“No,” she insisted, heartbroken at the girl's anguish. “You never heard?”
In the yard, a breeze twirled the wreath of feathers, and the sun baked the ground. Slumped against the counter, Erica slid to the floor and stayed there, voiceless and motionless, while her aunt rambled, telling her over and again that the dead man was actually alive. Guilt had plagued her for ten years, seeped into her bones and infected her nervous system, spreading into the muscles, the brain, the heart. Remorse for the dead man in Oklahoma, for all she had lost, all she had failed to do. The knot in her stomach loosened, and she felt as if her insides had been scoured. She began to weep for her father, her mother, herself. Puzzled, the dogs strolled over to Erica seated on the tiles and stuck their noses in her face, trying to discover the scent behind her sadness.
OVER THE HILL they traveled, three weird sisters: the oldest hobbling on an injured leg, her pink coat flapping in the wind; a stick-thin witch accompanied by two panting hounds from hell; and in between, the refugee from her own past, stumbling over ruts in the road, crushing underfoot the tiny cacti which sprouted like toadstools wherever water collected. Two dusty caballeros rode by on quarter horses and tipped their broad-brimmed hats. A herd of Harleys roared down the curve of the mountain, headed for the Mine Shaft. From a ramshackle house, a door exploded open and two toddlers escaped into a dirt yard, followed immediately by a barefoot woman who stepped out into the bright light to lasso them in. Blind to all but her thoughts, Erica put one foot in front of the other and kept up only at her companions’ insistence. They linked arms and saved her from collapsing on the march and melting under the late-winter sun. Now that there was a second chance, she wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep for another decade, but her aunt was prattling on about a strange girl.
“This child,” Diane said, “is obviously an imposter. First, she claims to be your daughter sent from New Mexico. Then she claims to be an angel of the Lord. Your mother is in on this somehow.”
“But is she an angel?” Erica asked.
Diane snorted and Maya laid a hand upon the girl's shoulder, and together, they let the matter pass.
They reached the steps to the tavern, and the yellow dog sunbathing on the porch creaked to its feet and scampered down the road. When they were inside in the darkness, Erica felt much better. The brutal sunshine had pierced her skull and given her a headache. Maya held up two fingers and said, “Dos margaritas,” and then added her thumb. “Make it three. I'm in.” Close to the tiny stage, they found an empty table, and as soon as the glasses were set down the women began drinking and licking the salt from their lips.
“Let me be the practical one,” Maya said. “You want Mary to come back with you to see what this girl is all about—”
“And to be with her poor mother.”
Erica's eyes shone with tears, for she was gazing into a distance beyond the present, visiting again the entangled past.
“But what about this shooting?” Maya asked. “Can she still get in trouble for that if someone recognizes her and turns her in to the police? What's the statute of limitations on such a thing? Is anyone still looking for her?”
Erica set down her nearly empty glass. “That's not all we did. We stole a couple of cars—we even lost one entirely—and Wiley robbed four places I know about.”
“A regular Bonnie and Clyde,” Maya said.
“Not as bad as all that, but still I don't want to end up in jail for what I did when I was young and foolish. I'd like to help you, help my mother, but—”
Putting a finger to her lips, Diane leaned forward and motioned them to form a triangle. Foreheads nearly touching, she whispered, “I know a man in Washington who can tell us if there's any danger, if the Feds are still hunting you. He's an old beau of your mother's.”
When Erica laughed, a hiccup escaped with a bang. “My mother with a boyfriend? I can't imagine.”
“There's a lot you don't know about your mother. She almost ran away with him, just like you, when she was your age. His name was Jackson, and he was so in love with her, but her sense of propriety held her back. There's a great deal you don't know about all of us.”
Erica thought of her father, bent over the hospital cots, the needle poised above his suffering victims. “But I can't run the risk of someone turning me in.”
“Jackson can be trusted, and besides, I'll make up some excuse for the call and just casually ask about your case. But the authorities must not be looking very hard. You've been missing ten years, and they probably think you are dead or left the country.”