Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light #4)

by Rose Christo

2

  Heavensend

  You know what I really hate? Laundry.

  I mean, when I was a kid, I was pretty confident that magical little worker sprites took care of the housework. The worst part about growing up is learning that the laundry doesn't do itself.

  I knelt by the brook with my grandmother's old washboard and a heap of dirty clothing. Rafael's hospital scrubs in particular bore some suspiciously goopy stains. I wasn't sure I wanted to know where they had come from.

  Ah, well. Into the water they went.

  "Mr. St. Clair?"

  I was midway through the washing when I heard my name. Fingers sore and cold, I set the washboard aside. I looked up just in time to greet a mousy, timid young woman in a gray pants suit.

  "You could just call me Skylar," I said.

  "Oh, um, yes," she said. She kept gazing about the site with ill-concealed fright, like she was expecting the black bears to jump out of hiding.

  Poor Carole. Carole Svensen's a legal secretary--my legal secretary, I guess I should say, although it's kind of creepy to distribute personal pronouns like that. I think the state pays her salary; I have no idea. One day she showed up on my doorstep like a mail-order bride. She's been here ever since.

  "Mr. St. Clair," she said, "I've come to pick up your proposals and revisions..."

  "You came all the way out here for that?" I asked. I left the wet clothes on the ground--lazy, I know--and stood. "I could've just e-mailed them to you."

  "Yes, but--" She winced. "But you never do."

  "Do you want to stay for breakfast?" I asked.

  "Um..."

  I took Carole by the hand. I walked her around the side of the house, the weathervane creaking in the early morning wind.

  Rafael was already in the kitchen, seated at the scrubbed pine table. The window above the icebox was thrown open, rosy dawn scattering pale pastel sunlight across the sunny yellow wallpaper.

  His blood-encrusted hunting spear lay in the middle of the floor. Gross.

  "Hi," he said to Carole. Or I think he did. His mouth was full. No manners, that Rafael.

  "Do you want sagebread?" I asked Carole.

  I doubt she even heard me. Her face drained of all color when she caught sight of Rafael's spear. She spun around and high-tailed it. To this day, I still don't know where she went.

  Rafael swallowed whatever the heck he was chewing. "Weird," he said.

  "If you're eating elk, I hope it's not raw," I said.

  "What's wrong with eating it raw? My grandmother used to eat it raw all the time."

  "The one with the claws?"

  "No, the other one. The one who lives in Fort Hall."

  "Oh, that grandmother."

  "Yeah. She says the blood gives it flavor."

  I gave him a blandly horrified look. I rested his spear across the brim of the wash basin and opened the icebox.

  "Get me juniper tea?" he said.

  "Is there a reason you didn't get it yourself?" I wondered.

  "How am I supposed to know which one's juniper and which one's spicewood?"

  "The labels?"

  "Shut up, Sky."

  I shot him an innocent smile. I handed him his tea.

  After breakfast we locked up the house and followed the dirt path through the woods. Rafael tucked his hair behind his ear and rambled, for a while, about the foster kid. He was building her up so much, I was kind of worried he'd be disappointed if she didn't meet his expectations.

  We walked through the reservation and out to the hospital parking lot. Nettlebush is small--its population never really rises above three hundred--so the hospital's parking lot gets treated like it's a residential parking lot. Most of us don't own our own cars, either. We only ever leave the reservation if it's for a pauwau, or something of that nature, so you tend to get two and three families packed into the same SUV.

  Racine, DeShawn, and Jessica were standing outside a monstrous black SUV. It's actually Gabriel's car--Gabriel being Rafael's uncle.

  "Good morning, Skylar," DeShawn said. He served a couple of tours in the military. He's sounded like a punctilious drill master ever since. "I think we'll make good time if we leave now."

  "I'm driving," Rafael said.

  "No way," Jessica said. "You drive so slow! And Sky just drives in circles. Let me drive, Rafael. Please?"

  She's twenty-three, and she still knows how to pull the puppy dog eyes.

  "Fine," Rafael grumbled, and handed her the keys.

  She unlocked the car and we climbed on board. It's an eight-seater with a gray leather interior. Pretty spacious--not that anything's ever spacious enough for Rafael. I sat between him and Racine and he immediately started fidgeting. Sometimes I think he's claustrophobic.

  I turned my back on Rafael and faced Racine. "How are you?" I asked.

  Racine's my step-mother. She's really cute, too--short, stout, and she hardly ever ages. Her hair's crazy, curly, and for a time I used to joke that I'd inherited mine from hers. You need only to look at us to know how unlikely that is.

  Racine gave me a wan smile. I was willing to bet she felt just as nervous as I did. "What's this I hear about you adopting a kid?"

  Jessica pulled us out of the parking lot while DeShawn blathered in his sister's ear.

  I smiled sheepishly. "It's not set in stone," I said. "But we do have a foster kid coming our way."

  Rafael let out a nervous little moan. I elbowed him.

  "Boy or girl?" Racine asked.

  "Girl," I said. "We don't know anything else just yet. We're picking up her file later."

  The desert breezed past our windows, golden and hazy, bright orange blossoms and brown berries clustered underneath the burnt, bronze hills. The highways rolled lazily by, route after route, trucks and turnpikes their ever-faithful companions.

  "Wilmot Road," Rafael said to Jessica, leaning forward in his seat.

  "I know, I know. Stop backseat driving," Jessica returned.

  The penitentiary complex was at the end of Wilmot Road, just past a pair of gravelly train tracks. From the outside, the double buildings were grand and arching, like something out of a modern palace. The inside, I knew from experience, was a lot more depressing.

  Jessica parked the car beside a towering flagpost. We climbed out, the five of us, and she locked up.

  "Boy," said DeShawn, staring up the length of the main building. "I'd hate to be trapped in there..."

  "DeShawn..." Jessica said.

  "Right, sorry," he murmured.

  We walked the white walkway to the visitors' doors--tall, spotless glass. We headed inside the lobby, the floor the color of gray sludge.

  It kind of creeped me out that this place hadn't changed at all in the past fifteen years. The walls were still scratchy and white and adorned with old portraits of former wardens. The side doors still looked like they belonged to a child's plastic play set.

  "Hey," Racine said to the receptionist. "Paul Looks Over?"

  The receptionist typed on her keyboard. "One second."

  She directed us to the benches against either of the stark white walls. The five of us sat together and waited.

  Rafael scowled. "I think I'm sitting on gum."

  "Sweet, save some for me," Jessica quipped.

  One of the side doors opened at last. And out through the door walked my father.

  It was surreal to see him wearing jeans and a green sweater. For the past fifteen years I'd never seen him outside of a bright orange jumpsuit. Nor had we ever stood face-to-face. I'd hated that, sitting across the visitors' table from him, knowing he couldn't hug me even if he wanted to. He wasn't sitting now. He was standing--slouched--withered. My heart broke in two. He used to be paunchy; now he was thinner than me. His gray eyes were tired, wintry, and closed off. His sleek black hair was peppered with gray. How old he looked. How many years he'd lost to this place.

  I stood slowly.


  "Cubby," Dad said, and reached for me.

  I felt like a child again. I put my arms around him; I hugged him as tightly as I knew how. His arms wrapped around me, arms that used to make me feel small, and safe. I could feel tremors in his arms.

  My father used to be a strong man.

  I stepped back and cleared my throat. I smiled. "Hi, Dad."

  "Listen to you," Dad said. His face was melancholy--but his face was always melancholy. Even in my childhood, I'd seldom seen him change expressions. Much of Dad's life has been sad. "Your voice. It's so good to hear your voice..."

  Rafael cleared his throat. "Hi, sir," he said.

  "You don't have to call me that," Dad said. "You're my son-in-law."

  I stepped back so Racine could hug Dad. The way he put his head on her shoulder warmed me; and at the same time, it made me feel like I could cry. She kissed him on the cheek, tremulous. She looked like she might cry, too.

  "Uncle Paul, congratulations!" DeShawn said.

  Jessica reached for a hug, hopping on her soles. Jessica never stands still for long; too much energy bursting through her seams. Dad smothered what would have been a chuckle were he any other man. He gave Jessica a quick hug. "Thank you," he said to DeShawn. He looked so tired. He looked so old. I noticed the small plastic bag wrapped around his hand--all that was left of his belongings. "I'd be very happy to leave here now."

  I smiled again, muted, subdued. I felt happy; I felt sad. "Say no more," I said.

  "I'm driving," Jessica announced.

  "Amazing," Dad said. "You're driving now. I remember when you didn't even reach my knees..."

  "She still doesn't," Racine joked.

  "Hey," Jessica protested, but without a frown.

  The six of us readily left the drab building. I waved to the receptionist in passing. We piled out onto the white pavement, Rafael leading the way to the SUV.

  "Dad," I said, "how about we go out for lunch?"

  Dad stiffened. Was it nerves? "If it's not the reservation..."

  I knew what he was thinking. He had been released on a technicality--the technicality that the federal government had no authority to arrest him on reservation soil.

  "They're not going to arrest you again," I said, my hand on his shoulder. "That's double jeopardy. They can't convict you twice for the same crime."

  But for all that I tried to encourage him, his shoulder was tense beneath my hand; his eyes were difficult to read.

  We got into the car, the six of us, and rode the interstate to Tucson, a relatively short drive. Racine picked out a diner with checkered tablecloths and a soft serve fountain. We squashed ourselves into the booths and ordered eggs and toast and tomatoes, Rafael and Jessica prodding each other over arm space.

  I looked discreetly across the tabletop at Dad. I thought he must have been happy to be out in the open--after all these years--but he didn't look happy to me. He looked shrunken. Defeated. His hands, once pawlike, were fragile on his fork. His fingers were brittle and thin. It was the worst thing I'd ever seen.

  When he set down his coffee mug, I reached for his hand and grasped it. He smiled fleetingly at me and looked away.

  In the Shoshone world, reticence is placed on a kind of bizarre pedestal. Most Shoshone are raised with the idea that it's annoying if you talk to other people about your feelings. Dad embodied that ideal. Fifteen years in hell, and he acted like he'd only just gone to the grocery store.

  "So, Uncle Paul," DeShawn attempted, bless his heart. "You ought to join the tribal council."

  Dad looked surprised. "Why do you say that?"

  "With Stuart out in Idaho all the time--and Mrs. Red Clay's retired--well, I think you know the interests of the reservation pretty well, don't you...?"

  "Fairly well," Dad said mildly.

  "DeShawn's on the reservation police," Jessica said, rolling her eyes.

  "Want to see my pager?" DeShawn said.

  "Nobody wants to see that," Jessica said.

  Racine's hand dropped underneath the table. I think she was reaching for Dad's. I hope he gave it to her.

  "Still a speech therapist, Rafael?" Dad asked.

  "Huh? Oh, yeah," he said. "Sometimes. Not like we've got a bunch of mute kids running around the reserve or anything."

  "I ought to thank you for what you did with Cubby's voice. Regrowing vocal cords; who knew..."

  "I didn't really do much. It's just that there's a lot of lamina inside the umbilical cord. It's really Charity who did everything."

  Charity was Rafael's little cousin. It was her umbilical cord that had restored my voice. Rafael had figured out years ago that human vocal folds are made of lamina--and so is the umbilical vein.

  "Speaking of talking," Racine said. "Skylar, you've got that guest lecture in August? ASU?"

  I pulled a silly face. "I don't remember school starting so early when I was that age."

  "But that was a very, very, very, very long time ago," Jessica said sweetly.

  I reached across Rafael's shoulders and swatted at her.

  DeShawn peeped at me curiously from Racine's other side. "How is that going to work?" he asked. "If you're taking care of a foster kid full time--"

  Dad lifted his head. "Foster kid?"

  I kind of felt like this was too much information for one afternoon. He'd only just got out of prison, after all.

  "Um, yeah," Rafael said. "You know Zeke Owns Forty?"

  "Luke's kid?" Dad asked.

  "Yeah, him. He's a social worker nowadays. Anyway, he signed Sky and me up as foster parents a while ago."

  "I didn't know," Dad said. I couldn't read his face. I thought he might have been surprised. "Congratulations."

  "Yeah. I mean, thanks."

  Dad looked at me, and for a moment, I thought there was light in his eyes. "Are you going to make grandparents out of us?" he asked. "I feel like I aged twenty years in the past few minutes."

  "Speak for yourself," Racine said.

  "Not you, of course," Dad said fondly. "You're as beautiful as when I first met you."

  "Black doesn't crack, Uncle Paul," Jessica said.

  We stayed for a little while, chatting, and I felt like the atmosphere returned slowly to normal. Dad didn't want any dessert, so we left money on the table and headed back outside.

  The ride back to Nettlebush was--I thought--comparatively pleasant. Dad and DeShawn talked back and forth about the upcoming pauwau in July. Pauwaus are great; tribes from all over America get together to celebrate their music, their dancing, their similarities and their differences. I was happy Dad would finally get to join in on the festivities.

  Jessica parked the car outside the reservation hospital. We piled out of the car, one after another, the afternoon air crisp and warm.

  Dad looked around at the pine trees; at the log cabin standing opposite the dirt road; at the old wooden sign whose message read, "No Cars Beyond This Point." His face was frozen, his gray eyes as still as winter water. For a moment, I was afraid he would cry.

  I should have known better. Dad never cries. Not in front of other people.

  I put my hand on Dad's shoulder. "Why don't we go out on the lake?"

  He smiled at me wearily. "Maybe later," he said. "I think I'd like to lie down."

  Racine put her arm around Dad. "We'll see you at dinner, right?"

  "Yes ma'am," Rafael said.

  Racine rolled her eyes. "Stop making me feel like I'm sixty."

  "Seven years, Mom," Jessica said. "Only seven years to go... Muahahaha..."

  The six of us parted ways for the afternoon. Immediately I felt cold, and sort of odd. I watched Dad's receding back, hunched, his arm around Racine's waist. I couldn't help thinking that prison had eaten away a part of his soul. Dad used to have endless stamina. Twelve trips a day across the Sonoran Desert, back when he worked as a coyote, and he never needed a nap then.

  "You alright?" Rafael
asked me.

  I smiled noncommittally.

  "He'll be okay," Rafael said. "He's strong. And he's got you. Not like he needs much more than that."

  I gave him a warm look. "You really know how to inflate my head, Rafael."

  Rafael grinned unrepentantly. "Keep saying my name. I still like it."

  Rafael said he had to help his uncle hand out the morning game. He waved a quick goodbye and started north toward the badlands. I didn't know what else to do with myself--and I hate restlessness--so I took a trip out west to see if Annie needed any help.

  I found her at the stove in the farm manor, her brother and sister at her sides.

  "Oh, now you show your face," Annie said to me.

  I grinned roguishly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Joseph turned around at the stove. Slender and slight--and Jessica's age--his hair was the same shade of burnt brown as Annie's. A pair of hearing aids rested in his ears.

  Catfish come out yet? I signed.

  Joseph shook his head. After the monsoon.

  Lila sighed and moved a pot off the stove. Save for a few years' difference, she could have been Annie's twin. She was tall, though, where Annie was short. And definitely not pregnant.

  "Don't bother me, peon," she said to me--signing while she spoke. None of us likes to leave Joseph out of the loop. "You haven't bothered visiting me in two days. I don't need your pity visits now."

  I still love you, I signed. I don't have the presence of mind to sign and talk at the same time. Signing's easier, anyway.

  Your dad came home, right? Joseph signed, his index fingers pointed in opposite directions. Morgan Stout's been saying so.

  Morgan's an idiot, Lila signed.

  "We don't need your help here," Annie told me.

  I frowned, feigning offense.

  "Oh, please," Annie said. "Go outside, the men could use you out back."

  I kissed her cheek--then Lila's, Lila's eyes big and simpering. Joseph clapped me on the shoulder while I went back through the foyer--and from there, around the back of the house.

  The plotted farm was rolling and vast beneath blue skies. Scarecrows stood between the hilled soil. I bit back a smile. In the old days, Plains People didn't use scarecrows, of course--they pitched tents right in the middle of the crops and chased the crows away by foot, sometimes squawking and screaming while they ran. It must have been a funny sight.

  "Skylar! Over here!"

  I climbed across the rows of hilled earth, cucumbers and okra poking out of the fresh brown dirt. Aubrey and his brothers were standing on the other side.

  Aubrey was one weedy beansprout of a guy. His Coke bottle glasses were taped to his ears; because, of course, they tended to fly off his face while he was busy working. Next to him were his older brothers--Reuben tall and stoic, Isaac dark-eyed and mean-faced.

  "Is Zeke with you?" Aubrey asked.

  "Why would Zeke be with me?" I asked, puzzled.

  "Oh? He said he was getting another spade. I guess he took off..."

  "I'll get it," I said with a wave of my hand.

  "Get me one, too!" said Serafine, Reuben's daughter.

  I took a quick trip to the tool shed on the eastern side of the farm manor. I came back to the sight of Nicholas and Leon, Aubrey's sons, patting the crop hills with their stubby hands.

  "A rake would be faster, I think," Aubrey counseled them kindly.

  "I don't want to use that stupid thing," Nicholas said. It still strikes me as odd that a little boy who looks so much like his father could have such a different countenance.

  "Well, here," Aubrey said. He showed me which plots we were going to till, the seed crates sitting by the canal gates. "And the spinach and the sugarcane can go there," he said, and gestured with a sweep of his hand.

  "Let's just get it over with already," Isaac said.

  We dragged spades through the hard, caked earth, freeing the fresh soil underneath. I'm not at all built for farm work; my arms were aching by the time I started on the second plot. Serafine pouted and huffed. Her father wouldn't let her use the heavy tools and had her planting the seeds instead.

  "Hey! You!"

  And here came Zeke, stumbling and staggering through the field, a manila envelope in his hand, the bottoms of his work pants muddy.

  I stifled a laugh. "Did you get lost on your way to the tool shed?"

  "Huh?" It went right over his head. "Where's Rafael?"

  "At Gabriel's," I said.

  Reuben sat on the ground and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Isaac trudged over to the canal gates and opened them. I tossed the rakes aside, grabbed the kids by their hands, and pulled them away from the trickling water.

  "Oh," Zeke said. "Annie said you stopped by. I thought he was with you." He waved the manila envelope at me. "Want it?"

  Aubrey squawked and jabbered like an excited prairie chicken. "Is that your kid?"

  "No, dumbass!" Zeke said. "That's an envelope."

  Isaac shot him a dark look. I couldn't really blame him at the moment.

  "Let's see it!" Aubrey said, eager and kindhearted.

  "Without Rafael?" I reminded him.

  "Oh. Right..." Aubrey slouched, but straightened his shoulders in the very same breath. "Show us at dinner, then! Ah, just think, there could be a little Gives Light-St. Clair baby in there... Erm, wait a minute, did Rafael ever change his name?"

  Southern Shoshone are matrilineal; the kid always takes the mother's surname, and generally the father does, too. "Wait," I said, catching on. "Are you calling me a woman?"

  "--Anyway, we're done here, so let's head back inside!"

  I shook my head and pretended to take a swing at him. We dropped our tools off at the shed and went inside the house for a quick drink.

  "You'll give them a baby, but not me?" Holly At Dawn said sourly. She was Daisy's twin sister--there was no mistaking their curved falcon noses and their wavy ringlets--and Zeke's fiancee. In Nettlebush, we only get married during autumn, part of an old superstition we borrowed from the Paiute. These two had four long months ahead of them.

  I rolled up my sleeve and glanced at my wristwatch. "I think I'm going to check on Dad," I said.

  Reuben nodded politely. "Tell him hello from me," Serafine said, and "Fine, I didn't want you around here anyway," Holly said. Holly's definitely a pleasant girl.

  Racine and Dad lived on the other side of the lake, in a low, two-story house with a nice view of the shore. I can still remember when Dad built the house years ago, his shy, roundabout way of asking Racine to stay with him.

  I knocked on their door--I probably should have showered first, I thought--and two seconds later, Dad faced me in the doorway.

  He looked haggard. He looked far away. His eyes were out of focus. He barely seemed aware that I was facing him. At least until he rubbed his eyes.

  "Cubby?"

  "Hi, Dad," I said quietly. I made sure to smile.

  He shook his head with disbelief. "I still can't believe you're talking again. After all these years... You don't know how much I missed your voice."

  I knew. I knew because I had missed it, too. Just the simplest things--exchanging pleasantries with a friend, telling a family member how much I loved them--the simplest things were a Heavensend.

  "I just wish Granny had been around for it," I admitted.

  A small silence passed between us, carried on the summer breeze.

  "I'm sorry I wasn't here for her passing," Dad said, closing his eyes.

  "Don't be," I said gently. "Granny understood. She always defended what you've done. And she didn't die alone. She knew she was loved."

  Dad sat down on the parched lawn outside his front door. I sat with him.

  "I don't know," he admitted, his voice very quiet. "Not about that. I mean... I don't know that she felt loved by me."

  I was somewhat surprised at the turn this conversatio
n was taking. Was Dad talking about his feelings for once? I didn't want to discourage him, so I didn't interrupt.

  "We never quite got along," Dad mumbled. "Ever since Julius died..."

  Julius was Dad's little brother. Uncle Julius had died as a five-year-old, more than forty years ago.

  And I still didn't know how Uncle Julius had died. There had been an unspoken rule, growing up, that we didn't talk about him. Or about my mother.

  I placed my hand on Dad's arm, carefully.

  "We were playing," Dad said. "Julius and I. There's a grotto out in the woods; I don't know if you've ever seen it... And the most beautiful willow tree."

  His profile betrayed none of his heartache; his hands were folded, but his fingers were shaking. His fingers had been shaking ever since we brought him home.

  "I thought he was annoying," Dad said. "You know how kids are... He loved me, and he tagged around after me like he was my shadow. I thought he was a pain. I wanted him to leave me alone. So I gave him a dare. I told him, 'I bet you can't climb that willow tree.' "

  My heart felt cold in my chest.

  Dad bowed his head over his hands. But he didn't cry. He never cried in front of me.

  "She blamed me," Dad said. "And I blamed myself. And I still do."

  "Dad," I said, afraid to raise my voice--afraid to deter him. "You were a child."

  "There's no excuse for it," he said. "He was my little brother--my responsibility--and I failed him. I failed my wife, I failed my son...even failed my best friend..."

  "No," I said. "You didn't." I can't tell you how glad I was to have a voice. All the things I'd wanted to say to him since I was a child--I could finally say them. "You raised me. We're not even related, and you raised me like I was your own."

  "You are my own," Dad said.

  "My mom cheated on you--lied about it--and you still did what you could do avenge her memory."

  "I don't want you holding that against her..."

  "A man swept through this reservation, completely terrorizing everyone--he killed seven women--and when you found out he was your friend, you still put his victims first."

  "I had to. That's blood law."

  "Dad," I said.

  He looked at me.

  "Your mother loved you," I said. "I love you. More than anything."

  He bowed his head again. I thought his lips were trembling. I tried not to look too closely. I didn't want to embarrass him.

  He lifted his head at last. His eyes reached into mine.

  "I hope this works out for you," he said. "Your foster child. I hope you love her, and I hope you adopt her. You can't possibly understand how much I love you until you have a child of your own."

  I was the one who felt a little embarrassed. "You're sure you want to be a grandfather?" I joked.

  "Very sure. I'll teach her all about topography. I'll teach her the Apache fiddle."

  Eventually Racine came outside and insisted we join her for a cup of spicewood tea. Dad accepted, but I declined; I still had files to send to Carole, wherever the heck she had gone. I waved goodbye for the remainder of the afternoon and headed home.

  And on the walk home I thought about Uncle Julius, chilled to my core. Small wonder Dad and Granny had never discussed his parting in front of me. This secret that Dad had carried for so many years--a burden all its own... Why hadn't he told me sooner? Maybe I could have helped him. Maybe I could have comforted him.

  In the front room I found Rafael on the hardwood floor with Charity, Charity showing him her summer book report.

  "Hi, Skylar," Charity said warmly. She's the sweetest kid there is. Round-faced like her mother; tawny-haired like her father; cheeks dimpled like Rafael's. Hard to believe she's already fifteen. "I'm entering the raft race this season. You'll root for me, right?"

  "I wouldn't dare root for anybody else," I promised.

  Rafael tucked his hair behind his ear and squinted at Charity's papers from behind his glasses. Maybe he needed a stronger prescription. "Mr. Red Clay's not gonna like this," he said. "He wants everything double-spaced these days."

  "Mr. Siomme, Rafael," Charity said patiently.

  "Yeah, yeah," Rafael said. "Go get a drink or something. You're making me thirsty just sitting there."

  Charity giggled and ran into the adjoining kitchen.

  "What's that?" Rafael said. He'd just now caught sight of the folder in my hand.

  I sat next to Rafael, legs folded. My legs looked oddly pudgy to me. I wondered whether I was gaining weight. "Zeke gave it to me," I said, barely capable of smothering my smile. "He--"

  Rafael didn't wait to hear what I had to say. He snatched the envelope from me with unparalleled frenzy. I laughed openly. Rafael pulled out the papers inside.

  He sucked in his breath.

  "Well?" I said, and waited.

  Rafael's eyes flitted back and forth across the paper. "Her name's Michaela," he said. "Michaela Morales."

  I whistled. "We've got ourselves a little Latina."

  "Huh?"

  "Keep reading."

  He did. "She's ten," he said.

  "That's a good age," I said.

  "Yeah. Says her mom's in prison..."

  Well, that was unpleasant.

  "Says she comes from a pretty abusive home. Court-ordered therapy a few years ago."

  "I'd expected something like that," I admitted.

  "She's got heterozygous beta-thalassemia."

  "Oh, what's that?"

  "It's a blood thing, a kind of anemia. Just means she needs to eat iron." Rafael stopped reading for a second. "This kid's been in eleven foster homes in three years."

  I smiled ruefully. "Zeke hinted at that."

  Rafael lowered the file. He looked across at me.

  "What if she's, like...a terror? And she murders us in our sleep?"

  "Are you sure you're not exaggerating?" I said, trying to mollify him. "If she were violent, it would say so in her file."

  Rafael scanned it again, quickly. "It doesn't say," he admitted.

  "Then she's not violent." I touched his arm briefly. "She probably has emotional problems."

  "Then what do we do?" he asked.

  "Be patient with her," I said, "and think constantly about her needs. That she's been through so many homes means a lot of people gave up on her. It would be nice to show her we won't turn her backs on her. Don't you think?"

  For a moment, Rafael was so silent, I could hear Charity crunching on cornmeal cookies in the next room over.

  "Damn," Rafael said. "Am I glad you can finally talk."