out at them above the sign for the church.
“Nothing a bullet in the brain won’t fix,” Randall would say. “A bullet in the brain, a couple of lines, a shot of tequila.” Delia swallowed hard.
What had she been thinking?
After all this time she could still taste it, tequila oily on the tongue. She had never cared for the lime. Didn’t need salt. She liked the way tequila crossed her palate, burning away the dross. Randall would suck limes and put that powder up his nose. Randall would screw half a dozen girls and race cars on twisty oceanfront highways. All Delia ever needed was a drink in her hand. A bottle of beer, a glass of something, that scalded sweetness at the back of her tongue.
Cissy shifted on the seat beside her. Reluctantly Delia turned her head to look at the child, pale beneath her sunburn, her hazel eyes so dark they picked up the red-black of the hematite stars at her throat.
What have I done?
Delia closed her eyes. Randall had warned her. “Cayro, Georgia, an’t never gonna love you,” he’d said. “If you want those girls, we’ll have to steal them.” She had never listened. She had never believed. But those faces in the diner, hateful and hard—they had looked at her like she was a monster.
I should not have come back.
“Are we going?” Cissy’s voice was breathy and thin. Her left eye was watery and bloodshot.
I’m no good for her, for any of them. No good at all.
Delia’s pulse thudded in her neck, the cars in the lot shimmering to its beat. That song was picking up again, the do-not-deserve-to-live refrain.
Delia nodded her head fiercely, picking up the melody. God-god-god-god-damn. Ought to die, want to die.
“Are we going?” Halfway across the country, Cissy had wept and stormed, but what sounded in her voice now was at a higher pitch. Hysteria threaded the syllables. The child was worn out. The child was at her last nerve.
“We’re going,” Delia said as calmly as she could.
A shot of tequila or a bullet in the brain, it was the same thing when you came right down to it. But Delia had dragged Cissy all this way and she hadn’t even seen Dede and Amanda. She started the engine, shaking her dirty hair out of her face. She’d get Cissy settled, make sure her girls were all right. Afterward she could think about the alternative—one blue metal bullet or a glass of tequila straight up. This was not California. This was Georgia. In this county alone there were two dozen places she could get a gun as easily as a bottle of Cuervo Gold.
D riving across Cayro to Granddaddy Byrd’s place took longer than Cissy expected. Twice Delia sat at stop signs so long that people started honking. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and her mouth hung open as if she could not get enough air, as if air was not what she wanted.
“You all right?” Cissy finally asked when they sat so long the second time. A part of her wanted to enjoy Delia’s obvious misery, but another part was frightened.
“I’m fine,” Delia said. “Just fine.”
Cissy shrugged uneasily and turned her attention to the scenery, picking at a bit of toast stuck in the gap in her front teeth. She thought about the people in the diner. Nothing she had imagined on that long trip across the country had prepared her for them. They were everything Randall had ever said they were, hard-faced and cold-blooded. They were the people who had made Delia; they were her match. She glanced over at her mother and quickly turned back to the window.
Cayro, Georgia, was just another wide patch off the side of Highway 75. Most people on their way north from Atlanta never saw it. Downtown consisted of a triangular intersection no bigger than a good-sized basketball court. There was a sign that read WELCOME on one side and COME BACK SOON on the other; The cutoffs at each corner of that intersection were marked with little directional arrows on which someone had drawn smiley faces. The road north led back to
“Nothing a bullet in the brain won’t fix,” Randall would say. “A bullet in the brain, a couple of lines, a shot of tequila.” Delia swallowed hard.
What had she been thinking?
After all this time she could still taste it, tequila oily on the tongue. She had never cared for the lime. Didn’t need salt. She liked the way tequila crossed her palate, burning away the dross. Randall would suck limes and put that powder up his nose. Randall would screw half a dozen girls and race cars on twisty oceanfront highways. All Delia ever needed was a drink in her hand. A bottle of beer, a glass of something, that scalded sweetness at the back of her tongue.
Cissy shifted on the seat beside her. Reluctantly Delia turned her head to look at the child, pale beneath her sunburn, her hazel eyes so dark they picked up the red-black of the hematite stars at her throat.
What have I done?
Delia closed her eyes. Randall had warned her. “Cayro, Georgia, an’t never gonna love you,” he’d said. “If you want those girls, we’ll have to steal them.” She had never listened. She had never believed. But those faces in the diner, hateful and hard—they had looked at her like she was a monster.
I should not have come back.
“Are we going?” Cissy’s voice was breathy and thin. Her left eye was watery and bloodshot.
I’m no good for her, for any of them. No good at all.
Delia’s pulse thudded in her neck, the cars in the lot shimmering to its beat. That song was picking up again, the do-not-deserve-to-live refrain.
Delia nodded her head fiercely, picking up the melody. God-god-god-god-damn. Ought to die, want to die.
“Are we going?” Halfway across the country, Cissy had wept and stormed, but what sounded in her voice now was at a higher pitch. Hysteria threaded the syllables. The child was worn out. The child was at her last nerve.
“We’re going,” Delia said as calmly as she could.
A shot of tequila or a bullet in the brain, it was the same thing when you came right down to it. But Delia had dragged Cissy all this way and she hadn’t even seen Dede and Amanda. She started the engine, shaking her dirty hair out of her face. She’d get Cissy settled, make sure her girls were all right. Afterward she could think about the alternative—one blue metal bullet or a glass of tequila straight up. This was not California. This was Georgia. In this county alone there were two dozen places she could get a gun as easily as a bottle of Cuervo Gold.
D riving across Cayro to Granddaddy Byrd’s place took longer than Cissy expected. Twice Delia sat at stop signs so long that people started honking. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and her mouth hung open as if she could not get enough air, as if air was not what she wanted.
“You all right?” Cissy finally asked when they sat so long the second time. A part of her wanted to enjoy Delia’s obvious misery, but another part was frightened.
“I’m fine,” Delia said. “Just fine.”
Cissy shrugged uneasily and turned her attention to the scenery, picking at a bit of toast stuck in the gap in her front teeth. She thought about the people in the diner. Nothing she had imagined on that long trip across the country had prepared her for them. They were everything Randall had ever said they were, hard-faced and cold-blooded. They were the people who had made Delia; they were her match. She glanced over at her mother and quickly turned back to the window.
Cayro, Georgia, was just another wide patch off the side of Highway 75. Most people on their way north from Atlanta never saw it. Downtown consisted of a triangular intersection no bigger than a good-sized basketball court. There was a sign that read WELCOME on one side and COME BACK SOON on the other; The cutoffs at each corner of that intersection were marked with little directional arrows on which someone had drawn smiley faces. The road north led back to
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