number of facts about this man: for example, he had twin daughters born on Christmas Day, and wore a hernia belt. She told Emelina and me these things when she introduced him. Officer Metz was sympathetic, but did ask if the ladies had a vendor's permit. Mrs. Galvez, a quick thinker, explained that we weren't selling anything. We were soliciting donations to save our town. Each and every donor got a free peacock pinata. In the interest of public relations she gave him one to take home to his twins.
By five o'clock we were out of birds. As it turned out, Emelina and I didn't make the best sale of the day. While too many peacocks went for only ten or fifteen, Dona Althea haggled one elderly gentleman up to seventy-five dollars. When the transaction was completed, the Dona allowed him to kiss her hand.
By the time they were back in Grace on the last evening bus, I was later informed, the Stitch and Bitch Club had already laid plans to come back in ten days with five hundred peacock pinatas. There would be only two deviations from the original plan. First, each pinata would be accompanied by a written history of Grace and its heroic struggle against the Black Mountain Mining Company. To my shock I was elected, in absentia, to write this epic broadside and get it mimeographed at the school. (Miss Lorraine and Miss Elva had retired.) Second, the price would be fixed at sixty dollars. Some argued for seventy-five but the Dona overruled, pointing out that she couldn't be expected to kiss every damn cowboy in Tucson.
Emelina and I let ourselves into my old house. Carlo was expecting us and had left the key under the usual brick. The neighborhood seemed even seedier than when I left. There was some demolition going on, with cheerfully nasty graffiti decorating the plywood construction barriers. Our old house with its bolted-down flowerpots stood eerily untouched, inside and out. Carlo had let all the plants finish dying, as expected, but beyond that he'd made no effort to make the place his own. He seemed to be living like a man in mourning, not wishing to disturb the traces of a deceased wife. Or wives.
"This is creepy, Carlo," I told him when he got home late that night from his ER shift. "Why haven't you moved things around? It looks like Hallie and I just walked out yesterday."
He shrugged. "What's to move around?"
Emelina had gone to bed, trying, I believe, to stay out of our way. She'd kept asking me if it wouldn't be awkward for us to stay with my "ex." It was hard for her to understand that Carlo and I were really "exes" right from the start. Having no claim on each other was the basis of our relationship.
I'd stayed up watching the news so I could see him when he got home. He slumped down next to me on the couch with a bag of potato chips.
"That your dinner?"
"You my mother?"
"I should hope not." On the news they were talking about an ordinance that banned charity Santas from collecting donations in shopping malls. The owner of a sporting-goods store was explaining that it took away business. Rows of hunting bows were lined up behind him like the delicately curved bones of a ribcage.
"You look exhausted," I told Carlo. He really did.
"I sewed a nose back on tonight. Cartilage and all."
"That'll take it out of you."
"So what's creepy about the way I'm living?" In his light-green hospital scrubs, Carlo looked paler and smaller than I remembered him. No visible muscles.
"It looks like you're living in limbo," I said. "Waiting for somebody else to move in here and cook a real meal for you and hang up pictures."
"You never did either of those things."
"I know. But it's different when there's two people living in a house with no pictures. It looks like you're just too busy having fun with each other to pay attention to the walls."
"I miss you. We did have fun."
"Not that much. You miss Hallie." Being here made me miss her too, more tangibly than in Grace. On these scarred wooden floors, Hallie had rolled up the rugs and attempted to teach us to moonwalk.
"How is she? Does she ever write you? I got one postcard, from Nogales."
"Yeah, we write. She's real busy." I didn't tell him we wrote a lot. We'd revived an intensity of correspondence we hadn't had since 1972, the year I escaped