It's not exactly short. but it is new. and story-ish. and unfinished.

It started when I was nine, and my grandmother broke her hip in the garden.

Not that Arizona is full of what most people would consider gardens.

It was a school break and she was hiding Easter eggs. I was inside watching MTV, holding my breath and sucking in what I perceived to be a belly. At nine, the thought of being unattractive loomed deep in my future. The idea of being someone who wasn’t…

well-thought-of disturbed me. So I sat in the living room, posing in front of the frosted mirror and listening to Madonna and Pat Benatar for a good twenty minutes before I heard my grandmother’s cry.

When I did, my spine shivered. My heart stopped. I had no idea what I was hearing, but I knew it was a wounded sound, and it wasn’t something I would soon forget. Out on the porch, my grandmother sprawled across a brick ledge that held some loose sand and a lone cactus. As I sprang back inside to call 911, I felt the astro-turf that lined the cement squelch against my feet. There was another crunch later as I heard the stab of bone against bone, a paramedic easing her onto a stretcher.

And after that, it was always an adventure with my grandmother.

Did I mention that my grandmother hid the Easter eggs in June?

* * * * *

The first time I was behind a wheel my grandmother drove me to Dillard’s. We sat in the parking lot and she coached me on brake, gas, pedal, radio knob, heating dial, air conditioner, turn signal and window washer fluid. She eased me into drive and I tooled about haphazardly. The air was too hot against the windows and the radio spoke of eggs frying on sidewalks. When the lesson was over she ruffled my hair and offered to buy me winter slippers. There wasn’t a crack or a break but I somehow I knew that telling her it was early May wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead I let her grumble over the lack of stock on the shelves, and pointedly explain to a saleslady the difference between stocking up and being out of stock, and sigh loudly when they didn’t have Christmas gift-wrap. The poor woman just tittered and looked at me, so wide in the eye and mouth flexing.

* * * * *

That next summer I was fifteen. I was in love with a boy who didn’t love me and his older brother was my best friend. I wrote them letters on a typewriter. I told them about the high temperatures. I wrote one poems and the other lyrics. I told one secrets and the other, I stayed bashful. Both were often unavailable when I called. My grandmother fell asleep watching the Bold and the Beautiful, the Young and the Restless, the Whatever and What Have You. Each soap opera was like a complicated dream, never quite making sense but always leaving you looking for a Rosetta stone so you could decipher what it was.

I played my guitar in the back room where my mother once slept. I combed my hair and stared at photos of my uncles, touched remnants of my grandfather, watched the shadow of my hand grow longer. I pilfered cigarettes and smoked surreptitiously, hiding out in the bathroom like she would notice another scent. Her Moore’s burned to filter to finger to astonished cry of, “Oh! Rosalie! I think I need you!”

It was the guitar that caused me to walk over than two miles down the hot cement road to a music shop. I left at seven A.M., anticipating the trek would take approximately two hours. I mapped my path and filled a bottle with water, my pockets with cash and hefted my hard guitar case into my hand.

I underestimated the guitar. I carried it fifteen blocks before switching arms, and another twenty before I had to stop, let my arms rest. I wasn’t used to the dry, warm air and I wasn’t used to carrying a guitar case around with me. Usually there were buses or friends I could catch rides with.

Finally I made it.

The cool air of the music shop gave me goose bumps. A woman with dark hair and a stocky body tucked keys into a cubby as she flipped the “Open” sign over and gave me a glance.

“Help you?”

I hesitated.

“Miss? Can I help you?”

“Um, yes. I have this guitar and I broke two strings and I’ve never changed them before and can you help me?”

The woman crinkled her face and smiled. She patted my shoulder.

“Come with me and have a seat.”

She took the guitar case from my hand and slipped towards to counter. It was startling to see how swiftly and gracefully she tilted and weaved around the stacks of instrument accoutrement and records and music books. She deposited the case on the counter top and opened it.

“No problem at all, sweetie. Nice guitar. Yours?”

“A friend gave it to me.” This was true. My neighbor at home had taken a liking to me and gifted it for my birthday when she found out I was enrolled in a guitar class at school.

“Lucky girl.” She snapped the case shut. “You sit tight for fifteen minutes and I’ll bring this back, good as new.”

She disappeared behind a curtain that I hadn’t even noticed. I watched a clock on the wall and thumbed through and old issue of Rolling Stone. She came back, opened the case, strummed the guitar and asked for ten dollars.

“But the strings you put on were more than that,” I protested.

“Don’t worry about it sweetie. Consider it a discount for being my first customer of the morning.” She smiled and leaned forward on her elbows. “To tell you the truth, you’ll probably be my only customer of the morning.”

I returned her conspiratorial smile and handed over the money.

“Thank you.”

“No, sweetie, thank you. Now, get yourself home. It’s gonna be a hot one.”

* * * * *

If I thought I had underestimated the heat on the way to the shop I was sorely mistaken. The way back was a sludgey walk through a hot, hot hell. The concrete sidewalks, never really cooled from the day before, blazed with heat. I felt the rubber of my shoes, the weave of my sock, the slickness of my heel as a blister formed on each foot. I felt the sweat dripping in crevices yet unknown. I shifted the guitar from hand to hand, wishing I hadn’t forgotten my water at the music shop, and that even if I had, wishing I’d remembered about it before I was halfway home.

Cars passed by me with regularity now, unlike the morning. I walked against traffic for a while, and then shifted to the other side to walk with it. Mostly I was hoping the unnatural palm trees would shade the road. To no avail.

The whole time, I wondered if my grandmother noticed I was gone. She was forgetting me more and more, and sometimes would call me Erica or Sabrina, characters from her soap operas. Sometimes she would ask me about Derek or Bo or Patrick or whoever happened to be in distress that week. June had stretched to July and July had turned into a place where it seemed we bordered some change, some untouchable cap of time when everything would implode.

My older sister was coming in a few weeks. My mother referred to it as “trading off”, but Leslie didn’t have a return ticket and I had two years of high school. My uncle dashed in and out and told us about property schemes, big money deals and the Little League team that he sponsored. They were going to Japan. When my grandmother would become confused and call him the wrong name he would throw down whatever was in his hand- book, television guide, telephone, whiskey glass- and stalk out of the room. He would call my mother and she would ask me if everything was ok. I would say yes, yes, yes.

So the five hours I’d left her alone started to worry me.

The guitar case grew heavier with every step.

I began to eye the cars longingly, wishing one would stop. Wishing the driver would be sweet like the boy I wrote poems to and sensible like that boy’s brother. Hoping they would see the sweat on my brow, the creases in my face and the ache in my shoulder.

And then a car did stop.

Abruptly, but without squeal.

It was a Volkswagen bug. The paint job was rusting but what gripped the metal was a dull Pepto Bismol pink. The man inside leaned over the passenger’s seat and slung the door open.

“Need a ride?”

He was probably thirty five or thirty eight or somewhere in the vicinity. His hair was loose around his head and blonde with a dark root. His skin was darker than mine, which wasn’t hard given the fog where I spent the rest of the year. It was a tawny color, like a deer or a gerbil. His face was wide and he had beefy brown eyes stuck in the middle of his face.

“My name’s Adam. You play guitar? I’m a musician. Look, do you need a ride? You look pretty tired.”

And I said, “Yes.” And I felt myself get into the car. Was it the ache in my arms? Was it the sweat on the back of my knees, the blisters on my heel? I didn’t care. I wanted out of the sun and I would do almost anything to have a place to sit that wasn’t hot as fire and smack dab in the middle of the blazing sun.

I looked for a seat belt and clenched my guitar case between my legs. There was no seat belt, but there were Budweiser cans littered across the floor. The backseat was chock full of more aluminum and a few glass bottles with black labels. Though I wasn’t experienced in the ways of alcohol yet, I knew they were whiskey bottles. As we cruised down the avenue I noticed the can between his legs.

“Cigarette?” he offered. I accepted, again.

“I just live down the way here.”

He turned left.

“What are you doing? I just live down the way.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I just have a quick errand to run.” He pulled into one of the endless dusty strip malls and the car stopped with a stutter. “You can come inside with me.” It was not a request.

He was quickly at my side and guided me into the pawnshop. I’d left my guitar in the bug and there was no getting it now. I resigned myself to waiting until we were back outside, grabbing my guitar and walking the rest of the way after thanking this stranger, this Adam.

“Adam!” The man behind the glass at the pawnshop recognized my new companion. “I’ve been waiting for you!”

Adam approached the pawnshop keeper and they shook hands like old friends. It was a vigorous display and both men looked as if they were not going to let go, that neither would relinquish the other’s hand first. Finally the man behind the glass chuckled and let Adam’s hand go.

“I told you I would be back, Ahmed.”

“And I told you I would keep it waiting for you, Adam.”

I watched with relief as Ahmed grabbed a blue guitar from the slat wall behind the counter.

“No, the other.”

Ahmed chuckled again. It was only then that he noticed me.

“Who is she?” His grip on the guitar neck tightened.

“A friend.” Adam glared. “Mind your own business, Ahmed. And give me what I came for.”

Ahmed glanced at me the way a cat glances at a rocking chair. His eyes deepened and he nodded. His grip on the guitar relaxed.

“The money,” he said.

Adam dug in his jacket pocket and set a wad of cash on the counter. I felt like I was a ghost, tied to the floor and anchored to the moment. I couldn’t look away, even as Ahmed put a silver gun on the counter.

“Ah, Mirabella.” Adam sighed. One finger caressed the short barrel. My stomach roiled. He picked the gun up and angled it towards the light.

“Been doing any target practice, Ahmed?”

The shopkeeper smiled. “I said I would hold it for you, Adam. I did not say I would not shoot it.”

Now Adam laughed. “Thank you, Ahmed.” He looked at me.

“Shall we go, then?”

* * * * *

Somehow I let him convince me to get back in the car. Maybe it was the heat. The shock of hot air upon leaving the pawn shop was as disorienting as the shock of the cold air walking inside in the first place.

He turned back onto the main road that headed towards my grandmother’s house.

“What’s the cross street?” he asked.

“This is. It’s a few more blocks ahead, on 21^st. Turn right and it’s the first house.”

The radio played a Tom Petty song and my driver sang along. The gun was in his lap- not even in his waistband, just lying over the bulge of fabric at his crotch. It clinked against the freshly opened can of beer between his thighs every so often. It startled me.

He slowed as we crossed 20^th and turned right on 21^st. He pulled into my grandmother’s driveway, stuck the gun in the back of his pants and hoisted himself from the car. I sat, paralyzed.

The door cranked open with a wail.

“M’ lady?” His extended hand reached for mine and with a weird little bow he dipped his knees and pulled me from the tiny car, guitar case and all.

“This grandmother, I would love to meet her.”

I didn’t remember telling him it was my grandmother’s house but it also seemed like years since I left the music shop. He followed me to the front porch.

“Astro turf? Far out.” His laugh was low and even.

“Rosalie!? Rosalie!?” My grandmother hollered through the screen door. “Is that you?”

“Gramma, it’s fine, it’s me.”

“Who’s that man with you?” She peered through the door. Adam was flush against me and I could feel his breath on his hair.

“Gramma, this man—“

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Adam Rose. I saw your granddaughter lugging this guitar case down the main road and I offered her a ride. It’s a very hot day to be carrying something so heavy, and I couldn’t leave her on the side of the road.”

“Oh.” My grandmother unlatched the screen door. “How nice of you.”

She pulled my arm and tugged me inside. Somehow Adam slipped in beside me.

I could tell she knew what was going on, but she didn’t know what was going on. It was as surreal as one of her stories- me, this old man and his beer breath, his insipid smile and persistent leaning gaze.

“I’m a musician.” He smiled. I felt my grandmother relax.

“What do you play?” She was nothing if polite.

“What don’t I play?” He laughed. “Would it be alright with you if I borrowed Rosalie? I’d like to hear what she can do on the guitar. I heard her singing along with the radio and I think she has real talent.”

“Rosalie?” My grandmother’s eyes were cloudy, instantly, and she reached for her cigarettes. “Rosalie is just a baby. Take Emily. Or Sabrina. Or Erica. Rosalie let me fall in the garden.”

My knees almost buckled.

“Grandma, I’m right here. I’m Rosalie.”

“Nonsense, Emily. Now, this nice man wants to talk you out. I suggest you go with him or you’ll end up marrying that character your brother likes so much. What’s his name? Peter?”

“Grandma, Emily is my mom. I’m Rosalie. Emily did marry Peter.”

“Never you mind, Emily.” She patted my arm.

I looked at Adam sharply.

“Thank you for the ride. I think you should leave.”

He set his arms at his hip and then shifted one hand behind him and cocked an eyebrow. “You think I should leave, do you?” And he smiled.

I felt sick. There was the matter of his errand at the pawnshop.

“Yes.” My voice was timid. Quiet.

“For god’s sake, Emily, go with this man. He seems nice enough.” And my grandmother was pushing us both onto the sidewalk and towards his car. I was swept along in the tide, not wanting Adam to hurt my grandmother and not wanting to disturb her fragile idea of reality, which could set her—and this complete stranger with a gun—off.

* * * * *

Persimmons

Randy didn't have any idea what a persimmon looked like, but he knew if he didn't bring one home Diana would chop off his left index finger.

She was like that-- a little angry, a little violent, a little hasty. Randy was loathe to forget any of her requests. He was a craven little man with glasses and a widow's peak. He painted miniature figurines at home so he could be near Diana during the day. This was by order of Diana, although Randy tried to tell himself it was his own decision. Diana always kept a cleaver under her pillow and waved it at him as she listed her daily demands. She also kept a variety of bells near her bedside, and the tintinnabulation of the afternoons almost drove him mad.

But Randy was terrified of Diana and so walked on eggshells with delicate little feet. He was already down a pinky. This is also why he lingered in department stores, shopping malls, and grocery outlets. Desiree from the pharmacy always laughed; she was risible and beautiful and Randy wished he could trade his grumpy sister in for the precocious and lovely Desiree. He loved to say her name slowly, drawing out each constant and vowel until it sounded like a chant from Gregorian monks.

He looked around the produce section for a blue-aproned employee with a price-gun or a nametag or a mullet. There was only one woman in the entire area, and she was picking up pink grapefruit and using her hands to weigh each one against the other.

Randy watched her for a moment and decided that a person so picky about grapefruit could probably identify the persimmon for him. He approached.

"Excuse me, miss, I hate to interrupt your, um, grapefruit evaluation there, but could you point me in the direction of the persimmons?"

She laughed. He couldn't believe it. It sounded like Diana's bells but prettier; he wnated to defenstrate the persimmon's and ask this woman to go to dinner with him.

"Persimmons?" He could barely understand her through the giggles. "You're way out of season, buddy. I mean, you could buy something imported but you're going to pay an arm and a leg, and if you're really in the mood you'll have to go to Dalmation Produce over on 45th." She glanced around and leaned closer to him. He could smell her perfume; a cross between maple syprup and vanilla creme pie.

"You'll never find a decent persimmon in a grocery outlet," she confided.

"Thank you," he said. "Is Dalmation Produce on 45th and Grand or 45th and Broad?" Randy asked.

"Broad." The woman dropped two grapefruit in a red plastic basket on the floor. "But don't waste your time today; they're closed."

Randy felt his heartbeat rise. "Shit," he said. "I'm a dead man."

"I take it persimmons are high on your list of priorities?" she asked.

"It's for my sister. She's an invalid, and she specifically asked for persimmons, and if I don't bring them home she's apt to chop a finger off."

"You're kidding, right?"

He held up his right hand. She gasped at the three fingers and a thumb.

"You don't have a pinky."

He shook his head. He didn't tell her what else he was missing.

"Listen, I've got a couple persimmons at home. I'm a fan of them myself. You want to follow me? I just live a few miles away."

He felt his stomach drop. "I don't have a car," he confesed. "I ride the bus. That's my usual regimen, anyway."

She licked her lips and bit down on the lower one. "You can ride with me," she said.

"Really?"

She sighed. "I'm such a sucker. Yes. Really. C'mon. Let's go before I change my mind."

"What about your grapefruit?" he asked.

"Bollocks on the grapefruit. Let's go find you some persimmons."

contaminant

We lived next door to a gas station that had to send out notices about ground contamination. My mother threw it away. The blue paper and its big black block letters, visible through the flimsy off brand garbage bag, caught my new friend's attention.

"So you live in a contaminated zone, eh, Ruthie?" My new friend chuckled. "You sure it wasn't your house that did it?"

So my house is a little dirty. So my mother doesn't know how to turn on a vaccuum. So my brothers like to throw thier cigarette butts on the front porch. So sometimes there's catshit on the walls. I don't blame myself. My room is pristine and white-glove friendly. My little OCD sanctuary.

"It wasn't my house, Zach. It's the gas lines-- they leaked. So there." I'm a pouter; I did what I do best: pouted.

"Hey, Ruthie, I didn't mean it. C'mon, lighten up. You're cuter when you smile."

Zach, newly arrived in the little trailer park down the street, didn't have room to talk about dirty houses. I don't even think you could term his little shack as "house". But I was usually too polite to say anything.

"I'll forgive you. But look, what are we doing?" I dumped the trashbag into the community receptacle and folded my arms across my chest. That covered up the cleavage and I was trying to make an impression, so I shot my hands back down to my hips and straightened out my shoulders. Zach's little grin turned into a smile. The working wiles of a woman-- even one who's barely nineteen-- never fail.

"I don't know, sugar. What do you want to do?" He took a few steps closer to me and licked his lips. I liked his lips; they reminded me of icecream.

"What do you want to do?" I mimicked. We could have gone back and forth like that forever but I closed the gap and kissed him instead. He seemed surprised.

"What the--?" But he kissed me back.

"Now you know," I said.

"Now I know what?"

"What I want to do."

We looked at each other for a minute and I could tell he thought I was kidding.

I don't kid about sex.
So I told him.

"I've got an hour and twenty minutes before I have to be at work." I worked at the town's vet, pushing paper and clipping dognails and wiping up iguana shit. "Do you want to go back to your place or do you want to pick through the contamination zone and go to my room?"

"I just met you," he said. "Don't you think that's a little fast?"

"Little shy?" I asked. "Or just little?"

"Cheeky bitch," he replied, eyeing my chest. "You're not like other girls."

I kissed him again, grinding my hips into his frame just a little.

"No," I said, "I'm not. Not at all."

*****

My hair was a little ratted and my skirt was wrinkled and I broke a nail but when I came it made everything disappear-- the test results, the dirty house, the contaminated ground water, the gas station, the trailer park, the broken window in our front room, the cigarette butts on the porch, the cat shit on the walls, even that burnt and dirty smell trapped in my mother's room.

After it was over we sat on the bed and he smoked. I don't and didn't.

I'm used to using, and I'm used to being used. But I only go after the married ones without children. I only go after the ones who really want it.

I can tell-- they start lingering in doorways when they see me leaving, they sit on porches long after the cigarette has burned down to filter just to know when I get home. They borrow cups of sugar. In the three days since I started noticing Zach, he'd borrowed a bag of chocolate chips, brought over the newspaper to show me an article on the gas station, washed his car twice, and watered his little strip of astroturf seven times. I started wearing shorter skirts and brought out the cock slot shirts to show off the cock slot cleavage.

Zach found his jeans on the floor and pulled them over his shoes, which he hadn't taken off-- we'd been quick and desperate and pressed together like flowers in a book. His belt buckle made noise as he struggled to keep his balance.

"Stood up too fast," he said.

"Sure," I replied.

When he left I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and took out the paper the nurse had given me.

Positive.

Me and the ground-- contaminated.