aunt’s hand. “I loved him, too, Aunt Gen.”
To Leilani, Geneva said, “I miss him so much, even after all these years, but I can’t cry over him anymore, because every memory, even that awful day, reminds me of how sweet he was, how loving.”
“My brother, Lukipela—he was like that.” In spite of this tribute to her brother, Leilani was not inspired to match Geneva’s smile. Instead, the girl’s cocky cheerfulness melted into melancholy. Her clear eyes clouded toward a more troubled shade of blue.
For a moment, Micky perceived in their young visitor a quality that chilled her because it was like a view of the darker ravines of her own interior landscape: a glimpse of reckless anger, despair, a brief revelation of a sense of worthlessness that the girl would deny but that from personal experience Micky recognized too well.
No sooner had Leilani’s defenses cracked than they mended. Her eyes glazed with emotion at the mention of her brother, but now they focused. Her gaze rose from her deformed hand to smiling Geneva, and she smiled, too. “Mrs. D, you said
apparently
the gunman shot you.”
“Well, I know he shot me, of course, but I have no memory of it. I remember him shooting Vernon, and then the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital, disoriented, more than four days later.”
“The bullet didn’t actually penetrate her head,” Micky said.
“Too hard,” Geneva declared proudly.
“Luck,” Micky clarified. “The angle of the shot was severe. The slug literally ricocheted off her skull, fracturing it, and furrowed through her scalp.”
“So, Mrs. D, how did your wires get scrambled?” Leilani asked, tapping her head.
“It was a depressed fracture,” said Geneva. “Bone chips in the brain. A blood clot.”
“They opened Aunt Gen’s head as though it were a can of beans.”
“Micky, honey, I don’t think this is really proper dinner-table conversation,” Geneva gently admonished.
“Oh, I’ve heard much worse at our house,” Leilani assured them. “Old Sinsemilla fancies herself an artist with a camera, and she has this artistic compulsion to take pictures of road kill when we’re traveling. At dinner sometimes she likes to talk about what she saw squashed on the highway that day. And my pseudofather—”
“That would be the murderer,” Micky interrupted without a wink or a smirk, as though she’d never think to question the outrageous family portrait that the girl was painting for them.
“Yeah, Dr. Doom,” Leilani confirmed.
“Never let him adopt you,” Micky said. “Even Leilani Klonk is preferable to Leilani Doom.”
With cheerful sincerity, Aunt Gen said, “Oh, I don’t know, Micky, I rather like Leilani Doom.”
As though it were the most natural thing to do, the girl picked up Micky’s fresh can of Budweiser and, instead of drinking from it, rolled it back and forth across her brow, cooling her forehead.
“Dr. Doom isn’t his real name, of course. It’s what I call him behind his back. Sometimes at dinner, he likes to talk about people he’s killed—the way they looked when they died, their last words, if they cried, whether they peed themselves, all sorts of kinky stuff.”
The girl put down the beer—on the far side of her plate, out of Micky’s reach. Her manner was casual, but her motive was nonetheless clear. She had appointed herself guardian of Micky’s sobriety.
“Maybe,” Leilani continued, “you think that would be interesting conversation, even if sort of gross, but let me tell you, it loses its charm pretty quick.”
“What’s your pseudofather’s real name?” Geneva asked.
Before Leilani could reply, Micky suggested, “Hannibal Lecter.”
“To some people, his name’s scarier than Lecter’s. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Preston Maddoc.”
“What an impressive name,” Geneva said. “Like a Supreme Court justice or a senator, or someone grand.”
Leilani said, “He comes from a family of Ivy
To Leilani, Geneva said, “I miss him so much, even after all these years, but I can’t cry over him anymore, because every memory, even that awful day, reminds me of how sweet he was, how loving.”
“My brother, Lukipela—he was like that.” In spite of this tribute to her brother, Leilani was not inspired to match Geneva’s smile. Instead, the girl’s cocky cheerfulness melted into melancholy. Her clear eyes clouded toward a more troubled shade of blue.
For a moment, Micky perceived in their young visitor a quality that chilled her because it was like a view of the darker ravines of her own interior landscape: a glimpse of reckless anger, despair, a brief revelation of a sense of worthlessness that the girl would deny but that from personal experience Micky recognized too well.
No sooner had Leilani’s defenses cracked than they mended. Her eyes glazed with emotion at the mention of her brother, but now they focused. Her gaze rose from her deformed hand to smiling Geneva, and she smiled, too. “Mrs. D, you said
apparently
the gunman shot you.”
“Well, I know he shot me, of course, but I have no memory of it. I remember him shooting Vernon, and then the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital, disoriented, more than four days later.”
“The bullet didn’t actually penetrate her head,” Micky said.
“Too hard,” Geneva declared proudly.
“Luck,” Micky clarified. “The angle of the shot was severe. The slug literally ricocheted off her skull, fracturing it, and furrowed through her scalp.”
“So, Mrs. D, how did your wires get scrambled?” Leilani asked, tapping her head.
“It was a depressed fracture,” said Geneva. “Bone chips in the brain. A blood clot.”
“They opened Aunt Gen’s head as though it were a can of beans.”
“Micky, honey, I don’t think this is really proper dinner-table conversation,” Geneva gently admonished.
“Oh, I’ve heard much worse at our house,” Leilani assured them. “Old Sinsemilla fancies herself an artist with a camera, and she has this artistic compulsion to take pictures of road kill when we’re traveling. At dinner sometimes she likes to talk about what she saw squashed on the highway that day. And my pseudofather—”
“That would be the murderer,” Micky interrupted without a wink or a smirk, as though she’d never think to question the outrageous family portrait that the girl was painting for them.
“Yeah, Dr. Doom,” Leilani confirmed.
“Never let him adopt you,” Micky said. “Even Leilani Klonk is preferable to Leilani Doom.”
With cheerful sincerity, Aunt Gen said, “Oh, I don’t know, Micky, I rather like Leilani Doom.”
As though it were the most natural thing to do, the girl picked up Micky’s fresh can of Budweiser and, instead of drinking from it, rolled it back and forth across her brow, cooling her forehead.
“Dr. Doom isn’t his real name, of course. It’s what I call him behind his back. Sometimes at dinner, he likes to talk about people he’s killed—the way they looked when they died, their last words, if they cried, whether they peed themselves, all sorts of kinky stuff.”
The girl put down the beer—on the far side of her plate, out of Micky’s reach. Her manner was casual, but her motive was nonetheless clear. She had appointed herself guardian of Micky’s sobriety.
“Maybe,” Leilani continued, “you think that would be interesting conversation, even if sort of gross, but let me tell you, it loses its charm pretty quick.”
“What’s your pseudofather’s real name?” Geneva asked.
Before Leilani could reply, Micky suggested, “Hannibal Lecter.”
“To some people, his name’s scarier than Lecter’s. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Preston Maddoc.”
“What an impressive name,” Geneva said. “Like a Supreme Court justice or a senator, or someone grand.”
Leilani said, “He comes from a family of Ivy
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