My mom was there when the bomb went off. She was lucky to get out alive.
I know she was lucky because my father used to tell her that all the time. He was usually a little irritated when he said it. “You’re lucky you’re here, Zo. You’re going to use up all your luck one of these days. Can’t you take meaningful pictures in Washington, DC, or downtown Baltimore?”
She’d laugh and say she was lucky to get the photograph.
He was right, though. She did use up all her luck. She was killed in a hit-and-run crash on her way home from the airport.
She was only in a cab because I’d begged her to hurry home, and she’d caught an earlier flight as a surprise.
Sometimes I think fate conspires against us. Or maybe fate conspires with us.
I know you know what I mean. Don’t you feel the same about your sister?
Melonhead isn’t here. I’ve been sitting against the door to the equipment shed for half an hour, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to show up. I know the routine now, and I could start mowing without him, but I don’t have a key.
I pull out my phone and search for the photograph that Cemetery Girl described. She’s right: the kids show a glimmer of hope. Their smiles are bright, and you can sense the motion of the swings. The guys with guns look like they don’t have any hope left. One has blood trickling from a wound on his temple. I wonder why the hell anyone would let kids swing after the town had been blown to bits, but then I realize that there’s probably nowhere left to hide them.
“Hi!”
I look up. A little girl in a purple sundress is running across the grass. Her hair is so black it gleams in the sun. Curly pigtails bounce with every step, and she looks thrilled to be alive. “Hi!”
Who is she so excited to see? There’s no one else here.
Then I see Melonhead. He’s following her at a more sedate pace. This must be his kid.
I shove my phone in my pocket and stand up. I never know how to read this guy, but I’m tempted to lay into him about showing up late after he hassled me last week.
Then the little girl tackles my legs. I’m startled and stumble back a step. She giggles at my reaction but doesn’t let go.
“Hi!” she says again, digging in with her fingers in a way that guarantees she’s not letting go. She grins up at me, her mouth full of baby teeth.
“Marisol!” Melonhead jogs the last ten feet and scoops her up, flipping her over his arm to catch her against his shoulder.
She laughs, full out. “Stop it, Papi!”
“Sorry, Murph.” Melonhead fishes a key ring from his pocket. His voice is tired. “She hugs everyone.”
Something about it reminds me of the carefree innocence in the picture of the bombed village. This little girl doesn’t know me. She doesn’t see what everyone else sees.
It makes me want to warn her away.
Then again, Melonhead was pretty quick to snatch her up, like I would have done something.
I’m standing there, scowling, when he calls out to me from inside the equipment shed. He rolls up the garage door so we can get the mowers out. “You ready to work or what, kid?”
“I was ready to work half an hour ago.”
I expect him to snap at me, but he doesn’t. He tosses me a pair of work gloves. “I know. I’m sorry. Carmen had to work late, so one of us had to pick up Marisol. I thought I could make it back in time.”
I wasn’t expecting an apology, and it pokes a hole in my irritation. I pull the gloves on and grab a trash bag to collect tonight’s assortment of mementos.
Melonhead climbs on a mower and calls to his daughter. “Want to drive, Cotorra?”
“Yes!” She abandons the wall of dust where she’d begun drawing flowers or monsters or whatever those nonhuman stick figures are supposed to be. She climbs onto the mower with a little help and settles in front of him, her tiny hands wrapping around the steering wheel.
For a second, I’m a child again, watching Kerry scramble into the truck to “help” our dad steer. We’d fight over whose turn it was to sit next to him.
I have to jerk my eyes away. I climb onto my own mower. Maybe this letter writing is a bad idea. I’ve said too much already, and each time I put pencil to paper, it’s like taking a backhoe to memories I want to leave buried.
Melonhead’s engine cranks hard, then catches. A second later, it dies. He mutters something in Spanish and tries again. This time it cranks and sounds like it won’t catch at all, but it finally does.
And then it dies immediately.
He tries a third time. And a fourth.
There’s a definition for insanity that talks about doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result.
“Hey,” I call. He ignores me and tries again. Now it won’t catch at all.
I kill my own mower and climb down. “Hey!”
He lets the key go and looks up, his expression impatient. “What?”
“It sounds like your fuel line.”
“What do you know about it?”
I hate that. I hate when people treat me like some kind of idiot who can barely tell time. “I know it sounds like your fuel line. When’s the last time you checked the filter?”
“I don’t maintain the machines, Murph. They have a service plan.”
“Then your service plan is crap.”
“Your soovis plan is crap,” Marisol says. She bounces in the seat. “Come on, Papi. Go, tractor. Go.”
“Thanks a lot, kid.” Melonhead looks aggrieved. He lifts her off the front of the mower and sets her on the ground. “I thought I was late before. Now I’m going to have to work on Saturday.”
“Do you have tools? I might be able to fix it.”
“I don’t think you should be messing with it.”
“Fine. Whatever.” The hell with it. I offered. I climb back on my own mower and fire it up.