Hallie and I almost had a dog once, back when our Tucson house was on the underground railroad. Hallie had come home one night with a refugee woman and child and a little cinnamon dog. The mother had been tortured and her eyes offered out that flatness, like a zoo animal. But I remember the girl, in a short pink dress and corduroy pants, following that puppy under the bathroom sink and all over the house. I had no reason to believe, now, that any of the three was still living. The woman and her daughter were eventually arrested and sent back to tropical, lethal San Salvador. And we’d decided realistically that we didn’t have room for a dog, so it went to the Humane Society. Terms like that, “Humane Society,” are devised with people like me in mind, who don’t care to dwell on what happens to the innocent.
Loyd came back out, being careful not to slam the decrepit screen door. “I’m next in line,” he said. “Three guys ahead of me laid off to watch the Padres game. I better get home.” Jack got up instantly and went to his side.
“Well, thanks,” I said, still thinking of the cinnamon dog. I held up my bottle. “It’s nice to see you again, Loyd.”
He stood there grinning, the fingers of his right hand playing with Jack’s nape. I didn’t know quite how to finish off the evening. Loyd hesitated and then said, “I’ve got to drive up to Whiteriver, a week from Saturday. To see about something.”
“Well, that sounds mysterious,” I said.
“To see about some game birds. Anyway I thought you might like to get out of here for some fresh air. You want to go?”
I took a deep breath. “Sure,” I said. I wasn’t sure at all, but my mind had apparently made itself up. “Okay. I could use some fresh air.”
Loyd gave a funny little nod, and went out through the gate. Jack disappeared behind him into the cactus jungle.
HOMERO
10 The Mask
He is lying on his own examining table, resting his eyes. The telephone buzzes quietly but Mrs. Quintana, his receptionist, has given up the battle with insurance forms and gone home.
He places his long hands over his face, the fingertips lightly touching his forehead, thumbs resting on the maxillary bones beneath his eyes. His office in the hospital basement is cool even in this late-September heat, and pleasant in winter as well. As practical and comforting as a cave. The lack of windows has never been a problem; artificial lighting is adequate. He has just examined his last patient of the day, a sixteen-year-old with six small gold rings piercing the cartilage of her left ear. She is expecting twins. They will be born small, and in trouble. There was no reason to tell her everything.
He imagines the procedure by which the tiny gold wires were inserted through flesh and spongy bone. It would have to be painful. He is mystified. Children devote slavish attention to these things, but can’t be bothered with prophylactics.
He drifts between wakefulness and sleep, thinking of Codi. Her eyes are downturned and secretive, her heart clearly hardened against him already, to have done this. Her hair is in her eyes. She flips it sideways, chewing the inside of her lip and looking out the window when he talks to her. She’d wanted pierced ears at thirteen; he’d explained that self-mutilation was preposterous and archaic. Now they discuss shoes. He wants to ask, “Do you know what you have inside you? Does your sister know?” Hallie is young to understand reproductive matters but it’s impossible that she wouldn’t know, they’re so much of a single mind, and he is outside of it completely. He has no idea what he can say.
She’s in the fifth or sixth month, from the look of her, although Codi was always too thin and now is dangerously thin, and so skillful at disguising it with her clothes he can only tell by other signs. The deepened pigmentation under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose, for one thing, is identical to the mask of pregnancy Alice wore both times, first with Codi, then with Hallie. It stuns him. He feels a sharp pain in his spleen when he looks across the breakfast table each morning and sees this: his wife’s face. The ghost of their happiest time returned to inhabit the miserable body of their child. He can’t help feeling he has damaged them all, just by linking them together. His family is a web of women dead and alive, with himself at the center like a spider, driven by different instincts. He lies mute, hearing only in the tactile way that a spider hears, touching the threads of the web with long extended fingertips and listening. Listening for trapped life.
COSIMA
11 A River on the Moon
Loyd and I didn’t go to Whiteriver. He was called out on Friday for a seven-day stand on a switch engine in Lordsburg. He seemed disappointed and promised we’d go another time. Loyd didn’t have much seniority on the railroad; he’d only moved back to Grace a
