As Aunt Gen sprinkled Parmesan cheese over a bowl of cold pasta salad, she served up a smile that could have charmed the snake of Eden into a mood of benign companionship. Gen’s once golden hair was pale blond now, streaked with gray. Yd because she’d grown plump with age, her face was smooth; coppery freckles and lively green eyes testified to the abiding presence of the young girl thriving in the sixty-year-old woman. “Micky, sweetie, did you have a good day?”
“Sucky day, Aunt Gen.”
“That’s a word I never know whether to be embarrassed about.”
“I didn’t realize anyone got embarrassed about anything anymore. In this case, it just means ‘as bad as a sucking chest wound.’ “
“Ah. Then I’m not embarrassed, just slightly sickened. Why don’t you get a glass of cold lemonade, honey? I made fresh.”
“What I really need is a beer.”
“There’s also beer. Your uncle Vernon liked two icy beers more evenings than not.”
Aunt Gen didn’t drink beer. Vernon had been dead for eighteen years. Still, Geneva kept his favorite brand in the refrigerator, and if no one drank it, she periodically replaced it with new stock when its freshness date had passed.
Although conceding the game to Death, she remained determined not to let Death also take sweet memories and long-kept traditions in addition to his prize of flesh.
Micky popped open a can of Budweiser. “They think the economy’s going down the drain.”
“Who does, dear?”
“Everyone I talked to about a job.”
Having set the pasta salad on the dinette table, Geneva began slicing roasted chicken breasts for sandwiches. “Those people are just pessimists. The economy’s always going down the drain for some folks, but it’s a warm bath for others. You’ll find work, sweetie.”
The beer provided icy solace. “How do you stay so upbeat?”
Focused on the chicken, Geneva said, “Easy. I just look around.”
Micky looked around. “Sorry, Aunt Gen, but all I see is a poky little trailer kitchen so old the gloss is worn off the Formica.”
“Then you don’t know how to look yet, honey. There’s a dish of pickles, some olives, a bowl of potato salad, a tray of cheese, and other stuff in the fridge. Would you put everything on the table?”
Extracting the cheese tray from the refrigerator, Micky said, “Are you cooking for a cellblock full of condemned men or something?”
Geneva set a platter of sliced chicken on the table. “Didn’t you notice — we have three place settings this evening?”
“A dinner guest?”
A knock answered the question. The back door stood open to facilitate air circulation, so Leilani Klonk rapped on the jamb.
“Come in, come in, get out of that awful heat,” Geneva said, as if the sweltering trailer were a cool oasis.
Backlit by the westering sun, wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a small green heart embroidered on the left breast, Leilani entered in a rattle and clatter of steely leg brace, though she had climbed the three back steps with no noise.
This had been worse than a sucky day. The language necessary to describe Micky’s job search in its full dreadfulness would not merely have embarrassed Aunt Geneva; it would have shocked and appalled her. Therefore, at the arrival of the disabled girl, Micky was surprised to feel the same buoying expectation that had kept her from drowning in self-pity since she’d moved in here.
“Mrs. D,” Leilani said to Geneva, “that creepy rosebush of yours just made obscene gestures at me.”
Geneva smiled. “If there was an altercation, dear, I’m sure you started it.”
With the thumb on her deformed hand, Leilani gestured toward Geneva, and said to Micky, “She’s an original. Where’d you find her?”
“She’s my father’s sister, so she was part of the deal.”
“Bonus points,” said Leilani. “Your dad must be great.”
“Why would you think so?”
“His sister’s cool.”
Micky said, “He abandoned my mother and me when I was three.”
“That’s tough. But my useless dad skipped the day I was born.”
“I didn’t know we were in a rotten-dad contest.”
“At least my real dad isn’t a murderer like my current pseudo-father — or as far as I know, he isn’t. Is your dad a murderer?”
“I lose again. He’s just a selfish pig.”
“Mrs. D, you don’t mind she- calls your brother a selfish pig?” “Sadly, dear, it’s true.”
“So you aren’t just bonus points, Mrs. D. You’re like this terrific prize that turned up in a box of rancid old Cracker Jack.”
Geneva beamed. “That’s so sweet, Leilani. Would you like some fresh lemonade?”
Indicating the can of Budweiser on the table, the girl said, “If beer’s good enough for Micky, it’s good enough for me.” Geneva poured lemonade. “Pretend it’s Budweiser.” To Micky, Leilani said, “She thinks I’m a child.” “You are a child.”
“Depends on your definition of child.” “Anyone twelve or younger.”
“Oh, that’s sad. You resorted to an arbitrary number. That reveals a shallow capacity for independent thought and analysis.”
“Okay,” said Micky, “then try this one on for size. You’re a child because you don’t yet have boobs.”
Leilani winced. “Unfair. You know that’s one of my sore points.” “No sore points. No points at all,” Micky observed. “Flat as a slice of the Swiss cheese on that platter.”
“Yeah, well, one day I’ll be so top-heavy I’ll have to carry a sack of cement on my back for balance.”
To Micky, Aunt Gen said, “Isn’t she something?” “She’s an absolute, no-doubt-about-it, fine young mutant.” “Dinner’s ready,” Geneva announced. “Cold salads and sandwich fixings. Not very fancy, but right for the weather.”
“Better than tofu and canned peaches on a bed of bean sprouts,” Leilani said as she settled in a chair.
“What wouldn’t be?” Geneva wondered.
“Oh, lots of things. Old Sinsemilla may be a lousy mother, but she can take pride in being an equally lousy cook.”
Switching off the overhead lights to save money and to avoid adding heat to the kitchen, Geneva said, “We’ll use candles later.”
Now, at seven o’clock, the summer-evening sun was red-gold and still so fierce at the open window that the shadows, which draped but didn’t cool the kitchen, were no darker than lavender and umber.
Seated, bowing her head, Geneva offered a succinct but heart felt prayer: “Thank you, God, for providing us with all we need and for giving us the grace to be satisfied with what we have.”
“I’ve got trouble with the satisfied part,” Leilani said.
Micky reached across the dinette table, and the girl responded without hesitation: They slapped palms in a modified high-five.
“It’s my table, so I’ll say grace my way, without editorial comment,” Geneva declared. “And when I’m drinking pina coladas on a palm-shaded terrace in Heaven, what will they be serving in Hell?”
“Probably this lemonade,” said Leilani.
Spooning pasta salad onto her plate, Micky said, “So, Leilani, you and Aunt Gen have been hanging out?”
“Most of the day, yeah. Mrs. D is teaching me all about sex.”
“Girl, don’t say such things!” Geneva admonished. “Someone will believe you. We were playing five-hundred rummy.”
“I would have let her win,” said Leilani, “out of courtesy and respect for her advanced age, but before I had a chance, she won by cheating.”
“Aunt Gen always cheats,” Micky confirmed.