VenCo(15)

“I got the wench stuff,” she called, carrying the jewelry box to her mother.

“Over here, ya scallywag.” Arnya was back on the couch with the peas on her forehead. “Open her up! Actually, hold on a sec.”

Arnya grabbed the box, a box Lucky had been forbidden to open before, and turned slightly, pulling out a small baggie and stuffing it into her bra. Then she handed the box back to Lucky, who had settled beside her on the couch. “There, now you can open her up.”

Lucky unhooked the tiny brass latch and pulled up the lid. A miniature plastic ballerina sprang up and began twirling to an out-of-tune song, her pirouettes reflected in the mirror on the underside of the lid.

“Wow!”

“You like that?”

Lucky was mesmerized by the little dancer, spinning in her single-ply net tutu. It was so delicate. And how did the music work? How did she keep turning? “I love her.”

“Then, in she goes,” Arnya cried, and plucked the twirling girl off her brass pedestal, tossing her into the shoebox.

Lucky covered her mouth. What had Arnya done? Separated from her magic, the magnificent doll was just a cheap plastic toy with paintwork so sloppy her lipstick touched one side of her yellow hair. Her hands had no fingers. Her legs were uneven. Pulled from where she belonged, she was junk.

Arnya dug around in her jewels, stirring necklaces and strands of beads with a finger. “What else have we got in here good enough to be buried?”

“Buried? Like in a grave?” Lucky’s breath caught. Her head felt light, and her eyes felt heavy.

“No—like treasure. You have to bury your treasure. That’s how it stays safe from other pirates.” Arnya pulled out two chains, one silver, one gold, twisted together. “What about these? I think the silver one is the genuine article.”

Lucky felt the tears build and tried like hell to hold them back.

Arnya dropped the chains and the pirate accent. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to bury her.”

“Who?” She followed her daughter’s gaze to the little dancer and chuckled. “That doll? It’s not like the bitch has lungs.”

When Lucky’s face didn’t change, Arnya sighed. “Okay, look. We’ll poke breathing holes in the box.”

She picked up a pencil crayon and stabbed the cardboard lid a few times. “There. All better. Now help me pick out the rest of the booty.”

“I . . . I’m tired,” Lucky said. She stood, keeping her head tipped back, hoping gravity would prevent the tears from spilling down her cheeks. “I’m going to bed. Night.”

“Lucky!”

Her mother’s call stopped her, but she didn’t turn around.

Arnya said, “You can’t keep everything safe all the time. You have to hide the important stuff you have, the things that make you you. Just put it all away. Keep it out of reach. If you hide the precious stuff, then no one can take it. No matter what they do.”

One tear fell and slipped between Lucky’s lips. Salt. Grandma Stella told her salt was good for protection. Without turning back towards her mother, she walked into their room, climbed into the big bed, and pulled the comforter up to her chin. Before she fell asleep, she heard her mom in the living room, sorting more treasure from junk, filling their pretend box. She knew it was no longer a game, and it wasn’t about crappy chains or broken dolls at all.



The next day, when Lucky went out to run errands for Stella, she was greeted by another sudden change in the weather. The air was filled with the smell of spring, that good earthy smell of rain and roots and sun on concrete. It couldn’t have snowed just days ago. There was no way the thin blue of this sky could have held such weight. A small yellow flicker in the green-studded branches of the front trees—a bird silently watching her.

An old man raked his small lawn behind a low fence. Two little girls squealed by on a single BMX with rusted wheels. Squirrels chased each other across the sagging telephone wires. Windows opened. Mowers revved up. People lingered on their front stoops, faces turned to catch the new heat. Lucky walked quickly, not from cold or hurry, only because it felt like she had somewhere to go.

She was one house from the corner when the fox appeared. It pulled itself out of the bush on silent paws, with more of a pour than a step. Lucky stopped abruptly, swinging her arms back and coming to a stop.

“Whoa, whoa.” She was scared for a minute. Like most city people, Lucky believed that anything outside of a domestic pet was something to be feared. Rabies and mange crossed her mind. She stood very still. The fox turned his head slowly and looked at her, not sharing her fear.

Rabies, for sure, she thought. Fear was normal, a natural state of living. Anything else must be suspect. He held her gaze for long seconds, long enough for her to notice the flash and contraction of irises. Stranger than seeing a fox was being seen by a fox. She was seen. She felt uncovered. She felt singular. It was as if she had just begun to exist in the wider world and things were taking notice. And then the fox slid off along the hedges and back in through a small gap in the shrubs.

The corner store had put out fruits and vegetables in the front bins, bins that had spent all winter holding snow and wet leaves. The lemons were remarkable, thick skin pitted and shiny. The oranges were like small citrine beads strung by a passionate stock boy. Lucky ran a finger along the glossy red curves of firm peppers.