I mean, is it
because of your pay, or do you just like rummaging through other
people’s family heirlooms?”
“I’m a trained therapist,” Cynthia said, smiling. “I don’t answer
questions like that.”
Out in the lobby I stopped to chat with one of the secretaries,
who asked where my little girl was today. The secretary’s name
was Jewel. I had spoken with her several times before. She had a
son with dyslexia, which she explained was a disease that caused
people to see things backwards. “Like the American flag, for
instance,” she said. “The way he would see it would be that the
stars are up in the right-hand corner, instead of the left. But then
there’s other things where it doesn’t matter. Like you take the
word WOW, for instance. That’s his favorite word, he writes it all
over everything. And the word MOM, too.”
Before I had gotten around to leaving the building, another
secretary came hustling over and handed me a note, which she
said was from Cynthia. It said, “I appreciate your sensitivity in not
wishing to discuss April’s custody in her presence. I’m sorry if I
have been careless.”
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There was also a name: Mr. Jonas Wilford Armistead—along
with an Oklahoma City address—and underneath, the words
“Good luck!”
All evening, after I’d fed the kids and put them to bed, I paced
the house. I couldn’t wait for Lou Ann to get home, but then
when she did I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her anything yet. I
hadn’t completely made up my mind.
“For heaven’s sake,” Lou Ann said, “you’re making me ner-
vous. Either sit down or wash the dishes.” I washed the dishes.
“Whatever’s on your mind, I hope you get it settled,” she said,
and went to the living room to read. She had been reading a novel
called Daughter of the Cheyenne Winds, which she claimed she
had found in her locker at Red Hot Mama’s, and had nothing
whatever to do with Angel being on the Montana-Colorado
Circuit.
I followed her into the living room. “You’re not mad are you?
Because I don’t want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I just have to think some more.”
She didn’t look up. “Go think,” she said. “Think, and wash the
dishes.”
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I was getting used to it. I
watched Turtle roll from her side to her stomach and back again.
Her eyes rolled back and forth under her eyelids, and sometimes
her mouth worked too. Whoever she was talking to in her dream,
she told them a whole lot more than she’d ever told me. I would
have paid good money to be in that dream.
In the morning I left her asleep and went to Mattie’s to finish
an alignment and front-and-rear rotation I’d left undone the pre-
vious afternoon. The guy was coming in sometime that day to
pick it up. I didn’t look at a clock but it must have been early
when I went in because I was already finished and ready to go
home before Mattie came downstairs. I hung around a while
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longer, making coffee and dusting the shelves and changing the
calendar (it was still on May, and this was August). I stared for a
long time at the picture of the Aztec man carrying the passed-out
woman, thinking about whatever Latin American tragedy it stood
for. Thinking, naturally, of Esperanza and Estevan. Though I
knew that more often than not it was the other way around, the
woman carried the man through the tragedy. The man and the
grandma and all the kids.
Finally Mattie came down. We had a cup of coffee, and we
talked.
Afterward I found Lou Ann and the kids in the park. Turtle
was amusing herself by sweeping a patch of dirt with an old hair-
brush, presumably Edna’s since it was red, and Lou Ann had
momentarily put aside Daughter of the Cheyenne Winds to engage
in a contest of will with Dwayne Ray. Lou Ann was bound to win,
of course.
“I said no! Give it to me right now. Where’d you get that
from?” She grabbed his fist, which was headed on an automatic-
pilot course for his mouth, and extracted a dirt-covered purple
jelly bean. “Where in the heck do you think he got that? My God,
Taylor, just imagine if he’d eaten it!”
Dwayne Ray’s mouth remained in the shape of an O for sev-
eral seconds, still expecting the intercepted jelly bean, and then
he started to scream.
“I used to know this old farm woman that said you’ve got to
eat a peck of dirt before you die,” I said.
Lou Ann picked up Dwayne Ray and bounced him. “Well,
maybe if you don’t eat a peck of dirt before your first birthday
then you won’t die so quick, is what I say.”
I sat down on the bench. “Listen, I’ve made up my mind
about something. I’m going to drive Esperanza and Estevan to a
safe house in Oklahoma. And while I’m there I’m going to see if I
can find any of Turtle’s relatives.”
She stared at me. Dwayne Ray came down on her knee with a
bump, and was stunned into being quiet.
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“What for?”
“So they can sign her over to me.”
“Well, what if they won’t? What if they see how good she’s
turning out and decide they want her back?”
“I don’t think they will.”
“But what if they do?”
“Damn it, Lou Ann, you’ve been telling me till you were blue
in the face to do something, take action, think positive, blah,
blah, blah. I’m trying to think positive here.”
“Sorry.”
“What other choice have I got than to go? If I just sit here on
my hands, then they take her.”
“I know. You’re right.”
“If her relatives want her back, then I’ll think of something.
We’ll cut that fence when we come to it.”
“What if you can’t find them? Sorry.”
“I’ll find them.”
Lou Ann, uncharacteristically, had overlooked the number-one
thing I ought to be worried about. Over the next few days Mat-
tie asked me about fifty times if I was sure I knew what I was
doing. She told me that if I got caught I could get five years in
prison and a $2,000 fine for each illegal person I was assisting,
which in this case would be two. To tell the truth, I couldn’t
even let these things enter my head.
But Mattie persisted. “This isn’t just hypothetical. It’s actually
happened before that people got caught.”
“I don’t know why you’re worried about me,” I told her.
“Esperanza and Estevan would get a whole lot worse than prison
and a fine.”
I did suggest to Mattie, though, that it might be a good idea
to fix the ignition on Two Two, my VW, now that we were setting
out across the country again. She looked at me as though I had
suggested shooting an elected official.
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“You are not taking that old thing,” she said. “You’ll take the
Lincoln. It’s got a lot of room, and it’s reliable.”
I was offended. “What’s wrong with my car?” I wanted to
know.
“What’s wrong with it, child, I could stand here telling you till
the sun went down. And just about any one of those things could
get you pulled over by a cop. If you think you care so much about
Esperanza and Estevan, you’d better start using that head of yours
for something besides thinking up smart remarks.” Mattie walked
off. I’d seen her bordering on mad before, but never at me.
Clearly she did not want me to go.
The night before I was to leave, Virgie Mae Parsons came
knocking on the door. It was late but Lou Ann and I were still
up, going round and round about what I ought to pack. She
thought I should take my very best clothes in case I might have
to impress someone with my financial security. She was sure
that at the very least I ought to take a pair of stockings, which I
would have to borrow from Lou Ann, not being in the habit of
owning such things myself. I pointed out to her that it was the
middle of summer and I didn’t think I’d need to impress any-
one that much. We didn’t notice a timid little peck at the door
until it grew considerably louder. Then Lou Ann was afraid to
answer it.
I looked out the window. “It’s Virgie Mae, for heaven’s sake,” I
said, and let her in.
She stood looking befuddled for a second or two, then pulled
herself together and said, “Edna said I ought to come over and get
you. We have something the children might like to see, if you
don’t think it would do too much harm to wake them.”
“What, a surprise?” Lou Ann asked. She was back in less than
a minute with Dwayne Ray in one arm and Turtle by the other
hand. Turtle trailed grumpily behind, whereas Dwayne Ray chose
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to remain asleep, his head bobbing like an old stuffed animal’s. In
the intervening minute I had not extracted any further informa-
tion from Virgie.
We followed her out our front door and up the walk to their
porch. I could make out Edna sitting in the glider, and in the cor-
ner of the porch we saw what looked like a bouquet of silvery-
white balloons hanging in the air.
Flowers.
A night-blooming cereus, Virgie Mae explained. The flowers
open for only one night of the year, and then they are gone.
It was a huge, sprawling plant with branches that flopped over
the porch railing and others that reached nearly as high as the
eaves. I had certainly noticed it before, standing in the corner in
its crumbling pot, flattened and spiny and frankly extremely
homely, and it had crossed my mind to wonder why Virgie Mae
didn’t throw the thing out.
“I’ve never seen anything so heavenly,” Lou Ann said.
Enormous blossoms covered the plant from knee level to high
above our heads. Turtle advanced on it slowly, walking right up to
one of the flowers, which was larger than her face. It hung in the
dark air like a magic mirror just inches from her eyes. It occurred to
me that she should be warned of the prickles, but if Lou Ann wasn’t
going to say anything I certainly wasn’t. I knelt beside Turtle.
There was hardly any moon that night, but gradually our eyes
were able to take in more and more detail. The flowers them-
selves were not spiny, but made of some nearly transparent mate-
rial that looked as though it would shrivel and bruise if you
touched it. The petals stood out in starry rays, and in the center
of each flower there was a complicated construction of silvery
threads shaped like a pair of cupped hands catching moonlight. A
fairy boat, ready to be launched into the darkness.
“Is that?” Turtle wanted to know. She touched it, and it did
not shrivel, but only swayed a little on the end of its long green
branch.
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“It’s a flower, dear,” Virgie said.
Lou Ann said, “She knows that much. She can tell you the
name of practically every flower in the Burpee’s catalogue, even
things that only grow in Florida and Nova Scotia.”
“Cereus,” I said. Even its name sounded silvery and mysteri-
ous.
“See us,” Turtle repeated.
Lou Ann nosed into a flower at eye level and reported that it
had a smell. She held Dwayne Ray up to it, but he didn’t seem
especially awake. “I can just barely make it out,” she said, “but it’s
so sweet. Tart, almost, like that lemon candy in a straw that I
used to die for when I was a kid. It’s just ever so faint.”
“I can smell it from here.” Edna spoke from the porch swing.
“Edna’s the one who spots it,” Virgie said. “If it was up to me
I would never notice to save my life. Because they come out after
dark, you see, and I forget to watch for the buds. One year Edna
had a head cold and we missed it altogether.”
Lou Ann’s eyes were as wide and starry as the flower she
stared into. She was as captivated as Turtle.
“It’s a sign,” she said.
“Of what?” I wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Something good.”
“I can get the pruning shears and cut one off for you, if you
like,” Virgie Mae offered. “If you put it in the icebox it will last
until tomorrow.”
But Lou Ann shook her head. “No thanks. I want to remem-
ber them like this, in the dark.”
“After you pluck them they lose their fragrance,” Edna told us.
“I don’t know why, but it just goes right away.”
If the night-blooming cereus was an omen of anything, it was of
good weather for traveling. The morning was overcast and cool.
Once again we rolled the children out of bed, and Lou Ann and
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Dwayne Ray came with us over to Mattie’s. Turtle wanted to be
carried, like Dwayne Ray, but we had the bags to deal with.
“We’ll just walk this little way,” I told her. “Then you can sleep
in the car for a long time.”
Estevan and Esperanza had one suitcase between them and it
was smaller than mine, which did not even include Turtle’s stuff.
I had packed for a week, ten days at the outside, and they were
packed for the rest of their lives.
Several people had come to see them off, including the
elderly woman I had once seen upstairs at Mattie’s and a very
young woman with a small child, who could have been her
daughter or her sister, or no relation for that matter. There was
lots of hugging and kissing and talking in Spanish. Mattie moved
around quickly, introducing people and putting our things in the
car and giving me hundreds of last-minute instructions.
“You might have to choke her good and hard to get her going
in the mornings,” Mattie told me, and in my groggy state it took
me a while to understand whom or what I was supposed to be
choking. “She’s tuned for Arizona. I don’t know how she’ll do in
Oklahoma.”
“She’ll do fine,” I said. “Remember, I’m used to cantankerous
cars.”
“I know. You’ll do fine,” she said, but didn’t seem convinced.
After we had gotten in and fastened our seat belts, on Mattie’s
orders, she leaned in the window and slipped something into my
hand. It was money. Esperanza and Estevan were leaning out the
windows on the other side, spelling out something—surely not an
address—very slowly to the elderly woman, who was writing it
down on the back of a window envelope.
“Where did this come from?” I asked Mattie quietly. “We can
get by.”
“Take it, you thick-headed youngun. Not for your sake, for
theirs.” She squeezed my hand over the money. “Poverty-stricken
isn’t the safest way to go.”
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“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It comes from people, Taylor, and let’s just leave it. Some
folks are the heroes and take the risks, and other folks do what
they can from behind the scenes.”
“Mattie, would you please shut up about heroes and prison
and all.”
“I didn’t say prison.”
“Just stop it, okay? Estevan and Esperanza are my friends.
And, even if they weren’t, I can’t see why I shouldn’t do this. If I
saw somebody was going to get hit by a truck I’d push them out
of the way. Wouldn’t anybody? It’s a sad day for us all if I’m being
a hero here.”
She looked at me the way Mama would have.
“Stop it,” I said again. “You’re going to make me cry.” I started
the engine and it turned over with an astonishing purr, like a
lioness waking up from her nap. “This is the good life, cars that
start by themselves,” I said.
“When I hired you, it was for fixing tires. Just fixing tires, do
you understand that?”
“I know.”
“As long as you know.”
“I do.”
She reached in the window and gave me a hug, and I actually
did start crying. She put kisses on her hand and reached across
and put them on Esperanza’s and Estevan’s cheeks, and then
Turtle’s.
“Bless your all’s hearts,” she said. “Take good care.”
“Be careful,” Lou Ann said.
Mattie and Lou Ann and the others stood in the early-
morning light holding kids and waving. It could have been the
most ordinary family picture, except for the backdrop of white-
wall tires. Esperanza and Turtle waved until they were out of
sight. I kept blinking my eyelids like windshield wipers, trying to
keep a clear view of the road.
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On Mattie’s advice we took one of the city roads out of town,
and would join up with the freeway just south of the city limits.
Outside of town we passed a run-over blackbird in the road,
flattened on the center line. As the cars and trucks rolled by, the
gusts of wind caused one stiff wing to flap up and down in a piti-
ful little flagging-down gesture. My instinct was to step on the
brakes, but of course there was no earthly reason to stop for a
dead bird.
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F O U R T E E N
Guardian Saints
We were stopped by Immigration about a hundred miles this
side of the New Mexico border. Mattie had warned me of this
possibility and we had all prepared for it as best we could.
Esperanza and Estevan were dressed about as American as you
could get without looking plain obnoxious: he had on jeans and
an alligator shirt donated from some church on the east side
where people gave away stuff that was entirely a cut above New
To You. Esperanza was wearing purple culottes, a yellow T-shirt,
and sunglasses with pink frames. She sat in the back seat with
Turtle. Her long hair was loose, not braided, and as we sped down
the highway it whipped around her shoulders and out the win-
dow, putting on a brave show of freedom that had nothing to do
with Esperanza’s life. Twice I asked if it was too much wind on
her, and each time she shook her head no.
Every eastbound car on the highway was being stopped by the
Border Patrol. The traffic was bottled up, which gave us time to
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get good and nervous. This kind of check was routine; it had not
been set up for the express purpose of catching us, but it still felt
that way. To all of us, I believe. I was frantic. I rattled my teeth, as
Mama would say.
“There’s this great place up ahead called Texas Canyon,” I told
them, knowing full well that none of us might make it to Texas
Canyon. Esperanza and Estevan might not make it to their next
birthday. “Wait till you see it. It’s got all these puffy-looking
rocks,” I chattered on. “Turtle and I loved it.”
They nodded quietly.
When our turn came I threw back my head like a wealthy per-
son, yanked that Lincoln into gear and pulled up to the corru-
gated tin booth. A young officer poked his head in the car. I could
smell his aftershave.
“All U.S. citizens?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I showed my driver’s license. “This is my brother
Steve, and my sister-in-law.”
The officer nodded politely. “The kid yours or theirs?”
I looked at Estevan, which was a stupid thing to do.
“She’s ours,” Estevan said, without a trace of an accent.
The officer waved us through. “Have a nice day,” he said.
After we had passed well beyond the checkpoint Estevan
started apologizing. “I thought it would be the most believable
thing. Since you hesitated.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“You looked at me. I thought it might seem suspicious if I said
she was yours. He might wonder why you didn’t say it.”
“I know, I know, I know. You’re right. It’s no problem. The only
thing that matters is we made it through.” It did bother me
though, just as it bothered me that Turtle was calling Esperanza
“Ma.” Which was a completely unreasonable thing to resent, I
know, since Turtle called every woman Ma something. There’s no
way she could have managed “Esperanza.”
We got out at the rest station in Texas Canyon. It turned out
there weren’t rest rooms there, just picnic tables, so I took Turtle
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behind a giant marshmallow-shaped boulder. Ever since I’d found
out she was three years old, we’d gotten very serious about potty
training.
When we came back Estevan and Esperanza were standing
by the guard rail looking out over an endless valley of boulders. A
large wooden sign, which showed dinosaurs and giant ferny trees
and mountains exploding in the background, explained that this
was the lava flow from a volcanic explosion long ago. Along with
the initials and hearts scratched into the sign with pocket knives,
someone had carved “Repent.”
The setting did more or less put you in that frame of mind.
There wasn’t a bush or tree in sight, just rocks and rocks, sky and
more sky. Estevan said this is what the world would have looked
like if God had gone on strike after the second day.
It was a peculiar notion, but then you had to consider
Estevan’s background with the teachers’ union. He would think in
those terms.
They seemed uncomfortable out of the car so we stayed on
the move after that, driving down an endless river of highway.
After my VW, driving Mattie’s wide white car felt like steering a
boat, not that I had ever actually steered anything of the kind.
Estevan and Esperanza didn’t have proper drivers’ licenses, of
course—that was the very least of what they didn’t have—so to
be on the safe side I did all the driving. The first night we would
try to go straight through, pulling over for naps when I needed to.
Lou Ann had made us a Thermos of iced coffee. For the second
night, I told them, I knew of a nice motor lodge in Oklahoma
where we could most likely stay for free.
Estevan and I talked about everything you can think of. He
asked me if the alligator was a national symbol of the United
States, because you saw them everywhere on people’s shirts, just
above the heart.
“Not that I know of,” I told him. It occurred to me, though,
that it might be kind of appropriate.
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He told me that the national symbol of the Indian people in
Guatemala was the quetzal, a beautiful green bird with a long,
long tail. I told him I had seen military macaws at the zoo, and
wondered if the quetzal was anything like those. He said no. If
you tried to keep this bird in a cage, it died.
Shortly after sunset we left the interstate to take a two-lane
road that cut through the mountains and would take about two
hundred miles of New Mexico off our trip. I wished we could keep
New Mexico in and cut out two hundred miles of Oklahoma
instead, but of course Oklahoma was where we were going. I had
to keep reminding myself of that. For some reason I had in the
back of my mind that we were headed for Kentucky. I kept pictur-
ing Mama’s face when we all pulled up in the driveway.
I squinted and flashed my lights at a car coming toward us
with its brights on. They dimmed.
“Do you miss your home a lot?” I asked Estevan. “I know
that’s a stupid question. But does it make you tired, being so far
away from what you know? That’s how I feel sometimes, that I
would just like to crawl in a hole somewhere and rest. Go dor-
mant, like those toad frogs Mattie told us about. And for you it’s
just that much worse; you’re not even speaking your own lan-
guage.”
He let out a long breath. “I don’t even know anymore which
home I miss. Which level of home. In Guatemala City I missed
the mountains. My own language is not Spanish, did you know
that?”
I told him no, that I didn’t.
“We are Mayan people; we speak twenty-two different Mayan
languages. Esperanza and I speak to each other in Spanish
because we come from different parts of the highlands.”
“What’s Mayan, exactly?”
“Mayans lived here in the so-called New World before the
Europeans discovered it. We’re very old people. In those days we
had astronomical observatories, and performed brain surgery.”
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I thought of the color pictures in my grade-school history
books: Columbus striding up the beach in his leotards and feath-
ered hat, a gang of wild-haired red men in loin cloths scattering
in front of him like rabbits. What a joke.
“Our true first names are Indian names,” Estevan said. “You
couldn’t even pronounce them. We chose Spanish names when
we moved to the city.”
I was amazed. “So Esperanza is bilingual. You’re, what do you
call it? Trilingual.”
I knew that Esperanza spoke some English too, but it was
hard to say how much since she spoke it so rarely. One time I had
admired a little gold medallion she always wore around her neck
and she said, with an accent, but plainly enough: “That is St.
Christopher, guardian saint of refugees.” I would have been no
more surprised if St. Christopher himself had spoken.
Christopher was a sweet-faced saint. He looked a lot like
Stephen Foster, who I suppose you could say was the guardian
saint of Kentucky. At least he wrote the state song.
“I chose a new name for myself too, when I left home,” I said
to Estevan. “We all have that in common.”
“You did? What was it before?”
I made a face. “Marietta.”
He laughed. “It’s not so bad.”
“It’s a town in Georgia where Mama’s and my father’s car
broke down once, I guess, when they were on their way to
Florida. They never made it. They stayed in a motel and made me
instead.”
“What a romantic story.”
“Not really. I was a mistake. Well, not really a mistake, accord-
ing to Mama, but an accident. A mistake I guess is when you
regret it later.”
“And they didn’t?”
“Mama didn’t. That’s all that counts, in my case.”
“So Papa went on to Florida?”
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“Or wherever.”
“Esperanza also grew up without her father. The circum-
stances were different, of course.”
In the back seat Esperanza was stroking Turtle’s hair and
singing to her quietly in a high, unearthly voice. I had heard
enough Spanish to understand that the way her voice was dipping
and gliding through the words was more foreign than that. I
remembered Estevan’s yodely songs the day of our first picnic.
They had to have been Mayan songs, not Spanish. Songs older
than Christopher Columbus, maybe even older than Christopher
the saint. I wondered if, when they still had Ismene, they had sung
to her in both their own languages. To think how languages could
accumulate in a family, in a country like that. When I thought of
Guatemala I imagined a storybook place: jungles full of long-tailed
birds, women wearing rainbow-threaded dresses.
But of course there was more to the picture. Police every-
where, always. Whole villages of Indians forced to move again
and again. As soon as they planted their crops, Estevan said, the
police would come and set their houses and fields on fire and
make them move again. The strategy was to wear them down so
they’d be too tired or too hungry to fight back.
Turtle had fallen asleep with her head in Esperanza’s lap.
“What’s with everybody always trying to get rid of the
Indians?” I said, not really asking for an answer. I thought again
of the history-book pictures. Astronomers and brain surgeons.
They should have done brain surgery on Columbus while they
had the chance.
After a while Estevan said, “What I really hate is not belong-
ing in any place. To be unwanted everywhere.”
I thought of my Cherokee great-grandfather, his people who
believed God lived in trees, and that empty Oklahoma plain they
were driven to like livestock. But then, even the Cherokee Nation
was someplace.
“You know what really gets me?” I asked him. “How people
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call you ‘illegals.’ That just pisses me off, I don’t know how you
can stand it. A human being can be good or bad or right or wrong,
maybe. But how can you say a person is illegal?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“You just can’t,” I said. “That’s all there is to it.”
On the second day we got into flatlands. The Texas panhandle,
and then western Oklahoma, stretched out all around us like a
colossal pancake. There was no way of judging where you were
against where you were going, and as a consequence you tended
to start feeling you were stuck out there, rolling your wheels on
some trick prairie treadmill.
Estevan, who had apparently spent some time on a ship, said
it reminded him of the ocean. He knew a Spanish word for the
kind of mental illness you get from seeing too much horizon.
Esperanza seemed stunned at first, then a little scared. She asked
Estevan, who translated for me, whether or not we were near
Washington. I assured her we weren’t, and asked what made her
think so. She said she thought they might build the President’s
palace in a place like this, so that if anyone came after him his
guards could spot them a long way off.
To keep ourselves from going crazy with boredom we tried to
think of word games. I told about the secretary named Jewel with
the son who sees things backwards, and we tried to think of
words he would like. Esperanza thought of ala, which means
wing. Estevan knew whole sentences, some in Spanish and some
in English. The English ones were “A man, a plan, a canal:
Panama!” (which he said was a typical gringo way of looking at
that endeavor), and “Able was I ere I saw Elba,” which was what
Napoleon supposedly said when he was sent into exile. I hadn’t
known, before then, where or what Elba was. I’d had a vague idea
that it was a kind of toast.
Turtle was the only one of us who didn’t seem perturbed by
the landscape. She told Esperanza a kind of ongoing story, which
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lasted for hundreds of miles and sounded like a vegetarian version
of Aesop’s Fables, and when she ran out of story she played with
her baby doll. The doll was a hand-me-down from Mattie’s. It
came with a pair of red-checked pajamas, complete with regular-
sized shirt buttons, that someone had apparently sewn by hand.
Turtle adored the doll and had named it, with no help from any-
one, Shirley Poppy.
We bypassed Oklahoma City and headed north on I-35,
reversing the route I had taken through Oklahoma the first time.
We reached the Broken Arrow Motor Lodge by late afternoon. At
first I thought the place had changed hands. Which it had, in a
way: Mrs. Hoge had died, and Irene was a different person, a
slipcover of her former self. She had lost 106 pounds in 24 weeks
by eating one Weight Watchers frozen dinner per day and noth-
ing else but chamomile tea, unsweetened.
“I told Boyd if he wanted something different he could learn
to cook it himself. Anybody that can butcher a side of beef can
learn to cook,” she explained. She had started the diet on her doc-
tor’s advice, when she decided she wanted to have a baby.
Irene seemed thrilled to see Turtle and me again and insisted
on feeding the whole bunch of us. She made a pot roast with
onions and potatoes even though she couldn’t touch it herself.
She told us Mrs. Hoge had passed away in January, just a few
weeks after I left.
“We knew it was coming, of course,” she said to Esperanza
and Estevan. “She had the disease where you shake all the time.”
“That was a disease?” I asked. “I had no idea it was something
you could die from. I thought it was just old age.”
“No,” Irene shook her head gravely. “Parkerson’s.”
“Who?” I asked.
“That’s the disease,” she said. “I notice she’s talking now.” She
meant Turtle, who was busily naming every vegetable on
Esperanza’s plate. She named them individually so it went like
this: “Tato, carrot, carrot, carrot, carrot, tato, onion,” et cetera.
Toward the end of the meal she also said “car,” because under-
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neath all the food the plates had pictures of old-timey cars on
them.
After the others went to bed I stayed up with Irene, who was
expecting her husband in from Ponca City after midnight. We sat
on high stools behind the desk in the bright front office, looking
out through the plate glass at the highway and the long, flat plain
behind it. She told me she missed Mrs. Hoge something fierce.
“Oh, I know she wasn’t kind,” Irene said, her thinned-down
bosom heaving with a long, sad sigh. “It was always ‘Here’s my
daughter-in-law Irene that can’t make up a bed with hospital cor-
ners and is proud of it.’ But really I think she meant well.”
The next morning we had to make a decision. Either we would
go straight to the sanctuary church, which was a little to the
east of Oklahoma City, or we could all stay together for another
day. They could come with me to the bar where I’d been pre-
sented with Turtle, to help me look for whatever I thought I was
going to find in the way of Turtle’s relatives. I admitted to them
that I could use the moral support, but on the other hand I
would understand if they didn’t want to risk being on the road
any more than they had to be. Without hesitation, they said
they wanted to go with me.
Retracing my original route became a little more complicated.
I had left the interstate when my steering column set itself free,
that much I knew, and I’d stayed on a side road for several hours
before joining back up with the main highway. I could remember
hardly any exact details from that night, in the way of landmarks,
and of course there were precious few there to begin with.
The clue that tipped me off was a sign to the Pioneer Woman
Museum. I remembered that. We found a two-lane road that I
was pretty sure was the right one.
As soon as we left the interstate, trading the fast out-of-state
tourist cars for the companionship of station wagons and pickup
trucks packed with families, we were on the Cherokee Nation.
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You could feel it. We began to understand that Oklahoma had
been a good choice: Estevan and Esperanza could blend in here.
Practically half the people we saw were Indians.
“Do Cherokees look like Mayans?” I asked Estevan.
“No,” he said.
“Would a white person know that?”
“No.”
After a little bit I asked him, “Would a Cherokee?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He was smiling his perfect smile.
I asked Turtle if anything looked familiar. When I looked in
the rear-view mirror I caught sight of her on Esperanza’s lap, play-
ing with Esperanza’s hair and trying on Esperanza’s sunglasses.
Later I saw them playing a clapping-hands game. The two of
them looked perfectly content: “Madonna and Child with Pink
Sunglasses.” Nobody, not even a Mayan, could say they weren’t.
One time I thought—though I couldn’t swear it—I heard her call
Turtle Ismene. I was getting a cold feeling in the bottom of my
stomach.
I tried to keep myself cheerful. “I always tell Turtle she’s as
good as the ones that came over on the Mayflower,” I told
Estevan. “They landed at Plymouth Rock. She just landed in a
Plymouth.”
Estevan didn’t laugh. In all fairness, I might not have told him
before that she was born in a car, but also he was preoccupied,
going over and over the life history he had invented for himself
and his Cherokee bride. He was quite imaginative. He had a
whole little side plot about how his parents had disapproved of
the marriage, but had softened their hearts when they saw what a
lovely woman Hope was.
“Steven and Hope,” he said. “But we need a last name.”
“How about Two Two?” I said. “That’s a good solid Cherokee
name. It’s been in my family for months.”
“Two Two,” he repeated solemnly.
I missed my own car. I missed Lou Ann, who always laughed
at my jokes.
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I was positive I wouldn’t recognize the place, if it was even
still there, but as soon as I laid eyes on it I knew. A little brick
building with a Budweiser sign, and across the parking lot a
garage. The garage looked closed.
“That’s it,” I said. I slowed down. “What do I do?”
“Stop the car,” Estevan suggested, but I kept going. My heart
was pounding like a piston. A quarter of a mile down the road I
stopped.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this,” I said.
We all sat quietly for a minute.
“What is the worst thing that can happen?” Estevan asked.
“I don’t know. That I won’t find anybody that knows Turtle. Or
that I will, and they’ll want her back.” I thought for a minute.
“The worst thing would be that we lose her, some way,” I said
finally.
“What if you don’t go in?”
“We lose her.”
Estevan gave me a hug. “For courage,” he said. Then Espe-
ranza gave me a hug. Then Turtle did. I turned the car around
and drove back to the bar.
“First let me go in alone,” I said.
It looked like a different place. I remembered all the signs—
IN CASE OF FIRE YELL FIRE. They were gone. Blue gingham cur-
tains hung in the windows and there were glasses of plastic roses
and bachelor buttons on all the tables. I would have walked right
out again, but I recognized the TV. Good picture, but no sound.
And there was the same postcard rack too, although it seemed to
have changed its focus, placing more emphasis on scenic lakes
and less on Oral Roberts University.
A teenaged girl in jeans and an apron came through a door
from the kitchen. She had a round Indian face behind large, blue-
rimmed glasses.
“Get you some coffee?” she asked cheerfully.
“Okay,” I said, and sat down at the counter.
“Now, what else can I do for you?”
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“I’m not sure. I’m looking for somebody.”
“Oh, who? Were you meeting them here for lunch?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s kind of complicated. I was in here
last December and met some people I have to find again. I think
they might live around here. It’s very important.”
She leaned on her elbows on the counter. “What was their
names?”
“I don’t know. There was a woman, and two men in cowboy
hats. I think one of them might have been her husband, or her
boyfriend. I know, this isn’t getting anywhere. Ed knew their
names.”
“Ed?”
“Isn’t that who runs this place?”
“No. My parents own it. We bought it in March, I think. Or
April.”
“Well, would your parents know Ed? Would he be around
here?”
She shrugged. “The place was just up for sale. I think whoever
owned it before musta died. It was gross in here.”
“You mean he died in here?”
She laughed. “No, I just mean all the dirt and stuff. I had to
scrub the grease off the back of the stove. It was black. I was
thinking about running away and going back home. We’re not
from here, we’re from over on tribal land. But I like some kids
here now.”
“Do any of the same people come in here that always did?
Like men, drinking after work and that kind of thing.”
She shrugged.
“Right. How would you know.”
I stared at my cup of coffee as though I might find the future
in it, like the chickenbone lady back home. “I don’t know what to
do,” I finally said.
She nodded out the window. “Maybe you should bring your
friends in for lunch.”
I did. We sat at one of the spick-and-span tables with plastic
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flowers and had grilled-cheese sandwiches. Turtle bounced in her
seat and fed tiny pieces of grilled cheese to Shirley Poppy.
Estevan and Esperanza were quiet. Of course. You couldn’t speak
Spanish in this part of the country—it would be noticed.
After lunch I went up to the register to pay. No other member
of the family had materialized from the kitchen, so I asked the
girl if there was anyone else around that might help me. “Do you
know the guy that runs the garage next door? Bob Two Two?”
She shook her head. “He never came over here, because we
serve beer. He was some religion, I forget what.”
“Are you telling me he’s dead now too? Give me a break.”
“Nah, he just closed. I think Pop said he was getting a place
closer to Okie City.”
“It wasn’t even a year ago that I was here.”
She shrugged. “Nobody ever comes out here anyway. I never
could see who would go to that garage in the first place.”
I put the change in my pocket. “Well, thanks anyway,” I told
her. “Thanks for trying to help. I hope your family does all right
by this place. You’ve fixed it up real nice.”
She made a small gesture with her shoulders. “Thanks.”
“What did you mean when you said you came from tribal
land? Isn’t this the Cherokee Nation?”
“This! No, this is nothing. This is kind of the edge of it I
guess, they do have that sign up the road that says maintained by
the Cherokee tribe. But the main part’s over east, toward the
mountains.”
“Oklahoma has mountains?”
She looked at me as though I might be retarded. “Of course.
The Ozark Mountains. Come here, look.” She went over to the
postcard rack and picked out some of the scenery cards. “See
how pretty? That’s Lake o’ the Cherokees; we used to go there
every summer. My brothers like to fish, but I hate the worms.
And this is another place on the same lake, and this is Oologah
Lake.”
“That looks beautiful,” I said. “That’s the Cherokee Nation?”
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“Part of it,” she said. “It’s real big. The Cherokee Nation isn’t
any one place exactly. It’s people. We have our own government
and all.”
“I had no idea,” I said. I bought the postcards. I would send
one to Mama, although she was married now of course and didn’t
have any use for our old ace in the hole, the head rights. But even
so I owed an apology to great grandpa, dead though he was.
As we were leaving I asked her about the TV. “That’s the one
thing that’s still the same. What’s with it anyway? Doesn’t any-
body ever turn the sound up?”
“The stupid thing is broke. You get the sound on one station
and the picture on the other. See?” She flipped to the next chan-
nel, which showed blue static but played the sound perfectly. It
was a commercial for diet Coke. “My gramma likes to leave it on
9, she’s just about blind anyway, but the rest of us like it on 8.”
“Do you ever get the Oral Roberts shows?”
She shrugged. “I guess. I like Magnum P.I.”
Somehow I had been thinking that once we got back in the car
and on the road again, everything would make sense and I would
know what to do. I didn’t. This time I didn’t even know which
way to head the car. If only Lou Ann were here, I thought. Lou
Ann with her passion for playing Mrs. Neighborhood Detective. I
knew she would say I was giving up too easily. But what was I
supposed to do? Stake out the bar for a week or two and see if the
woman ever showed up again? Would I recognize her if she did?
Would she be willing to go to Oklahoma City with me to sign
papers?
There had never been the remotest possibility of finding any
relative of Turtle’s. I had driven across the country on a snipe
hunt. A snipe hunt is a joke on somebody, most likely some city
cousin. You send him out in the woods with a paper bag and see
how long it takes for him to figure out what a fool he is.
But it also occurred to me to wonder why I had come this far.
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Generally speaking, I am not a fool. I must have wanted some-
thing, and wanted it badly, to believe that hard in snipes.
“I can’t give up,” I said as I turned the car around. I smacked
my palms on the steering wheel again and again. “I just can’t. I
want to go to Lake o’ the Cherokees. Don’t even ask me why.”
They didn’t ask.
“So do you want to come with me, or should we take you to
your church now? Really, I can go either way.”
They wanted to come with me. I can see, looking back on it,
that we were getting attached.
“We’ll have a picnic by the lake, and stay in a cabin, and
maybe find a boat somewhere and go out on the water. We’ll have
a vacation,” I told them. “When’s the last time you two had a
vacation?”
Estevan thought for a while. “Never.”
“Me too,” I said.
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F I F T E E N
Lake o’ the
Cherokees
Esperanza and Estevan were transformed in an unexplainable
way over the next two hours. They showed a new side, like the
Holy Cards we used to win for attendance in summer Bible
school: mainly there was a picture of Jesus on the cross, a
blurred, shimmering picture with flecks of pink and blue scat-
tered through it, but tip it just so and you could see a dove flying
up out of His chest. That was the Holy Ghost.
We must have been getting closer to the heart of the
Cherokee Nation, whatever or wherever it was, because as we
drove east we saw fewer and fewer white people. Everybody and
his mother-in-law was an Indian. All the children were Indian
children, and the dogs looked like Indian dogs. At one point a
police car came up behind us and we all got quiet and kept an
eye out, as we had grown accustomed to doing, but when he
passed us we just had to laugh. The cop was an Indian.
It must have been a very long time since Esperanza and
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Estevan had been in a place where they looked just like every-
body else, including cops. The relief showed in their bodies. I
believe they actually grew taller. And Turtle fit right in too; this
was her original home. I was the odd woman out.
Although, of course, I supposedly had enough Cherokee in
me that it counted. I knew I would never really claim my head
rights, and probably couldn’t even if I wanted to—they surely had
a statute of limitations or some such thing. But it was a relief to
know the Cherokee Nation wasn’t a complete bust. I read a story
once, I might have this confused but I think the way it went was
that this lady had a diamond necklace put away in a safe-deposit
box all her life, thinking that if she ever got desperate she could
sell it, only to find out on her deathbed that it was rhinestones.
That was more or less the way I felt on that first terrible trip
through Oklahoma.
It was nice to find out, after all, that Mama’s and my ace in
the hole for all those years really did have a few diamonds in it:
Lake Oologah, Lake o’ the Cherokees.
“The Cherokee Nation has its own Congress and its own
President,” I reported to Esperanza and Estevan. “Did you know
that?” I wasn’t sure if I actually knew this or was just elaborating
on what the girl in the restaurant had told me.
The scenery grew more interesting by the mile. At first it was
still basically flat but it kind of rolled along, like a great green,
rumpled bedsheet. Then there were definite hills. We passed
through little towns with Indian names that reminded me in
some ways of Kentucky. Here and there we saw trees.
Once, all of a sudden, Turtle shouted, “Mama!” She was
pointing out the window.
My heart lost its beat for a second. To my knowledge she had
never referred to anyone as Mama. We looked, but couldn’t see
anybody at all along the road. There was only a gas station and a
cemetery.
Turtle and Esperanza were becoming inseparable. Turtle sat
on her lap, played with her, and whined at the rest stops when
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Esperanza wanted to go to the bathroom by herself. I suppose I
should have been grateful for the babysitting. I couldn’t quite
imagine how I would have kept Turtle entertained by myself,
while I was driving. We’d managed a long trip before, of course,
but that was in Turtle’s catatonic period. At that stage of her life,
I don’t think she would have minded much if you’d put her in a
box and shipped her to Arizona. Now everything was different.
Lake o’ the Cherokees was a place where you could imagine
God might live. There were enough trees.
I still would have to say it’s stretching the issue to call the
Ozarks mountains, but they served. I felt secure again, with my
hopes for something better tucked just out of sight behind the
next hill.
We found a cottage right off the bat. It was perfect: there
were two bedrooms, a fireplace with a long-tailed bird (stuffed)
on the mantel, and a bathroom with an old claw-foot tub (one leg
poked down through the floor, but the remaining three looked
steadfast). It was one of a meandering row of mossy, green-roofed
cottages lined up along a stream bank in a place called Saw Paw
Grove.
They didn’t want to take it for the night, but I insisted. We
had the money from Mattie, and besides, it wasn’t that expensive.
No more than we would have spent the night before if I hadn’t
had connections at the Broken Arrow. It took some doing, but I
convinced Estevan and Esperanza that we weren’t doing anything
wrong. We deserved to have a good time, just for this one day.
I told them to think of it as a gift. “As an ambassador of my
country I’m presenting you with an expenses-paid one-day vaca-
tion for four at Lake o’ the Cherokees. If you don’t accept, it will
be an international incident.”
They accepted. We sat on the cottage’s little back porch,
watching out for Turtle and the holes where the floorboards were
rotted out, and stared at the white stream as it went shooting by.
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No water in Arizona was ever in that much of a hurry. The moss
and the ferns looked so good I just drank up all that green. Even
the rotten floor planks looked wonderful. In Arizona things didn’t
rot, not even apples. They just mummified. I realized that I had
come to my own terms with the desert, but my soul was thirsty.
Growing all along the creek there were starry red-and-yellow
flowers that bobbed on the ends of long, slender stems. Turtle
informed us they were “combines,” and we accepted her author-
ity. Estevan climbed down the slick bank to pick them. I thought
to myself, Where in the universe will I find another man who
would risk his neck for a flower? He fell partway into the creek,
soaking one leg up to the knee—mainly, I think, for our benefit.
Even Esperanza laughed.
Something was going on inside of Esperanza. Something was
thawing. Once I saw a TV program about how spring comes to
Alaska. They made a big deal about the rivers starting to run again,
showing huge chunks of ice rumbling and shivering and bashing
against each other and breaking up. This is how it was with
Esperanza. Behind her eyes, or deeper, in the arteries around her
heart, something was starting to move. When she held Turtle on
her lap she seemed honestly happy. Her eyes were clear and she
spoke to Estevan and me directly, looking at our eyes.
Estevan survived his efforts and handed a flower to each of us.
He kissed Esperanza and said something in Spanish that included
“mi amor,” and fixed the flower in her buttonhole so that it sprang
out from her chest like one of those snake-in-the-can tricks. I
could imagine them as a young couple, shy with each other, doing
joky things like that. I braided the stem of my flower into my hair.
Turtle waved hers up and down like a drum major’s baton, shout-
ing, “Combine, combine, combine!” None of us, apparently, was
able to think of any appropriate way of following this command.
I was supposed to be calling them Steven and Hope now so
they could begin getting used to it. I couldn’t. I had changed my
own name like a dirty shirt, but I couldn’t help them change theirs.
“I love your names,” I said. “They’re about the only thing you
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came here with that you’ve still got left. I think you should only
be Steven and Hope when you need to pull the wool over some-
body’s eyes, but keep your own names with your friends.”
Neither of them said anything, but they didn’t urge me again
to call them by false names.
Later we found a place that rented boats by the half hour and
Estevan and I took one out onto the lake. Esperanza didn’t want
to go. She didn’t know how to swim, and I wasn’t sure about
Turtle, so the two of them stayed on the shore feeding ducks.
Estevan and I took turns rowing and waving at the shore until
Turtle was a tiny bouncing dot. By then we were in the very mid-
dle of the lake, and we let ourselves drift. The sun bounced off
the water, making bright spangles and upside-down shadows on
our faces. I rolled my jeans up to my knees and dangled my bare
feet over the side. There was a fishy-smelling assortment of things
in the bottom of the boat, including a red-and-white line floater
and a collection of pop-top rings from beer cans.
Estevan took off his shirt and lay back against the front of the
boat, his hands clasped behind his head, exposing his smooth
Mayan chest to the sun. And to me. How could he possibly have
done this, if he had any idea how I felt? I knew that Estevan had
walked a long, hard road beyond innocence, but still he some-
times did the most simple, innocent, heartbreaking things. As
much as I have wanted anything, ever, I wanted to know how that
chest would feel against my face. I looked toward the shore so he
wouldn’t see the water in my eyes.
I pulled the wilted flower out of my braid and twisted the
stem in my fingers. “I’m going to miss you a lot,” I said. “All of
you. Both, I mean.”
Estevan didn’t say he was going to miss all of me. We knew
this was a conversation we couldn’t afford to get into. In more
ways than one, since we were renting by the half-hour.
After a while he said, “Throw a penny and make a wish.”
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“That’s wasteful,” I said, kicking my toes in the water. “My
mother always said a person that throws away money deserves to
be poor. I’d rather be one of the undeserving poor.”
“Undeservedly,” he corrected me, smiling.
“One of the undeservedly poor.” Even my English was going
to fall apart without him.
“Then we can wish on these.” He picked up one of the pop-
top rings. “These are appropriate for American wishes.”
I made two American wishes on pop tops in Lake o’ the
Cherokees. Only one of them had the remotest possibility of
coming true.
At dusk we found picnic tables in a little pine forest near the
water’s edge. Both Mattie and Irene had packed us fruit and sand-
wiches for the road, most of which were still in the Igloo cooler in
the trunk. We threw an old canvas poncho over the table and
spread out the pickle jars and bananas and apples and goose-liver
sandwiches and everything else. Other picnickers here and there
were working on modest little balanced meals of things that all
went together, keeping the four food groups in mind, but we
weren’t proud. Our party was in the mood for a banquet.
The sun was setting behind us but it lit up the clouds in the
east, making one of those wraparound sunsets. Reflections of
pink clouds floated across the surface of the lake. It looked like a
corny painting. If I didn’t let my mind run too far ahead, I felt
completely happy.
Turtle still had a good deal of energy, and was less interested
in eating than in bouncing and jumping and running in circles
around the trees. Every so often she found a pine cone, which
she would bring back and give to me or to Esperanza. I tried very
hard not to keep count of whose pile of pine cones was bigger.
Turtle looked like a whirling dervish in overalls and a green-
striped T-shirt. We hadn’t realized how cooped up she must have
felt in the car, because she was so good. It’s funny how people
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don’t give that much thought to what kids want, as long as they’re
being quiet.
It’s also interesting how it’s hard to be depressed around a three-
year-old, if you’re paying attention. After a while, whatever you’re
mooning about begins to seem like some elaborate adult invention.
Estevan asked us which we liked better, sunrise or sunset. We
were all speaking in English now, because Esperanza had to get
into practice. I couldn’t object to this—it was a matter of survival.
“Sun set, because sun rise comes too early,” Esperanza said,
and giggled. She was very self-conscious in English, and seemed
to have a whole different personality.
I told them that I liked sunrise better. “Sunset always makes
me feel a little sad.”
“Why?”
I peeled a banana and considered this. “I think because of the
way I was raised. There was always so damn much work to do. At
sunrise it always seems like you’ve got a good crack at getting
everything done, but at sunset you know that you didn’t.”
Esperanza directed our attention to Turtle, who was hard at
work burying Shirley Poppy in the soft dirt at the base of a pine
tree. I had to laugh.
I went over and squatted beside her at the foot of the tree.
“I’ve got to explain something to you, sweet pea. Some things
grow into bushes or trees when you plant them, but other things
don’t. Beans do, doll babies don’t.”
“Yes,” Turtle said, patting the mound of dirt. “Mama.”
It was the second time that day she had brought up a person
named Mama. I registered this with something like an electric
shock. It started in my hands and feet and moved in toward the gut.
I kneeled down and pulled Turtle into my lap. “Did you see
your mama get buried like that?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
It was one of the many times in Turtle’s and my life together
that I was to have no notion of what to do. I remembered Mattie
saying how it was pointless to think you could protect a child
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from the world. If that had once been my intention, it should
have been clear that with Turtle I’d never had a chance.
I held her in my arms and we rocked for a long time at the
foot of the pine tree.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s awful, awful sad when people die. You
don’t ever get to see them again. You understand that she’s gone
now, don’t you?”
Turtle said, “Try?” She poked my cheek with her finger.
“Yeah, I’m crying.” I leaned forward on my knees and pulled a
handkerchief out of my back pocket.
“I know she must have loved you very much,” I said, “but she
had to go away and leave you with other people. The way things
turned out is that she left you with me.”
Out on the lake people in boats were quietly casting their
lines into the shadows. I remembered fishing on my own as a kid,
and even younger going out with Mama, probably not being
much help. I had a very clear memory of throwing a handful of
rocks in the water and watching the fish dart away. And scream-
ing my heart out. I wanted them, and knew of no reason why I
shouldn’t have them. When I was Turtle’s age I had never had
anyone or anything important taken from me.
I still hadn’t. Maybe I hadn’t started out with a whole lot, but
pretty nearly all of it was still with me.
After a while I told Turtle, “You already know there’s no such
thing as promises. But I’ll try as hard as I can to stay with you.”
“Yes,” Turtle said. She wiggled off my lap and returned to her
dirt pile. She patted a handful of pine needles onto the mound.
“Grow beans,” she said.
“Do you want to leave your dolly here?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Later that night I asked Esperanza and Estevan if they would be
willing to do one more thing with me. For me, really. I explained
that it was a favor, a very big one, and then I explained what it was.
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“You don’t have to say yes,” I said. “I know it involves some
risk for you, and if you don’t feel like you can go through with it
I’ll understand. Don’t answer now, because I want to be sure
you’ve really thought about it. You can tell me in the morning.”
Esperanza and Estevan didn’t want to think about it. They
told me, then and there, they wanted to do it.
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S I X T E E N
Soundness of Mind
and Freedom of Will
Mr. Jonas Wilford Armistead was a tall, white-haired man who
seemed more comfortable with the notarizing part of his job than
with the public. Even though he had been forewarned, when all
of us came trooping into his office he seemed overwhelmed and
showed a tendency to dither. He moved papers and pens and
framed pictures from one side of his desk to the other and
wouldn’t sit down until all of us could be seated, which unfortu-
nately didn’t happen for quite a while because there weren’t
enough chairs. Mr. Armistead sent his secretary, Mrs. Cleary, next
door to borrow a chair from the real-estate office of Mr. Wenn.
Mr. Armistead wore a complicated hearing aid that had ear
parts, and black-and-white wires and a little silver box that had to
be placed for maximum effectiveness on exactly the right spot on
his desk, which he seemed unable to find. If he ever did, I
thought I might suggest to him that he mark this special zone
with paint as they do on a basketball court.
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The silver box had tiny controls along one side, and Mr.
Armistead also fiddled with these almost constantly, apparently
without much success. Mrs. Cleary seemed during their working
coexistence to have adjusted her volume accordingly. Even when
she was talking to us, she practically shouted. It had an intimi-
dating effect, especially on Esperanza.
But we all managed small talk while we waited. Which was all
the more admirable when you consider that not one word any of
us was saying was true, so far as I know. Estevan was an aston-
ishingly good liar, going into great detail about the Oklahoma
town where he and his wife had been living, and the various jobs
he’d had. I talked about my plans to move to Arizona to live with
my sister and her little boy. I think we were all amazed by the
things that were popping out of our heads like corn.
Sister, indeed. I remembered begging my mother for a sister
when I was very young. She’d said she was all for it, but that if I
got one it would have to be arranged by means of a miracle. At
the time I’d had no idea what she meant. Now I knew about
celibacy.
Mrs. Cleary returned in due time, rolling a chair on its little
wheels, and asked several questions about what forms would
need to be typed up. We shuffled around again as we made room
for Estevan and the new chair, and Mr. Armistead finally agreed
to come down from his great height and roost like a long-legged
stork on the chair behind his desk.
“It became necessary to make formal arrangements,” Estevan
explained, “because our friend is leaving the state.”
Esperanza nodded.
“Mr. and Mrs. Two Two, do you understand that this is a per-
manent agreement?” He spoke very slowly, the way people often
speak to not-very-bright children and foreigners, although I’m
positive that Mr. Armistead had no inkling that the Two Two fam-
ily came from any farther away than the Cherokee Nation.
They nodded again. Esperanza was holding Turtle tightly in
her arms and beginning to get tears in her eyes. Already it was
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clear that, of the three of us, she was first in line for the Oscar
nomination.
He went on, “After about six months a new birth certificate
will be issued, and the old one destroyed. After that you cannot
change your minds for any reason. This is a very serious decision.”
“There wasn’t any birth certificate issued,” Mrs. Cleary
shouted. “It was born on tribal lands.”
“She,” I said. “In a Plymouth,” I added.
“We understand,” Estevan said.
“I just want to make absolutely certain.”
“We know Taylor very well,” Estevan replied. “We know she
will make a good mother to this child.”
Even though they were practically standing on it, Mr.
Armistead and Mrs. Cleary seemed to think of “tribal land” as
some distant, vaguely civilized country. This, to them, explained
everything including the fact that Hope, Steven, and Turtle had
no identification other than a set of black-and-white souvenir pic-
tures taken of the three of them at Lake o’ the Cherokees. It was
enough that I, a proven citizen with a Social Security card, was
willing to swear on pain of I-don’t-know-what (and sign docu-
ments to that effect) that they were all who they said they were.
By this point we had run out of small talk. I was over my ini-
tial nervousness, but without it I felt drained. Just sitting in that
small, crowded office, trying to look the right way and say the
right thing, seemed to take a great deal of energy. I couldn’t imag-
ine how we were all going to get through this.
“We love her, but we cannot take care for her,” Esperanza said
suddenly. Her accent was complicated by the fact that she was
crying, but it didn’t faze Mr. Armistead or Mrs. Cleary. Possibly
they thought it was a Cherokee accent.
“We’ve talked it over,” I said. I began to worry a little about
what was going on here.
“We love her. Maybe someday we will have more children, but
not now. Now is so hard. We move around so much, we have
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nothing, no home.” Esperanza was sobbing. This was no act.
Estevan handed her a handkerchief, and she held it to her face.
“Try, Ma?” Turtle said.
“That’s right, Turtle,” I said quietly. “She’s crying.”
Estevan reached over and lifted Turtle out of her arms. He
stood her up, her small blue sneakers set firmly on his knees, and
held her gently by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You
must be a good girl. Remember. Good and strong, like your
mother.” I wondered which mother he meant, there were so many
possibilities. I was touched to think he might mean me.
“Okay,” Turtle said.
He handed her carefully back to Esperanza, who folded her
arms around Turtle and held her against her chest, rocking back
and forth for a very long time with her eyes squeezed shut. Tears
drained down the shallow creases in her cheeks.
The rest of us watched. Mr. Armistead stopped fidgeting and
Mrs. Cleary’s hands on her papers went still. Here were a mother
and her daughter, nothing less. A mother and child—in a world
that could barely be bothered with mothers and children—who
were going to be taken apart. Everybody believed it. Possibly
Turtle believed it. I did.
Of all the many times when it seemed to be so, that was the
only moment in which I really came close to losing Turtle. I
couldn’t have taken her from Esperanza. If she had asked, I
couldn’t have said no.
When she let go, letting Turtle sit gently back on her lap,
Turtle had the sniffles.
Esperanza wiped Turtle’s nose with Estevan’s big handker-
chief and kissed her on both cheeks. Then she unclasped the
gold medallion of St. Christopher, guardian saint of refugees, and
put it around Turtle’s neck. Then she gave Turtle to me.
Esperanza told me, “We will know she is happy and growing
with a good heart.”
“Thank you,” I said. There was nothing else I could say.
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It took what seemed like an extremely long time to draw up a
statement, which Mrs. Cleary shuttled off to type. She came back
and was sent off twice more to make repairs. After several rounds
of White-out we had managed to create an official document:
We, the undersigned, Mr. Steven Tilpec Two Two
and Mrs. Hope Roberta Two Two, being the
sworn natural parents of April Turtle Two Two, do
hereby grant custody of our only daughter to Ms.
Taylor Marietta Greer, who will from this day for-
ward become her sole guardian and parent.
We do solemnly swear and testify to our
soundness of mind and freedom of will.
Signed before witnesses on this———day
of———, in the office of Jonas Wilford Armis-
tead, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Mrs. Cleary went off once again to Mr. Wenn’s office, this
time to borrow his secretary Miss Brindo to be a second witness
to the signing. Miss Brindo, who appeared to have at least enough
Cherokee in her to claim head rights, had on tight jeans and
shiny red high heels, and snapped her gum. She had a compli-
cated haircut that stood straight up on top, and something told
me she led a life that was way too boring for her potential. I
wished she could have known what she was really witnessing that
morning.
In a way, I wish all of them could know, maybe twenty years
later or so when it’s long past doing anything about it. Mrs.
Cleary’s and Mr. Armistead’s hair would have stood straight up
too, to think what astonishing things could be made legal in a
modest little office in the state of Oklahoma.
We shook hands all around, I got the rest of the adoption
arrangements straightened out with Mr. Armistead, and we filed
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out, a strange new combination of friends and family. I could see
the relief across Estevan’s back and shoulders. He held Esperanza’s
hand. She was still drying tears but her face was changed. It shone
like a polished thing, something old made new.
They both wore clean work shirts, light blue with faded
elbows. Esperanza had on a worn denim skirt and flat loafers. I
had asked them please not to wear their very best for this occa-
sion, not their Immigration-fooling clothes. It had to look like
Turtle was going to be better off with me. When they came out
that morning dressed as refugees I had wanted to cry out, No! I
was wrong. Don’t sacrifice your pride for me. But this is how
badly they wanted to make it work.
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S E V E N T E E N
Rhizobia
It had crossed my mind that Turtle might actually have recog-
nized the cemetery her mother was buried in, and if so, I won-
dered whether I ought to take her back there to see it. But my
concerns were soon laid to rest. We passed four cemeteries on
the way to the Pottawatomie Presbyterian Church of St. Michael
and All Angels, future home of Steven and Hope Two Two, and
at each one of them Turtle called out, “Mama!”
There would come a time when she would just wave at the
sight of passing gravestones and quietly say, “Bye bye.”
Finding the church turned out to be a chase around Robin
Hood’s barn. Mattie’s directions were to the old church. The con-
gregation had since moved its home of worship plus its pastor and
presumably its refugees into a new set of buildings several miles
down the road. I was beginning to form the opinion that
Oklahomans were as transient a bunch as the people back home
who slept on grass-flecked bedrolls in Roosevelt Park.
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The church was a cheery-looking place, freshly painted white
with a purple front door and purple gutters. When Mattie used to
talk about the Underground Railroad, by which she meant these
churches and the people who carried refugees between them, it
had always sounded like the dark of night. I’d never pictured old
white Lincolns with soda pop spilled on the seats, and certainly
not white clapboard churches with purple gutters.
Reverend and Mrs. Stone seemed greatly relieved to see us,
since they had apparently expected us a day or two earlier, but no
one made an issue of it. They helped carry things up a sidewalk
bordered with a purple fringe of ageratums into the small house
behind the parsonage. Meanwhile Estevan and I worked on get-
ting possessions sorted out. Things had gotten greatly jumbled
during the trip, and Turtle’s stuff was everywhere. She was like a
pack rat, taking possession of any item that struck her fancy (like
Esperanza’s hairbrush) and tucking another one into its place
(like a nibbled cracker). Turtle herself was exhausted with the
events of the day, or days, and was in the back seat sleeping the
sleep of the dead, as Lou Ann would put it. Esperanza and
Estevan had already said goodbye to her in a very real way back
in Mr. Armistead’s office, and didn’t think there was any need to
wake her up again. But I stood firm.
“It’s happened too many times that people she loved were
whisked away from her without any explanation. I want her to see
you, and see this place, so she’ll know we’re leaving you here.”
She woke reluctantly, and groggily accepted my explanation of
what was happening. “Bye bye,” she said, standing up on the seat
and waving through the open back window.
I think we all felt the same exhaustion. There are times when
it just isn’t possible to say goodbye. I hugged Esperanza and shook
hands with Reverend and Mrs. Stone in a kind of daze. The day
seemed too bright, too full of white clapboard and cheerful pur-
ple flowers, for me to be losing two good friends forever.
I was left with Estevan, who was checking under the back seat
for the last time. I checked the trunk. “You ought to take some of
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this food,” I said. “Turtle and I will never eat it all; it will just go to
waste. At least the things there are whole jars of, like mustard and
pickles.” I bent over the cooler, stacking and unstacking the things
that were swimming in melted ice in the bottom.
Estevan put his hand on my arm. “Taylor.”
I straightened up. “What’s going to happen to you here? What
will you do?”
“Survive. That has always been our intention.”
“But what kind of work will you find around here? I can’t
imagine they have Chinese restaurants, which is probably a good
thing. Oh God,” I put my knuckle in my mouth. “Shut me up.”
Estevan smiled. “I would never pray for that.”
“I’m just afraid for you. And for Esperanza. I’m sorry for say-
ing this, it’s probably a very nice place, but I can’t stand to think
of you stuck here forever.”
“Don’t think of us here forever. Think of us back in Gua-
temala with our families. Having another baby. When the world
is different from now.”
“When will that ever be,” I said. “Never.”
“Don’t say that.” He touched my cheek. I was afraid I was
going to cry, or worse. That I would throw my arms around his
ankles like some lady in a ridiculous old movie and refuse to let
him go.
When tears did come to me it was a relief. That it was only
tears. “Estevan, I know it doesn’t do any good to say things like
this, but I don’t want to lose you. I’ve never lost anybody I loved,
and I don’t think I know how to.” I looked away, down the flat,
paved street. “I’ve never known anybody like you.”
He took both my hands in his. “Nor I you, Taylor.”
“Can you write? Would it be safe, I mean? You could use a
fake return address or something.”
“We can send word by way of Mattie. So you will know where
we are and what happens to us.”
“I wish that didn’t have to be all.”
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“I know.” His black pupils moved back and forth between my
eyes.
“But it does, doesn’t it? There’s no way around the hurt, is
there? You just have to live with it.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Estevan, do you understand what happened back there in
that office, with Esperanza?”
“Yes.”
“I keep thinking it was a kind of, what would you call it?”
“A catharsis.”
“A catharsis,” I said. “And she seems happy, honest to God, as
happy as if she’d really found a safe place to leave Ismene behind.
But she’s believing in something that isn’t true. Do you under-
stand what I’m saying? It seems wrong, somehow.”
“Mi’ija, in a world as wrong as this one, all we can do is to
make things as right as we can.” He put his hands on my shoul-
ders and kissed me very, very sweetly, and then he turned around
and walked into the house.
All four of us had buried someone we loved in Oklahoma.
I called Mama from a pay phone at a Shell station. I dug two
handfuls of coins out of my jeans pockets, splayed them out on
the metal shelf, and dialed. I was scared to death she would
hang up on me. She had every right. I hadn’t said boo to her for
almost two months, not even to congratulate her on getting
married. She’d written to say they’d had a real nice time at the
wedding and that Harland was moving into our house. Up until
the wedding he’d always lived in a so-called bachelor apartment,
which means a bed plus hot plate plus roach motel in his sock
drawer, in back of El-Jay’s Paint and Body.
There was static in the line. “Mama, I’m sorry to bother you,”
I said. “I’m just outside of Oklahoma City so I thought I’d give
you a ring. It’s a lot closer than Arizona.”
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“Is that you? Bless your heart, it is you! I’ll swan. Now weren’t
you sweet to call.” She sounded so far away.
“So how’s it going, Mama? How’s married life treating you?”
She lowered her voice. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Either you’ve got a bad cold or you’ve been crying. Your
sound’s all up in your head.”
The tears started coming again, and I asked Mama to hang on
just a minute. I had to put down the receiver to blow my nose.
The one thing Lou Ann hadn’t thought of was that I should have
packed two dozen hankies.
When I got on the line again the operator was asking for more
coins, so I dropped them in. Mama and I listened to the weird
bonging song and didn’t say anything to each other for a little bit.
“I just lost somebody I was in love with,” I finally told her. “I
just told him goodbye, and I’m never going to see him again.”
“Well, what did you turn him loose for?” Mama wanted to
know. “I never saw you turn loose of nothing you wanted.”
“This is different, Mama. He wasn’t mine to have.”
She was quiet for a minute. We listened to the static playing
up and down. It sounded like music from Mars.
“Mama, I feel like, I don’t know what. Like I’ve died.”
“I know. You feel like you’ll never run into another one that’s
worth turning your head around for, but you will. You’ll see.”
“No, it’s worse than that. I don’t even care if I ever run into
anybody else. I don’t know if I even want to.”
“Well, Taylor honey, that’s the best way to be, is not on the
lookout. That way you don’t have to waste your time. Just let it
slip up on you while you’re going about your business.”
“I don’t think it will. I feel like I’m too old.”
“Old my foot! Lordy, child, look at me. I’m so far over the hill
I can’t call the hogs to follow, and here I am running around get-
ting married like a teenager. It’s just as well you’re not here, you’d
have to tell everybody, Don’t pay no mind that old fool, that’s just
my mother done got bit by the love bug at a elderly age.”
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I laughed. “You’re not elderly,” I said.
“It won’t be as long as it has been.”
“Mama, shush, don’t even say that.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me, I don’t care if I drop over
tomorrow. I’m having me a time.”
“That’s good, Mama. I’m glad, I really am.”
“I’ve done quit cleaning houses. I take in some washing now
and again to keep me out of trouble, but I’m getting about ready
to join the Women’s Garden Club instead. The only dirt I feel like
scratching in nowdays is my own. They meet of a Thursday.”
I couldn’t believe it. Mama retired. “You know what’s funny?”
I said. “I just can’t picture you without an iron or a mop or some-
thing like that in your hand.”
“Oh, picture it, girl, it’s a pretty sight. You remember Mrs.
Wickentot? The one always wore high heels to the grocery and
thought she was the cat’s meow?”
“Yeah, I remember. Her kids never would give me the time of
day. They called me the Cleaning Lady’s Girl.”
“Well you can put it to rest now, because I told her off good
when I quit. I told her if I had the kind of trash she has in her clos-
ets, and the way she lets those boys run wild, what I found under
their beds, I just wouldn’t act so high and mighty, is what I told her.”
“You told her that?”
“I did. And then some. All these years, you know, these ladies
get to thinking they own you. That you wouldn’t dare breathe a
word for fear of getting fired. Now I think they’re all scared to
death I’m going to take out an ad in the paper.”
I could just see it, right on the back page under the obituaries
and deed-of-trust announcements. Or better yet, on the society
page:
“Alice Jean Greer Elleston wishes to announce that Irma
Ruebecker has fifty-two pints of molded elderberry jelly in her
basement; Mae Richey’s dishes would be carried off by the
roaches if she didn’t have hired help; and Minerva Wickentot’s
boys read porno magazines.”
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I couldn’t stop laughing. “You ought to do it,” I said. “It would
be worth the thirty-five cents a word.”
“Well, I probably won’t. But it’s good for a gal to have some-
thing like that up her sleeve, don’t you think?” She chuckled. “It
makes people respect you.”
“Mama, you’re really something. I don’t know how the good
Lord packed so much guts into one little person.” The words
were no sooner out of my mouth before I realized this was some-
thing she used to say to me. In high school, when I was having a
rough time of it, she said it practically every other day.
“How’s that youngun of yours?” Mama wanted to know. She
never failed to ask.
“She’s fine. She’s asleep in the car right now or I’d put her on
to say hi. Or peas and carrots, more likely. You never know what
she’s going to say.”
“Well, she comes by that honest.”
“Don’t say that, Mama. That means it proves a baby’s not a
bastard. If it acts like you, it proves it’s legitimate.”
“I never thought about it that way.”
“It’s okay. I guess I’m just sensitive, you know, since she’s not
blood kin.”
“I don’t think blood’s the only way kids come by things honest.
Not even the main way. It’s what you tell them, Taylor. If a per-
son is bad, say, then it makes them feel better to tell their kids
that they’re even worse. And then that’s just exactly what they’ll
grow up to be. You remember those Hardbines?”
“Yeah. Newt. I especially remember Newt.”
“That boy never had a chance. He was just doing his best to
be what everybody in Pittman said he was.”
“Mama, you were always so good to me. I’ve been meaning to
tell you that. You acted like I’d hung up the moon. Sometimes I
couldn’t believe you thought I was that good.”
“But most of the time you believed it.”
“Yeah. I guess most of the time I thought you were right.”
The operator came on and asked for more money. My pile of
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change was thinning out. “We’re just about done,” I told her, but
she said this was for the minutes that we’d already talked. I was
out of quarters and had to use a whole slew of nickels.
“Guess what?” I said to Mama after the coins had dropped.
“Here’s the big news, Turtle’s my real daughter. I adopted her.”
“Did you? Now aren’t you smart. How’d you do that?”
“Kind of by hook or crook. I’ll tell you about it in a letter, it’s
too complicated for long distance. But it’s all legal. I’ve got the
papers to prove it.”
“Lord have mercy. Married and a legal grandma all in the
same summer. I can’t wait to see her.”
“We’ll get back there one of these days,” I said. “Not this trip,
but we will. I promise.”
“You better watch out, one of these days me and old Harland
might just up and head for Arizona.”
“I wish you would.”
Neither of us wanted to hang up. We both said, “Bye,” about
three times.
“Mama,” I said, “this is the last one. I’m hanging up now,
okay? Bye. And say hi to Harland for me too, okay? Tell him I said
be good to you or I’ll come whip his butt.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Turtle and I had a whole afternoon to kill in Oklahoma City
while we waited for some paperwork on the adoption to clear.
After her nap she was raring to go. She talked up a storm, and
wanted to play with Esperanza’s medallion. I let her look at it in
the side-view mirror.
“You have to keep it on,” I told her. “That’s St. Christopher,
the guardian saint of refugees. I think you’d count. You’re about
as tempest-tossed as they come.”
A tempest was a bad storm where things got banged around a
lot. “Tempest-tossed” was from the poem on the Statue of Liberty
that started out, “Give me your tired, your poor.” Estevan could
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recite the whole poem. Considering how America had treated his
kind, he must have thought this was the biggest joke ever to be
carved in giant letters on stone.
I tried not to think about Estevan, but after a while decided it
felt better to think about him than not to. And Turtle was good
company. We cruised around in Mattie’s Lincoln, a couple of
free-wheeling females out on the town. Her favorite part was
driving over the speed bumps at the Burger King.
During this time we had what I consider our second real con-
versation, the first having taken place at the foot of a pine tree at
Lake o’ the Cherokees. It went something like this:
“What do you want to do?”
“Okay.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Well, where should we go, do you think? Anything in partic-
ular you want to see, as long as we’re here in the big city?”
“Ma Woo-Ahn.”
“Lou Ann’s at home. We’ll see her when we get home. And
Edna and Virgie and Dwayne Ray and everybody.”
“Waneway?”
“That’s right.”
“Ma Woo-Ahn?”
“That’s right. Only let me tell you something. Starting right
now, you’ve only got one Ma in the whole world. You know who
that is?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Ma.”
“That’s right. That’s me. You’ve got loads of friends. Lou Ann’s
your friend, and Edna and Mattie and all the others, and they all
love you and take care of you sometimes. And Estevan and
Esperanza were good friends too. I want you to remember them,
okay?”
“Steban and Mespanza,” she nodded gravely.
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“Close enough,” I said. “I know it’s been confusing, there’s
been a lot of changes in the management. But from here on in
I’m your Ma, and that means I love you the most. Forever. Do you
understand what that means?”
“That beans?” She looked doubtful.
“You and me, we’re sticking together. You’re my Turtle.”
“Urdle,” she declared, pointing to herself.
“That’s right. April Turtle Greer.”
“Ableurdledear.”
“Exactly.”
On an impulse I called 1-800-THE LORD, from a public
phone in the City Library where we’d come after Turtle decided
she’d like to look at some books. I don’t know what possessed
me to do it. I’d been saving it up all this time, like Mama and
our head rights, and now that I’d hit bottom and survived, I sup-
pose I knew that I didn’t really need any ace in the hole.
The line rang twice, three times, and then a recording came
on. It told me that the Lord helps those that help themselves.
Then it said that this was my golden opportunity to help myself
and the entire Spiritual Body by making my generous contribu-
tion today to the Fountain of Faith missionary fund. If I would
please hold the line an operator would be available momentarily
to take my pledge. I held the line.
“Thank you for calling,” she said. “Would you like to state your
name and address and the amount of your pledge?”
“No pledge,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know you’ve got-
ten me through some rough times. I always thought, ‘If I really
get desperate I can call 1-800-THE LORD.’ I just wanted to tell
you, you have been a Fountain of Faith.”
She didn’t know what to make of this. “So you don’t wish to
make a pledge at this time?”
“No,” I said. “Do you wish to make a pledge to me at this time?
Would you like to send me a hundred dollars, or a hot meal?”
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She sounded irritated. “I can’t do that, ma’am,” she said.
“Okay, no problem,” I said. “I don’t need it, anyway. Especially
now. I’ve got a whole trunkful of pickles and baloney.”
“Ma’am, this is a very busy line. If you don’t wish to make a
pledge at this time.”
“Look at it this way,” I said. “We’re even.”
After I hung up I felt like singing and dancing through the
wide, carpeted halls of the Oklahoma City Main Library. I once
saw a movie where kids did cartwheels all over the library tables
while Marian the librarian chased them around saying “Shhhh!” I
felt just like one of those kids.
But instead Turtle and I snooped politely through the stacks.
They didn’t have Old MacDonald Had an Apartment, and as a
matter of fact we soon became bored with the juvenile section
and moved on to Reference. Some of these had good pictures.
Turtle’s favorite was the Horticultural Encyclopedia. It had pic-
tures of vegetables and flowers that were far beyond both her
vocabulary and mine. She sat on my lap and together we turned
the big, shiny pages. She pointed out pictures of plants she liked,
and I read about them. She even found a picture of bean trees.
“Well, you smart thing, I would have missed it altogether,” I
said. I would have, too. The picture was in black and white, and
didn’t look all that much like the ones back home in Roosevelt
Park, but the caption said it was wisteria. I gave Turtle a squeeze.
“What you are,” I told her, “is a horticultural genius.” I wouldn’t
have put it past her to say “horticulture” one of these days, a word
I hadn’t uttered myself until a few months ago.
Turtle was thrilled. She slapped the picture enthusiastically,
causing the young man at the reference desk to look over his
glasses at us. The book had to have been worth a hundred dollars
at least, and it was very clean.
“Here, let’s don’t hit the book,” I said. “I know it’s exciting.
Why don’t you hit the table instead?”
She smacked the table while I read to her in a whisper about
the life cycle of wisteria. It is a climbing ornamental vine found
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in temperate latitudes, and came originally from the Orient. It
blooms in early spring, is pollinated by bees, and forms beanlike
pods. Most of that we knew already. It actually is in the bean
family, it turns out. Everything related to beans is called a legume.
But this is the most interesting part: wisteria vines, like other
legumes, often thrive in poor soil, the book said. Their secret is
something called rhizobia. These are microscopic bugs that live
underground in little knots on the roots. They suck nitrogen gas
right out of the soil and turn it into fertilizer for the plant.
The rhizobia are not actually part of the plant, they are sepa-
rate creatures, but they always live with legumes: a kind of under-
ground railroad moving secretly up and down the roots.
“It’s like this,” I told Turtle. “There’s a whole invisible system
for helping out the plant that you’d never guess was there.” I
loved this idea. “It’s just the same as with people. The way Edna
has Virgie, and Virgie has Edna, and Sandi has Kid Central
Station, and everybody has Mattie. And on and on.”
The wisteria vines on their own would just barely get by, is
how I explained it to Turtle, but put them together with rhizobia
and they make miracles.
At four o’clock we went to the Oklahoma County Courthouse
to pick up the adoption papers. On Mr. Armistead’s directions
we found a big bright office where about twenty women sat typ-
ing out forms. All together they made quite a racket. The one
who came to the front counter had round-muscled shoulders
bulging under her pink cotton blazer and a half grown-out per-
manent in her straight Cherokee hair—a body trying to return
to its natural state. She took our names and told us to have a
seat, that it would be awhile. The waiting made me nervous,
even though no one here looked important enough to stop what
had already been set in motion. It was only a roomful of women
with typewriters and African violets and pictures of their kids on
their desks, doing as they were told. Still, I was afraid of sitting
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around looking anxious, as if one of them might catch sight of
me fidgeting and cry out, “That’s no adoptive mother, that’s an
impostor!” I could imagine them all then, scooting back their
chairs and scurrying after me in their high-heeled pumps and
tight skirts.
I needed to find something to do with myself. I asked if there
was a telephone I could use for long distance. The muscular
woman directed me to a pay phone out in the hall.
I dialed Lou Ann. It seemed to take an eternity for all the
right wires to connect, and when she finally did take the call she
sounded even more nervous than I was, which was no help.
“It’s okay, Lou Ann, everything’s fine, I just called collect
because I’m about out of quarters. But we’ll have to keep it short
or we’ll run up the phone bill.”
“Oh, hell’s bells, Taylor, I don’t even care.” Lou Ann relaxed
immediately once she knew we hadn’t been mangled in a car
crash. “I don’t know how many times this week I’ve said I’d give a
million dollars to talk to Taylor, so here’s my chance. It just seems
like everything in the world has happened. Where in the tarna-
tion are you, anyway?”
“Oklahoma City. Headed home.” I hesitated. “So what all’s
happened? You’ve decided to take Angel back? Or go up there and
live in his yurdle, or whatever?”
“Angel? Heck no, not if you paid me. Listen, do you know
what his mother told me? She said Angel just wants what he can’t
have. That I’d no sooner get up to Montana before he’d decide
he’d had enough of me again. She said I was worth five or six of
Angel.”
“His own mother said that?”
“Can you believe it? Of course it was all in Spanish, I had to
get it secondhand, but that was the general gist. And it makes
sense, don’t you think? Isn’t there some saying about not throw-
ing good loving after bad?”
“I think it’s money they say that about. Good money after bad.”
“Well, the same goes, is what I say. Oh shoot, can you hang on
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a second? Dwayne Ray’s got something about ready to put in his
mouth.” I waited while she saved Dwayne Ray from his probably
nineteen-thousandth brush with death. I loved Lou Ann.
Turtle was playing the game where you see how far you can
get without touching the floor, walking only on the furniture. She
was doing pretty well. There was a long row of old-fashioned
wooden benches with spindle backs and armrests, lined up side
by side down one wall of the hallway. For some reason it made me
think of a chain gang—a hundred guys could sit on those
benches, all handcuffed together. Or a huge family, I suppose,
waiting for some important news. They could all hold hands.
“Okay, I’m back. So there’s one more thing I have to tell you.
Remember about the meteors? I called up Ramona Quiroz in San
Diego, long distance. There wasn’t any meteor shower. Not at all!
Can you believe it? That was just the absolute last straw.”
“Well, thank heavens,” I said. It occurred to me that nobody
else on earth could have understood what Lou Ann had just said.
“So that’s the scoop, Angel’s history. Now I’m seeing this guy
from Red Hot Mama’s by the name of Cameron John. Cameron’s
his first name and John’s his last. Can you believe it?”
“I had a science teacher like that once,” I said. “So does Red
Hot Mama’s give out a sex manual for the chile packers—how to
do it without touching anything?”
“Taylor, I swear. He does tomatillos, and I just boss people
now, as you very well know. Anyway I can’t wait till you meet him,
to see what you think. I know Mama would take one look and
keel over dead—he’s about seven feet tall and black as the ace of
spades. But, Taylor, he is so sweet. My biggest problem is I keep
feeling like I don’t deserve anybody to be that nice to me. He
invited me over for dinner and made this great something or other
with rice and peanuts and I don’t know what all. He used to be a
Rastafarian.”
“A what?”
“Rastafarian. It’s a type of religion. And he’s got this dog, a
Doberman pinscher? Named Mister T, only Cameron didn’t
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name it that, somebody gave it to him. It’s got pierced ears,
Taylor, I swear to God, with all these little gold rings. I can’t
believe I actually went out with this guy. I’ve gotten so brave
hanging around you. Six months ago it would have scared the liv-
ing daylights out of me just to have to walk by him on the street.”
“Which, Cameron or Mister T?”
“Either one. And oh, I can’t tell you, he was so good with
Dwayne Ray. It just made me want to cry, or take a picture or
something, to see this great big man playing with a little teeny
pale white baby.”
“So are you moving in with him, or what?” I tried my best to
sound happy for her.
“What, me? No! Cameron’s sweet as can be, but I’m real con-
tent with things the way they are now. To tell you the truth, I’m
sure you’re a lot easier to live with than him and Mister T.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad.”
“Taylor, remember that time you were mad at me because you
didn’t want us to act like a family? That all we needed was a little
dog named Spot? Well, don’t get mad, but I told somebody that
you and Turtle and Dwayne Ray were my family. Somebody at
work said, ‘Do you have family at home?’ And I said, ‘Sure,’ with-
out even thinking. I meant you all. Mainly I guess because we’ve
been through hell and high water together. We know each other’s
good and bad sides, stuff nobody else knows.”
It was hard for me to decide what to say.
“I don’t mean till death do us part, or anything,” she said. “But
nothing on this earth’s guaranteed, when you get right down to it,
you know? I’ve been thinking about that. About how your kids
aren’t really yours, they’re just these people that you try to keep an
eye on, and hope you’ll all grow up someday to like each other
and still be in one piece. What I mean is, everything you ever get
is really just on loan. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” I said. “Like library books. Sooner or later they’ve all
got to go back into the night drop.”
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“Exactly. So what’s the point worrying yourself sick about it.
You’d just as well enjoy it while you’ve got it.”
“I guess you could say we’re family,” I said. I watched Turtle
climb over the armrests onto the last bench by the front door,
which stood wide open to the street. She turned around and
looked for me, and started making her way back.
There was silence on the other end of the line. “Lou Ann? You
still there?” I asked.
“I can’t stand the suspense, Taylor. Do you still have her?”
“Have who?”
“Turtle, for heaven’s sake.”
“Oh, sure. She’s my legal daughter now.”
“What!” Lou Ann shrieked. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope. It’s done, for all practical purposes. There’s still some
rigamarole in court for getting a birth certificate that takes about
six months, but that’s not too bad. It takes longer than that to
make a kid from scratch, is how I look at it.”
“I can’t believe it. You found her mother? Or her aunt, or
whatever it was?”
I looked down the hall. “I can’t really talk here. We’ll be home
in two days at the outside, and I’ll tell you everything then, okay?
But it’s going to take all night and a lot of junk food. Do you know
what? I missed your salsa. The medium, though, not the fire-
cracker style.”
Lou Ann’s breath came out like a slow leak in a tire. “Taylor, I
was scared to death you’d come back without her.”
We had cleared Oklahoma City and were out on the plain
before sundown. It felt like old times, heading into the low
western horizon. I let Turtle see the adoption certificate and she
looked at it for a very long time, considering that there were no
pictures on it.
“That means you’re my kid,” I explained, “and I’m your
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mother, and nobody can say it isn’t so. I’ll keep that paper for you
till you’re older, but it’s yours. So you’ll always know who you are.”
She bobbed her head up and down like a hen, with her eyes
fixed on something out the window that only she could see.
“You know where we’re going now? We’re going home.”
She swung her heels against the seat. “Home, home, home,
home,” she sang.
The poor kid had spent so much of her life in a car, she prob-
ably felt more at home on the highway than anywhere else. “Do
you remember home?” I asked her. “That house where we live with
Lou Ann and Dwayne Ray? We’ll be there before you know it.”
But it didn’t seem to matter to Turtle, she was happy where she
was. The sky went from dust-color to gray and then cool black
sparked with stars, and she was still wide awake. She watched the
dark highway and entertained me with her vegetable-soup song,
except that now there were people mixed in with the beans and
potatoes: Dwayne Ray, Mattie, Esperanza, Lou Ann and all the rest.
And me. I was the main ingredient.
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BOOKS BY BARBARA KINGSOLVER
ANIMAL DREAMS
ISBN 978-0-06-092114-9 (paperback)
Codi Noline, a dreamless woman, discovers the unexpected when she returns home to Grace,
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ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE
ISBN 978-0-06-085256-6 (paperback) • ISBN 978-0-06-085357-0 (unabridged cd)
Kingsolver describes her family’s adventure as they move to a farm in southern Appalachia
and realign their lives with the local food chain.
THE BEAN TREES
ISBN 978-0-06-091554-4 (paperback) • ISBN 978-0-06-176522-3 (deluxe edition)
ISBN 978-0-06-178210-7 (unabridged cd) • ISBN 978-0-06-017579-5 (anniversary hardcover)
Heading west to start a new life, young Taylor Greer finds an abandoned child and must
quickly come to terms with motherhood and the importance of putting down roots.
HIGH TIDE IN TUCSON: Essays from Now or Never
ISBN 978-0-06-092756-1 (paperback)
Twenty-five essays focus on the themes of family, community, and the natural world.
HOMELAND AND OTHER STORIES
ISBN 978-0-06-091701-2 (paperback)
A rich and emotionally resonant collection of twelve stories that explore the themes of family
ties and the life choices one must ultimately make alone.
PIGS IN HEAVEN
ISBN 978-0-06-092253-5 (paperback)
The contested adoption of a Native American child raises powerful questions about
individual rights and the need for community.
THE POISONWOOD BIBLE
ISBN 978-0-06-157707-9 (paperback)
Kingsolver’s bestselling epic novel chronicling three decades in the life of an American family
who travel to the Belgian Congo as missionaries in 1959.
PRODIGAL SUMMER
ISBN 978-0-06-095903-6 (paperback) • ISBN 978-0-06-019966-1 (large print)
Three stories of human love woven together within a larger tapestry of living creatures
inhabiting the mountains and struggling small farms of southern Appalachia.
SMALL WONDER: Essays
ISBN 978-0-06-050408-3 (paperback)
Twenty-three essays that are a passionate invitation to readers to be part of the crowd that
cares about the environment, peace, and family.
THE COMPLETE FICTION
ISBN 978-0-06-092659-5 (paperback)
Boxed set containing The Bean Trees, Homeland, Animal Dreams, and Pigs in Heaven.
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