Gillian eyes the house, unimpressed. She truly hates being on the East Coast. All this humidity and greenery. She'd do almost anything to avoid the past. Most probably, she'll find herself dreaming about the aunts tonight. That old house on Magnolia Street, with its woodwork and its cats, will come back to her, and she'll start to get fidgety, maybe even panicky to get the hell away, which is how she ended up in the Southwest in the first place. She got on a bus as soon as she left the Toyota mechanic she'd left her first husband for. She had to have heat and sun to counteract her moldy childhood, with its dark afternoons filled with long green shadows and its even darker midnights. She had to be very, very far away.
If she'd had the cash, Gillian would have run out of that rest area in New Jersey and she would have kept running until she got to the airport in Newark, then flown someplace hot. New Orleans, maybe, or Los Angeles. Unfortunately, right before they left Tucson, Jimmy informed her they were penniless. He'd spent every cent she'd earned in the past five years, easy enough to do when you're investing in drugs and alcohol and any jewelry you took a fancy to, including the silver ring he always wore—which had cost nearly a week of Gillian's salary. The only thing they had after he was done spending was the car, and that was in his name. Where else could she have gone on a night as black as this? Who else would take her in, no questions asked—or, at least, none she can't think up an answer for—until she gets back on her feet?
Gillian sighs and surrenders her fight against nicotine, at least temporarily. She takes one of Jimmy's Lucky Strikes out of her shirt pocket, then lights up and inhales as deeply as she can. She'll quit tomorrow.
'We were about to start a new life, that's why we were heading for Manhattan. I was going to call you once we were settled. You were the first person I planned to have visit our apartment.'
'Sure,' Sally says, but she doesn't believe a word. When Gillian got rid of her past, she got rid of Sally as well. The last time they were supposed to get together was right before Jimmy and the move to Tucson. Sally had already bought the tickets for herself and the girls to fly to Austin, where Gillian was working as a concierge-in- training at the Hilton. The plan had been to spend Thanksgiving together—which would have been a first—but Gillian called Sally two days before she and the girls were set to take off, and she told Sally to just forget it. In two days, she wouldn't even be in Austin anymore. Gillian never did care to explain what went wrong, whether it was the Hilton, or Austin, or simply some compelling need to move on. When dealing with Gillian; Sally has gotten used to disappointment. She would have worried if there hadn't been a hitch.
'Well, I was planning to call you,' Gillian says. 'Believe it or not. But we had to get out of Tucson really fast because Jimmy was selling jimsonweed to the kids at the university, telling them it was peyote or LSD, and there was sort of a problem with people dying, which I had no idea about until he said, 'Get packed, pronto.' I would have called before I arrived on your doorstep. I just got freaked out when he collapsed at that rest area. I didn't know where to go.'
'You could have taken him to a hospital. Or what about the police? You could have called them.' Sally can see in the dark that the azaleas she recently planted are already wilting, their leaves turning brown. In her opinion, everything goes wrong if you give it enough time. Close your eyes, count to three, and chances are you'll have some sort of disaster creeping up on you.
'Yeah, right. Like I could go to the police.' Gillian exhales in little, staccato puffs. 'They'd give me ten to twenty. Maybe even life, considering it happened in New Jersey.' Gillian stares at the stars, her eyes open wide. 'If I could just get enough money together, I'd take off for California. I'd be gone before they ever came after me.'
It's not just the azaleas Sally could lose. It's eleven years of work and sacrifice. The rings around the moon are now so bright Sally's convinced everyone in the neighborhood will be awake before long. She grabs her sister's arm and digs her fingernails into Gillian's skin. She's got two kids who are dependent on her asleep in the house. She's got an apple tart she has to take to the Fourth of July block party next weekend.
'Why would they come after you?'
Gillian winces and tries to pull away, but Sally won't let go. Finally, Gillian shrugs and lowers her eyes, and as far as Sally's concerned that's not a very comforting way to answer a question.
'Are you trying to tell me that you're responsible for Jimmy's death?'
'It was an accident,' Gillian insists. 'More or less,' she adds when Sally digs her nails in deeper. 'All right,' she admits when Sally begins to draw blood. 'I killed him.' Gillian is getting pretty shaky, as if her pressure had started to drop a degree a second. 'Now you know. Okay? As usual, everything's my fault.'
Maybe it's only the humidity, but the rings around the moon are turning faintly green. Some women believe that a green light in the east can reverse the aging process, and sure enough Sally feels as though she were fourteen. She's having thoughts no grown woman should have, especially not one who's spent her whole life being good. She notices that there are bruises all up and down Gillian's arms; in the dark they look like purple butterflies, like something pretty.
'I'm never getting involved with another man,' Gillian says. When Sally gives her a look, Gillian goes on insisting she's through with love. 'I've learned my lesson,' she says. 'Now that it's too damn late. I just wish I could have tonight, and call the police tomorrow.' Her voice is sounding strained again, and even littler than before. 'I could cover Jimmy with a blanket and leave him in the car. I'm not ready to turn myself in. I don't think I can do it.'
Gillian really sounds as if she's cracking up now. She has a tremor in her hand that's making it impossible for her to light another cigarette.
'You have to stop smoking,' Sally says. Gillian is still her little sister, even now; she's her responsibility.
'Oh, fuck it.' Gillian manages to light the match, then her cigarette. 'I'll probably get a life sentence. Cigarettes will just shorten the time I have to serve. I should smoke two at a time.'
Although the girls weren't much more than babies when their parents died, Sally made snap decisions that seemed forceful enough to carry them both along. After the sitter they'd been left with became hysterical, and Sally had to get on the phone with the police officer to hear the news of their parents' death, she told Gillian to choose her two favorite stuffed animals and throw all the others away, because from then on they'd have to travel light, and take only what they could care for themselves. She was the one who told the silly babysitter to look for the aunts' phone number in their mother's datebook, and she insisted she be allowed to call and announce that she and Gillian would be made wards of the state unless a relative, however distant, came forward to claim them. She had the same look on her face then as she does now, an unlikely combination of dreaminess and iron.
'The police don't have to know,' Sally says. Her voice sounds oddly sure.
'Really?' Gillian examines her sister's face, but at times like this Sally never gives anything away. It's impossible to read her. 'Seriously?' Gillian moves closer to Sally, for comfort. She looks over at the Oldsmobile. 'Do you want to see him?'
Sally cranes her neck; there's a shape in the passenger seat, all right.
'He really was cute.' Gillian stubs out her cigarette and starts to cry. 'Oh, boy,' she says.
Sally can't believe it, but she actually wants to see him. She wants to see what such a man looks like. She wants to know if a woman as rational as herself could ever be attracted to him, if only for a second.
Gillian follows Sally over to the car and they lean forward to get a good look at Jimmy through the windshield. Tall, dark, handsome, and dead.
'You're right,' Sally says. 'He was cute.'
He is, by far, the best-looking guy Sally has ever seen, dead or alive. She can tell, by the arch of his eyebrows and the smirk that's still on his lips, that he sure as hell knew it. Sally puts her face up to the glass. Jimmy's arm is thrown over the seat and Sally can see the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand—it's a big chunk of silver with three panels: a saguaro cactus is etched into one side panel, a coiled rattlesnake on the other, and in the center there's a cowboy on horseback. Even Sally understands that you wouldn't want to get hit if a man had that ring on; the silver would split your lip right open, it would cut quite deep.
Jimmy cared about the way he looked, that much is clear. Even after hours slumped over in the car, his blue jeans are so crisp it appears that somebody tried hard to iron them just right. His boots are snakeskin and they obviously cost a fortune. They've been very well cared for; if somebody spilled a beer on those boots by accident, or kicked up too much dust, there'd be trouble, you can tell that by looking at the polished leather. You can tell just by looking at Jimmy's face. Dead or alive, he is who he is: somebody you don't want to mess with. Sally steps away from the car. She'd be afraid to be alone with him. She'd be afraid one wrong word would set him off, and then she wouldn't know what to do.
