earthquake could do a tornado’s work.
Aunt Geneva’s aged house trailer looked like a giant oven built for the roasting of whole cows, in multiples. Perhaps a malevolent sun god lived in the metal walls, for the air immediately around the place shimmered as if with the spirits of attending demons.
Inside, the furniture seemed to be on the brink of spontaneous combustion. The sliding windows were open to admit a draft, but the August day declined the invitation to provide a breeze.
In her tiny bedroom, Micky kicked off her toe-pinching high heels. She stripped out of her cheap cotton suit and pantyhose.
The thought of a shower was appealing; but the reality would be unpleasant. The cramped bathroom had only a small window, and in this heat, the roiling steam wouldn’t properly vent.
She slipped into white shorts and a sleeveless Chinese-red blouse. In the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, she looked better than she felt.
At one time, she’d been proud of her beauty. Now she wondered why she had taken so much pride in something that required no effort, no slightest sacrifice.
Over the past year, with as much mulish resistance as the most obstinate creature ever to pull a plow, Micky had drawn herself to the unpleasant conclusion that her life to date had been wasted and that she was solely to blame for what she had become. The anger that she’d once directed at others had been turned upon herself.
Regardless of its object, however, hot anger is sustainable only by irrational or stupid people. Micky was neither. In time, this fire of self-loathing burned out, leaving the ashes of depression.
Depression passed, too. Lately she had made her way from day to day in a curious and fragile state of expectancy.
After giving her good looks, fate had never again been generous. Consequently, Micky wasn’t able to identify a reason for this almost sweet anticipation. Defensively, she tempered it with wariness.
Nevertheless, during the week that she’d been staying with Aunt Gen, she awakened each morning with the conviction that change was coming and that it would be a change for the better.
Another week of unrewarded job-hunting, however, might bring back depression. Also, more than once during the day, she’d been troubled by a new version of her former rage; this sullen resentment wasn’t as hot as her anger had been in the past, but it had the potential to quicken. The long day of rejection left her weary in body, mind, and spirit. And her emotional unsteadiness scared her.
Barefoot, she went into the kitchen, where Geneva was preparing dinner. A small electric fan, set on the kitchen floor, churned the hot air with less cooling effect than might be produced by a wooden spoon stirring the contents of a bubbling soup pot.
Because of the criminal stupidity and stupid criminality of California’s elected officials, the state had suffered electricity shortages early in the summer, and in an overreaction to the crisis had piled up surpluses of power at grossly high prices. Utility rates had soared. Geneva couldn’t afford to use the air conditioning.
As Aunt Gen sprinkled Parmesan cheese over a bowl of cold pasta salad, she served up a smile that could have charmed the snake of Eden into a mood of benign companionship. Gen’s once golden hair was pale blond now, streaked with gray. Yd because she’d grown plump with age, her face was smooth; coppery freckles and lively green eyes testified to the abiding presence of the young girl thriving in the sixty-year-old woman. “Micky, sweetie, did you have a good day?”
“Sucky day, Aunt Gen.”
“That’s a word I never know whether to be embarrassed about.”
“I didn’t realize anyone got embarrassed about anything anymore. In this case, it just means ‘as bad as a sucking chest wound.’ “
“Ah. Then I’m not embarrassed, just slightly sickened. Why don’t you get a glass of cold lemonade, honey? I made fresh.”
“What I really need is a beer.”
“There’s also beer. Your uncle Vernon liked two icy beers more evenings than not.”
Aunt Gen didn’t drink beer. Vernon had been dead for eighteen years. Still, Geneva kept his favorite brand in the refrigerator, and if no one drank it, she periodically replaced it with new stock when its freshness date had passed.
Although conceding the game to Death, she remained determined not to let Death also take sweet memories and long-kept traditions in addition to his prize of flesh.
Micky popped open a can of Budweiser. “They think the economy’s going down the drain.”
“Who does, dear?”
“Everyone I talked to about a job.”
Having set the pasta salad on the dinette table, Geneva began slicing roasted chicken breasts for sandwiches. “Those people are just pessimists. The economy’s always going down the drain for some folks, but it’s a warm bath for others. You’ll find work, sweetie.”
The beer provided icy solace. “How do you stay so upbeat?”
Focused on the chicken, Geneva said, “Easy. I just look around.”
Micky looked around. “Sorry, Aunt Gen, but all I see is a poky little trailer kitchen so old the gloss is worn off the Formica.”
“Then you don’t know how to look yet, honey. There’s a dish of pickles, some olives, a bowl of potato salad, a tray of cheese, and other stuff in the fridge. Would you put everything on the table?”
Extracting the cheese tray from the refrigerator, Micky said, “Are you cooking for a cellblock full of condemned men or something?”
Geneva set a platter of sliced chicken on the table. “Didn’t you notice — we have three place settings this evening?”
“A dinner guest?”
A knock answered the question. The back door stood open to facilitate air circulation, so Leilani Klonk rapped on the jamb.
“Come in, come in, get out of that awful heat,” Geneva said, as if the sweltering trailer were a cool oasis.
Backlit by the westering sun, wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a small green heart embroidered on the left breast, Leilani entered in a rattle and clatter of steely leg brace, though she had climbed the three back steps with no noise.
This had been worse than a sucky day. The language necessary to describe Micky’s job search in its full dreadfulness would not merely have embarrassed Aunt Geneva; it would have shocked and appalled her. Therefore, at the arrival of the disabled girl, Micky was surprised to feel the same buoying expectation that had kept her from drowning in self-pity since she’d moved in here.
“Mrs. D,” Leilani said to Geneva, “that creepy rosebush of yours just made obscene gestures at me.”
Geneva smiled. “If there was an altercation, dear, I’m sure you started it.”
With the thumb on her deformed hand, Leilani gestured toward Geneva, and said to Micky, “She’s an original. Where’d you find her?”
“She’s my father’s sister, so she was part of the deal.”
“Bonus points,” said Leilani. “Your dad must be great.”
“Why would you think so?”
“His sister’s cool.”
Micky said, “He abandoned my mother and me when I was three.”
“That’s tough. But my useless dad skipped the day I was born.”
“I didn’t know we were in a rotten-dad contest.”
“At least my real dad isn’t a murderer like my current pseudo-father — or as far as I know, he isn’t. Is your dad a murderer?”
“I lose again. He’s just a selfish pig.”
“Mrs. D, you don’t mind she- calls your brother a selfish pig?” “Sadly, dear, it’s true.”
“So you aren’t just bonus points, Mrs. D. You’re like this terrific prize that turned up in a box of rancid old Cracker Jack.”
Geneva beamed. “That’s so sweet, Leilani. Would you like some fresh lemonade?”
