curly hair.
You’re thinking of the photos you saw in court, he said gently. She and her mom got pixie cuts when they became Witnesses. Her hair was short.
•
You guys sure talked for a long time, Antonia said.
They were in the barracks, which were swallowed in fog.
Only two hours.
You seemed into it.
He’s a nice guy. An engineer. Sings in a church. And barbershop quartets. But you didn’t see me almost pass out. He was showing me pictures of his wife and kid. I thought I could handle it, but god . . .
That would kill me, said Antonia.
Yeah, it was almost as sickening as when I first found out. That horrible hot-cold hollow feeling, like I’m now doomed to darkness for eternity, like I’ve done the worst thing and it can’t ever be undone. Know what I mean?
No. But you should say those things, exactly like that, to the parole board, Antonia said. They’d fuckin’ love it. They’d parole you tomorrow. They fuckin’ feed on remorse. If they heard what you said to me, they’d fling open the gates and give you a fuckin’ hundred bucks and send you outta here in a limousine.
Patsy scratched at a peeling blister on her palm. Parole boards didn’t pertain to her case. She could be out in sixteen months, unless she blew it.
Will you see him again? Antonia asked.
He says we have a relationship, even though it started out badly. Patsy gave a short bark. Really, about as badly as possible. He says we have the power to make it a good relationship. Whatever that means.
Maybe you’ll marry him, said Antonia. Wouldn’t that be funny.
Oh god no, Patsy said. Never.
Stranger things have happened, said Antonia. Janella married her rapist.
Patsy had imagined falling into Mark’s arms with an urgency that burned through everything, but that was before they met. In person he’d been too sad and real for anything like that. She said, He’s not my type. Too bland and boring. I’d never marry anyone who sang in a barbershop quartet.
•
Spring rains saturated the soil, and rather than hoeing and chopping the thick green clumps of weeds along firebreaks, the women found it easier to pull them out by hand. Each clump came out with its roots bundled in heavy mud. The idea of flinging these clods occurred simultaneously. Twenty women swung plants full circle, like lanyards, then let go. The clods flew unbelievably far. The women lobbed them over power lines and were amazed when they cleared with room to spare. Up and over went the clods, then down they came like raffish green-tailed comets plummeting to earth. Simultaneously, as if a new signal were given, the women chose targets, and the air filled with long-haired clods flying horizontally and the weighty, wet slaps of earth hitting flesh. No real malice fueled this fray, and they avoided hitting the CO, who stood there saying, Ladies, now, ladies, now, ladies, please, while shielding her eyes to see the best hits. In a moment of distraction Patsy took a cold clod on the ear—she’d dig out dirt for days—and in the shocked, ringing moments that followed, as the blue sky spun, she heard one beautiful, clear note sung in a woman’s sweet voice—one high, spiraling wire of sound, on and on and on, with no break or pause for breath.
9
Patsy was number three Pulaski, Antonia number two. It was filthy, hard work, and during downtimes, they longed for more of it.
Only ten of them were sent out on a dry electric day in October, when Santa Ana winds were kicking up. A small wildland fire not far from Malibou Lake threatened a neighborhood of expensive new homes. They saw the fire crest the top of a hill—a ragged V-shaped line of orange flame frilled with black smoke that billowed up into a plump, dirty pink cloud.
They drove to a new street, where the burning hill was on one side of them, the new homes on the other. As always, the driver turned the buggy around lest they needed to escape.
The county engines were already there, as were the Malibu volunteer
Michele Bardsley
Renee Simons
Sierra Rose
Craig Halloran
Eric Walters
Christina Ross
Julia O'Faolain
Vladimir Nabokov
R.L. Stine
Helena Fairfax