The children cowered behind the couch cushions.
“I’ve never heard of this before,” the woman sputtered.
“You could file a complaint,” Beth said.
“I certainly will.”
“Though I guess we can ask for a sample of Diego’s DNA.” Zelda waddled toward the woman. “Only they haven’t found the body. We can ask why. I’m going to bet you a few of your stinky cookies that Shipmate Sails, the company who owned the boats, won’t like that. I’m going to bet a few of your stinky brownies that some other people, important people, very important people, might not like that either, and they might wonder why you’re torturing a pregnant woman whose partner willingly came to a session and then later died. A partner who wanted to marry her.” Zelda slipped on the engagement ring. “A woman going by the rules who only wants to remember her lover as she does everything necessary to bring another American child into Grandma’s House.”
The woman trembled.
“Lizzie,” one of the little girls suddenly called out.
“And my real name’s Pam,” the other one said.
They stuck out their tongues at the sullen woman.
For the rest of the hour, the kids played Zelda’s game, imagining little Diego running around knocking over plates and glasses and lamps. Beth was little Diego, taking great relish in shattering a mug and sending the woman into another room.
The woman eventually returned, airily dismissing the girls and insisting the wary Beth also wait outside. Zelda sat on the couch.
How do you feel? The woman gestured.
Fine.
It didn’t bother you?
About little Diego? No. My idea.
But it wasn’t little Diego.
“I know it’s not real. All make believe. I got it. But I’m good at making make believe real.”
“You saw your baby then?”
“Yes. I saw him at five. I skipped over the infant part since that grosses me out. The pooping and everything.”
“And?”
“And, and…What do you want me to say for your report?”
“This isn’t for the report, Zelda. I don’t want you slashing open your stomach in a month.”
“Women do that?”
The woman sighed. “And Ms. Rivera…”
“Is my friend. She can be surly, but she’s my partner here.”
“Good. You need friends.”
Zelda stared. “Like you?”
“I’m not your friend, Zelda. In seven months I’ll never see you again.” She folded her hands in her lap. “So tell me how much this all hurts, pretending Diego is running around calling you Mommy.”
“More than you can imagine. Isn’t that the point? There are no Parents Houses for second time unwed mothers, right?”
The woman nodded grimly.
Zelda and Beth walked within individually bubbled silence to the bus stop. Beth apologetically held up her watch. “I’ve got to go. Customers.”
Zelda led her around the corner by a boarded-up barber shop. “I have another favor.”
“This wasn’t a favor, so ask away,” Beth smiled.
“What demomination are you?”
She wrinkled her pretty face. “Denomination, you mean? Like religion?” Zelda nodded. “Catholic.”
“Is that the same as Christianity?”
Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
Beth almost asked why again. “We all worship Jesus, but the rituals and some core beliefs are different. What’s this about?”
“I have a friend…”
“Do you?”
“Not me. A little friend.” Zelda held her palm down at chest level. “I think she’s Catholic. I’d like to understand more.”
“I have a book. And yeah,” she said as Zelda flinched, “it’s sort of illegal to give a book on religion, but not illegal to own it.”
“Like Puppy’s baseball books.”
Beth cleared her throat. “I’m happy to help, Zelda.”
“Seems that way.”
“Tell me what else you want.” Beth cupped Zelda’s chin and kissed her tenderly on the lips; Zelda shivered.
• • • •
THE DRIVE UPSTATE took about two hours, most of it stuck in the congestion on the Cross Bronx Expressway. Hazel made idle talk about traffic, the decay of roads, the unreliability of ‘bot workers and how many people just liked hiding in their cars away from the interminable vidnews.
Mooshie rarely answered except with an occasional grunt. Hazel took little exception, as if he often talked to himself. Finally he slipped one of her old MDs, a real Mooshie musical disc, into the musplay.
She listened at the smooth texture of her voice dancing off the piano. It was Dead and Dark, from The Dark Depths album.
“There’s many ways to lie down
Even fewer to get up
So don’t leave me baby
‘Cause dreams can be real,” Hazel sang along.
Mooshie clapped sarcastically.
Hazel shot through a small opening in two lanes, up a ramp and onto a wide boulevard heading north.
In a few miles, they zig-zagged along narrow roads until finally squeezing down a dusty street beneath sagging brown trees. The car kicked up gravel, coming to a stop outside Singh’s country store. Hazel looked across the seat.
“You ready?”
She bounded inside as if about to repossess the store’s contents. Trailing, Hazel pulled a long green candy out of a jar on the counter and, sucking noisily, rang a copper bell in the corner.
An automated door slid open. Derek and Sun Yen gasped audibly; Mooshie leaned against a glass counter filled with hunting knives, staring back.
They look so old, she thought, watching the men approach, shaking their heads.
“Greetings, mi amigos.”
Derek suddenly yanked on Mooshie’s hair.
“How’s this possible?”
She pressed her knee into Singh’s groin.
“Still like that move?” he wheezed.
“When there’s something to hit.”
Derek released her hair and Mooshie lowered her knee.
“How about we go inside?” Hazel suggested.
The reporter sprawled over a chair in the office while Derek sat beside Mooshie on the tattered couch.
Standing in the corner, Sun Yen cocked a shotgun. “Who are you?”
She almost laughed. “Mooshie Lopez, asshole.”
“But you’re dead.”
“I was always tougher than you.” She swiveled towards the scowling Singh. “I came back…”
“From where?”
“Heaven, Hell, Grandma’s uterus. I ended up on the floor of a baseball historian, Puppy Nedick. He also had two very old white players named Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb. They came back, too.”
“We’re following all that in the news,” Derek said carefully.
“Then you know I sing as Dara Dinton.”
“Let’s hear.” Easy snickered.
“Buy a ticket. This jerk
