anything goes to the state lab. Then we’ll go from there.”
Lana says, “That sounds like a mighty plan.”
“Cynicism is not a winning quality, Lana.” Then, “Fortunately, I know that behind the cynicism, there’s an endearing young woman of whom I’m fond.”
Lana doesn’t speak, and after a second or two, Hallie says, “Lana, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve just been asked to dance by a young man too handsome to refuse.”
After one last look out the window—Garth is sitting morosely against the fence, twisting Popeye’s head, and Veronica is tying a drooping purple flower stalk to a bamboo rod—Lana tiptoes through the house to the front porch, but the minute she gets to the porch and slides her hand under the chair cushion to remove the drawing kit, Tilly comes to find her, the old shoe box in her hand, her fingernails grubby from scavenging. Her interest in the kit is immediate. “That yours, Lana?” she says in her thick voice.
Lana nods.
“Where’d you get it?”
“A shop.”
“Good,” Tilly says with finality.
It’s warm out, but the setting sun makes everything seem beautiful and benign. The crickets are at it—laying down a dense reassuring track of sibilant sound.
“Did you find anything in the grass?”
“You bet,” Tilly says, and shows Lana a plastic square that Lana guesses used to close up a bag of bread. It’s faded enough to be pink.
“Good color,” Lana says.
Tilly says, “How come ’Ronica wants to get you a new dress?”
Lana turns. “What?”
“She said she’d get you a new dress.”
This makes no sense at all, and then suddenly it does. “No, Tilly, she said she was going to get me a new
address
, not a new dress. She wants to send me somewhere else.”
Tilly looks stricken. “When?”
Lana shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Tilly holds tightly to the bread fastener.
“Don’t worry,” Lana says quickly. “I’m not going anywhere. Veronica’s just trying to scare me.” Then she says what she wants to believe. “Whit won’t let it happen.”
Tilly seems satisfied with this, and then her face hardens. “ ’Ronica’s the devil!” she says, and Lana has to laugh, but the devil doesn’t seem like quite the right type for Veronica.
“More like Ms. Blizzard,” Lana says.
She opens the flat leather box, slides out a piece of paper, and takes a pencil in hand. She gazes off for a moment or two and then, all at once, her hand begins to move across the page as before—easily, fluidly—and in perhaps two minutes the living line has created someone who both is and isn’t Veronica, an icy, epic figure on her own ledge of a sheer frozen cliff, comfortable in the cold, happy with it, in fact, her white body wrapped in blankets of snow parted to show her creamy cleavage, and then theliving line surrounds and shades a quiver of dartlike icicles that she tosses down at ant-sized humans who, in the valley below, run for their lives.…
A sudden, sharp tapping.
Lana blinks. She’s glazed with sweat—it’s as if she’s been suddenly returned from hard labor under a hot sun. She turns. A foot away, on the other side of a window, Veronica stares out at her with eyes that seem about to explode. And then she disappears for a moment before bolting through the screen door and onto the wooden porch.
“How dare you?” she says through clenched teeth.
“How dare me what?” Lana says, and as she looks at Veronica, it registers that she’s changed out of her gardening clothes into heeled sandals with tight black pants and an open shirt over a tight, stretchy top. Definitely not her house clothes.
“How dare you do
that
,” Veronica says, pointing at the drawing. “It’s me. It’s me made ugly.”
“No, it’s not. It’s Ms. Blizzard. The jolly Ice Queen.” She turns to Tilly. “Right?”
Tilly nods. “You bet. ’Ronica the Ice Queen.”
“It’s not Veronica,” Lana says quickly, but when she looks at the drawing, she knows
Lana says, “That sounds like a mighty plan.”
“Cynicism is not a winning quality, Lana.” Then, “Fortunately, I know that behind the cynicism, there’s an endearing young woman of whom I’m fond.”
Lana doesn’t speak, and after a second or two, Hallie says, “Lana, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve just been asked to dance by a young man too handsome to refuse.”
After one last look out the window—Garth is sitting morosely against the fence, twisting Popeye’s head, and Veronica is tying a drooping purple flower stalk to a bamboo rod—Lana tiptoes through the house to the front porch, but the minute she gets to the porch and slides her hand under the chair cushion to remove the drawing kit, Tilly comes to find her, the old shoe box in her hand, her fingernails grubby from scavenging. Her interest in the kit is immediate. “That yours, Lana?” she says in her thick voice.
Lana nods.
“Where’d you get it?”
“A shop.”
“Good,” Tilly says with finality.
It’s warm out, but the setting sun makes everything seem beautiful and benign. The crickets are at it—laying down a dense reassuring track of sibilant sound.
“Did you find anything in the grass?”
“You bet,” Tilly says, and shows Lana a plastic square that Lana guesses used to close up a bag of bread. It’s faded enough to be pink.
“Good color,” Lana says.
Tilly says, “How come ’Ronica wants to get you a new dress?”
Lana turns. “What?”
“She said she’d get you a new dress.”
This makes no sense at all, and then suddenly it does. “No, Tilly, she said she was going to get me a new
address
, not a new dress. She wants to send me somewhere else.”
Tilly looks stricken. “When?”
Lana shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Tilly holds tightly to the bread fastener.
“Don’t worry,” Lana says quickly. “I’m not going anywhere. Veronica’s just trying to scare me.” Then she says what she wants to believe. “Whit won’t let it happen.”
Tilly seems satisfied with this, and then her face hardens. “ ’Ronica’s the devil!” she says, and Lana has to laugh, but the devil doesn’t seem like quite the right type for Veronica.
“More like Ms. Blizzard,” Lana says.
She opens the flat leather box, slides out a piece of paper, and takes a pencil in hand. She gazes off for a moment or two and then, all at once, her hand begins to move across the page as before—easily, fluidly—and in perhaps two minutes the living line has created someone who both is and isn’t Veronica, an icy, epic figure on her own ledge of a sheer frozen cliff, comfortable in the cold, happy with it, in fact, her white body wrapped in blankets of snow parted to show her creamy cleavage, and then theliving line surrounds and shades a quiver of dartlike icicles that she tosses down at ant-sized humans who, in the valley below, run for their lives.…
A sudden, sharp tapping.
Lana blinks. She’s glazed with sweat—it’s as if she’s been suddenly returned from hard labor under a hot sun. She turns. A foot away, on the other side of a window, Veronica stares out at her with eyes that seem about to explode. And then she disappears for a moment before bolting through the screen door and onto the wooden porch.
“How dare you?” she says through clenched teeth.
“How dare me what?” Lana says, and as she looks at Veronica, it registers that she’s changed out of her gardening clothes into heeled sandals with tight black pants and an open shirt over a tight, stretchy top. Definitely not her house clothes.
“How dare you do
that
,” Veronica says, pointing at the drawing. “It’s me. It’s me made ugly.”
“No, it’s not. It’s Ms. Blizzard. The jolly Ice Queen.” She turns to Tilly. “Right?”
Tilly nods. “You bet. ’Ronica the Ice Queen.”
“It’s not Veronica,” Lana says quickly, but when she looks at the drawing, she knows
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