The Same Sky(14)

Why God made certain decisions, I could not even dream of knowing. God only gave my grandparents one child—my mother—though they had yearned for more. God sent Hurricane Mitch to Honduras, and yellow glue. Yet He also gave us the stars, the feel of the cool night on our faces. He gave me my brothers, and the way I felt when Humberto looked at me. I believed God watched over me. I was lucky in this. Many people I knew feared that God had forgotten them.

That night, the front door was closed, which was a relief. (I was always afraid it would be kicked in, our pallet and small collection of cookware gone.) But when I whispered for Junior to let me in, he did not answer. I shoved the door and it fell open. I scanned the room; all seemed in place. On the pallet, there was a lump of blankets. I approached, put my hand on my brother’s back. He was breathing deeply, fast asleep. I closed the padlock and lay next to Junior, my arm around his small body. I knew then what the end of hope smelled like: yellow glue on your brother’s breath.





10




Alice


THERE’S THE ICE festival, of course, and New Year’s Eve—when people drive their Jeeps into the Amphitheater, place flares on them, and drive down Route 550, a winding dragon of light into town—but in Ouray, Colorado, the Fourth of July is the biggest event of the year. I woke up alone in the lumpy bed that had been my parents’, took a quick shower, and headed to my sister’s house in my red-white-and-blue flared skirt and cropped blouse. (And my red boots.) Jane was already pulling the second sheet of cinnamon buns out of the oven. (The first lay scavenged on the stove.) It didn’t look as if she’d showered, and her pajamas were an unflattering maroon. “Hello, hello!” she cried when I slid open the screen door to the kitchen and entered. “Wow, look at you,” she said tartly. “Lipstick and everything.”

“Thanks,” I said, though her words hadn’t exactly been a compliment.

“Here,” she said, handing me a plate. “Coffee? Eggs?”

“Hell, yes,” I said, savoring the hot cinnamon bun. “God. This tastes exactly like Mom’s.”

“It’s her recipe,” said Jane, “and her pan.”

“Wow,” I said brightly, awkwardly.

“Please, let me pour your coffee,” said Jane. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s fine,” said Jane, through gritted teeth.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m just tired,” she said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her youngest, Benjamin, ran into the kitchen holding out an empty plate.

“Dad wants more!” he announced.

“I’ll get it,” I said, standing up. “Go take a shower, Jane. I can take over in here.”

“Ha!” said Jane, wresting the plate from my hands.

When Benjamin had run back outside, Jane sank to the kitchen floor.

“Jane!” I said, alarmed.

“Just let me sit,” she said. “I’ve been standing since five.”

“Why didn’t you ask me to help?” I said.

“I don’t want to have to ask,” spat Jane.

I filled a mug with coffee and cream, the way she liked it. I handed Jane the mug and sat next to her. The linoleum floor was dusted with crumbs and muddy footprints. “Three is too many kids,” said Jane dully.

“Give me one,” I said.

We both started to laugh. “Which one?” said Jane.

“Any one,” I said, suddenly sad. “I just want one.”

Jane pulled me close.

“Is everything okay with you guys?” I said.

“Not really,” said Jane.

“What is it?”

“Not today,” said Jane, standing up.

“Is it Dennis?” I asked. “Is it Dad?”

“I am going to take a shower,” said Jane. She set her mug on the counter. “And I don’t use cream anymore,” she said. “I’m trying to be on a goddamn diet.”

“Mom said ‘goddamn’!” cried Gilmer, appearing in striped pajamas.

“Gilmer!” I said, trying to sound like a mother.

“Well, she did say ‘goddamn,’ Aunt Alice,” explained Gilmer earnestly. “We’re not allowed to use swear words in this house.”

“I think I see the Tickle Monster,” I said.

“No!” shrieked Gilmer, running outside.

“Oh, yes,” I said, starting the chase.

Fifteen minutes later, I collapsed in a deck chair by the barbecue pit. My father was snoring in the hammock, and Dennis and Jake looked grizzled, half drunk, and very happy. I put my hand on my husband’s knee and he covered it with his own. “How’s that brisket?” I asked.

“Looking good,” said Jake. “Looking very, very good.”

“That’s true,” said Dennis, nodding.

“More Tickle Monster!” called Benjamin, running toward me. I held up my hands.

“No more,” I said, shaking my head.

“More, more, more!” yelled Gilmer, his voice going thin, as if he was about to start crying.

“Sorry, honey,” I said.

“You can’t start them up and quit,” said Dennis evenly.