Shirley is thin and toned with pale-blond hair and eyebrows that are mostly pencil. The arcs of them are significant, giving her a constant expression of excitement or fear. When I meet them on the deck, she is midstream in a story. “I said, ‘Get your stuff and don’t ever come back.’ Well, he went right down the hall and passed out on the bed. So I went down the hall and drug all his shit out of the closet, dumped it in the front yard, and set it on fire.” She is animated, and a shiver runs over my spine, remembering my mother telling the story of dragging Theresa through the fire. She had been so proud, just like Shirley is now.
She glances at me and gives the briefest of nods. “You must be Alison.”
“Yes, nice to meet you, Shirley.”
Vicki reaches out her hand to me, and I sit on the bench next to her.
The story picks back up with Ron asking his daughter, “So then the cops came?”
“And the firemen!” She hoots a laugh, and I catch the shake of Vicki’s head from the corner of my eye.
“Why would you set his stuff on fire? Why not just put everything in the car for when he woke up?” Ron’s voice is completely neutral, the way the news people are supposed to be when they report the news.
“I don’t know. Just seemed like the thing to do.”
“We’re in a drought. What if it had sparked a wildfire?”
“That’s what the cops said, too.” She shrugs. “It didn’t.”
If she feels recrimination, she doesn’t show it. She is not affected by the neutral tone of Ron’s controlled voice.
“So are you done with him?” Vicki asks, driving for the same neutral tone.
“No. We’ll work it out.”
The conversations falters and dies. Shirley stands to go inside. Just as she turns, the last catch of light shimmers through her blond hair, and for a split second, she has a halo. Then she disappears into the house.
“What do you think she’s doing?” Vicki asks.
Ron shrugs but gets up, heading inside to check on his grown daughter. I want to follow him, to step through the house to see Ina and Cotton, but I don’t move. “Thank you for playing with the girls.” Her hand is warm and soft on my forearm, above the leather straps.
“It was fun. They’re good kids,” I say, meaning it. After the first bump of meeting them, with Simone’s too-mature attitude and the sheer overwhelming nature of there being two of them, they turned out to be just kids with a couple of spiky places.
“It was good to hear them laughing,” she says with such sadness in her voice that I have to look at her. She meets my eyes and turns back to the yard. “Shirley is a mess.”
“She makes me think of my mom.”
The door opens, and the girls come out, their cheeks pink and burned, the hollows under their eyes looking like bruises in their weariness. Vicki pulls Sasha to her lap, and then holds out her hand for Simone to do the same. Simone doesn’t move for a second, and I catch a skittish glance at me. I get it. I lift my hand to her, opening my lap for her occupation. She slips in, and I encircle her narrow body with my arms in a small hug. Tears have erupted behind my eyes, and I swallow hard to push them down. Was I like her at seven? Was I this prickly and on edge? I wasn’t as savvy, as street smart. I’m still not.
When Shirley comes back, there is a high flush along the bones of her face, and I know that she has just slammed something by the glassy look in her eyes. It is only a few seconds later when the vapor catches up, and I know that she, like my mother, thinks vodka doesn’t have an odor. She comes to the rail and stretches her arms over her head, then places them on the railing, all her energy springing from her pointed toes, and I wonder if she was a bird in some other life and now is weighted to the ground.
I am staring, and when I realize it, I jerk my eyes away. Simone’s head has fallen back against me, her body warm and fragile. A breath passes in a small snort, and she shifts, head flopping into the cavity of my neck. Her body is lithe, more bones than flesh, not unlike a bird herself, like Cotton, and I let my arms rest around her, protective, claiming, my teeth clenching and relaxing against the woman who thinks we don’t know she is into her bottle.
“Well,” Shirley says, turning from the yard to gaze back toward the house, not making eye contact with any of us, “I guess we should get going.”
“Oh, well, I thought you’d be staying the night,” Vicki says. My eyes flick in her direction. I see the expression, quickly closed—she knows, too.
“Where would we sleep?” Shirley asks, as if it’s an insurmountable obstacle. She passes a solid look in my direction, which I catch from the corner of my eye.
“We’ll work something out,” Vicki says. “I just hate for you to leave now. They’re so tired, you know?” I glance at Simone’s profile, her lips parted in sleep, so young and vulnerable.
“I didn’t know you had a tenant when I agreed to keep them. I would have told him to send them to his mom.” I glance at Sasha and see that she is still awake, her eyes cast down and her lip sucked in, and my heart breaks that she heard that. I see Vicki’s arms give her a little squeeze.
“Well, we have the fold-out bed up here,” Vicki says, worry in her voice.
“Why don’t you just stay in the apartment with me?” I ask, finally looking over at Shirley, who is pacing the small space between the door and the railing. “I have to work and won’t be home till . . . I don’t know . . . around two. You guys can sleep there, if you don’t think I’ll wake you up coming in.”
“No, we couldn’t do that,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask, suddenly determined that these girls are not going anywhere in a car with her, not when I know she’s been drinking. “It’s more your house than mine.” I let the words sink around us, and I see her mind spin, working around some detail that feels important to her.
“I guess, if you don’t mind. We could sleep in the living room,” she agrees, because it is more her home than mine.
“Great,” I say, letting my head fall to rest lightly on Simone’s bleach-scented hair.
“Are you sure?” Vicki asks, and it isn’t until her hand touches my arm that I know she is talking to me.
I nod and smile, letting my eyes go closed. It is right, and it is fine.
The door opens a few minutes later, and Ron, wearing an apron, announces that dinner is ready. Simone snorts and jerks awake, looking dazedly forward until her mind refocuses to the present and she remembers where she is and who I am. I feel her relax.
