Blinking, Trish craned her neck to look Rose in the eye. A second ago she had barely been able to formulate one-word answers to Trish's questions, and now she was engaging in what sounded suspiciously like idle chatter. "Yes," she said, settling back in. "Beverly mentioned it." She closed her eyes, hoping that would end the conversation once and for all.

Rose-of-Sharon's hands were still in her hair, but instead of moving across her scalp with a soft kneading motion as before, they had begun to tremble. Trish opened her eyes again and caught Nola and Rose exchanging a look-Nola's encouraging and Rose's full of doubt-and she realized with a start what was going on. This was not an innocent shampoo-and-rinse, a nice moment between sister-wives. Rose-of-Sharon, her shy, sweet sister-wife, had maneuvered her into this compromising position to ask Trish to give up her night with Golden-her first night with him in over two weeks-so he could accompany Rose-of-Sharon to her daughter's recital in Cedar City, so they could stay together in a hotel and sleep in a hotel bed with everything that implied, and eat at a restaurant and have a fine old time while Trish sat at home, alone, throttled with jealousy and loneliness.

This, to put it impolitely, was an ambush.

Not that long ago Trish wouldn't have minded so much. It was normal for the wives to barter and trade their time with their husband, and Trish, a fourth wife with nothing but her goodwill to offer, was always ready to give in, to make allowances. Generosity. Selflessness. Lovingkindness. These were, as the women so often reminded each other, a large part of what living the Principle was about. But not tonight. She hadn't been alone with Golden in two weeks, had hardly seen him at all during that time, and though she didn't like to admit it, she missed him so greedily, was so hungry for him that she wanted nothing more than to attach herself to him like a feral cat.

She had begun at five this morning with a preliminary shower, plucking the two rogue hairs from her chin, taking a pumice stone to her elbows and feet, and finishing up with a regimen of lotions and leave-in conditioner that made her feel like she'd been dipped in lard. Then she moved on to the house: scrubbed the walls and floors spotless, washed and hung out the sheets, vacuumed and dusted. When she couldn't stand to be inside a second longer she had come to town for groceries and a hairdo, all for him him, for her rumpled Golden, as if he were some kind of visiting dignitary instead of a graying construction contractor with a limp who had three pairs of shoes to his name and demonstrated a persistent inability to keep track of his own wallet.

It amazed her still how quickly, how easily, she had fallen for this man. She had arrived in Virgin a damaged, frightened girl, and though she came with firsthand knowledge of the complications and drawbacks of plural marriage, something in Golden's shy, deferential manner had disarmed her. He represented everything she needed: acceptance, forgiveness, a safe place to land. She loved the soft touch of his large hands, his bright, prominent teeth, the way he paused meaningfully before he spoke, as if each thought were as important as the next. And it didn't hurt that when they first kissed, on a warm fall night in the front seat of the hea.r.s.e, the moon rising h.o.a.ry and gold over the far peaks, she felt a sharp little tug in her soul.

Before Trish married into the family, Golden's rotation schedule was simple: three nights a week at Old House, four nights at Big House. But things got complicated when Trish moved into her own place-a two-bedroom duplex at the northern edge of the valley-and suddenly there didn't seem to be enough days in the week to accommodate everyone. They managed with the help of a calendar, a chalkboard overlaid with a grid, and a calculator (which they used to figure out the ratio of Golden's time with each wife in direct relation to the number of children that belonged to her), until these last couple of years Golden began working at distant job sites, spending four or five nights a week away from home, and his schedule became so unpredictable a grand council of the world's greatest logistical minds couldn't have come up with a schedule that made any sense or satisfied everyone. Every Sunday they met for what had come to be known as the Summit of the Wives, in which each wife made her case for the week, claiming Golden for an anniversary or a birthday, a teacher's meeting or 4-H show.

Of Golden, big as he was (and whose presence at these meetings was considered more or less irrelevant), there was simply never enough to go around.

Often at these meetings Nola and Beverly, whose relationship had developed into one long rivalrous dance, would lock horns over who had been shortchanged the week before, which wife deserved an extra night that week, which child had been deprived of her father's presence at something so emotionally formative as the county spelling bee. Trish and Rose-of-Sharon made it a habit to stay out of the way, occasionally making a point or taking sides in a way that favored their own particular agenda, taking whatever leftovers they could get. Never once had they had a run-in until, it seemed very likely, right now.

Rose-of-Sharon had begun to talk in a way Trish had never heard before, a kind of breathy, headlong chatter, about Pauline's recent ascension to first chair in the high school band, and her advances in the French horn, which is the most difficult of all the bra.s.s instruments by the way I don't know if you knew that or not and because of its mellow sound was often included with the woodwinds and anyway Pauline is so excited about going to Cedar City for regionals that she hasn't slept in two nights! and oh she's been practicing like MAD for a month and it's going to be quite a treat to stay in a motel and see the sights without the rest of the children tagging along... which is the most difficult of all the bra.s.s instruments by the way I don't know if you knew that or not and because of its mellow sound was often included with the woodwinds and anyway Pauline is so excited about going to Cedar City for regionals that she hasn't slept in two nights! and oh she's been practicing like MAD for a month and it's going to be quite a treat to stay in a motel and see the sights without the rest of the children tagging along...

As she spoke, her trembling hands had begun to grip Trish's head, her fingertips slowly increasing the pressure until it felt like a bird of prey had sunk its talons into her skull and was attempting to lift her bodily out of the chair.

"It's a big deal for her, a very important event," Rose said, her voice thin and distressed.

"Yes-oh, ow-I can imagine," Trish said.

"She'd really like it-it'd really be nice, you know..."

Here it comes, Trish thought, hoping it would come very soon, before Rose-of-Sharon's fingernails pierced her scalp.

"...if she had her family family there, besides just me..." there, besides just me..."

Come on, Trish thought, get to it get to it, please.

"If maybe. If her..."-she seemed to hold her breath for a moment and then let it out in a rush of words-"father-could-be-there-oh-it'd-be-something-she'd-never-forget."

Trish grabbed Rose's hands, now locked into paralysis, and with some effort pried them from her head. She sat up and tried to look her in the eye, but Rose stared resolutely at the swirl of water disappearing down the sink's drain.

"He hasn't been over in two weeks," Trish whispered, even though now that the dryer had rattled into silence her words carried easily into every part of the room. "I've seen him twice in the past month. If I don't see him tonight, who knows how long it will be, you understand? Rose? I'm beginning to think he won't even recognize me anymore."

She laughed-a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood-but Rose only nodded. Unable to speak or make a gesture of condolence or regret, Trish sat in the sunken chair, a black-hearted villain in her bank-robber's mask, her shameful features hidden from view. Nola, whose scissors had been poised above her customer's springy hair during the entire exchange, sighed and resumed her snick snick snick snick snick snick. Rose eased her hands from Trish's grip and gently dried her hair with a towel.

She did not wait for Rose to comb out her tangled hair, did not wait for her turn in Nola's chair. A bitterness had risen in her throat, sudden and hot-that she should have to feel guilty guilty for wanting to be a partic.i.p.ant in her own life, that she should be for wanting to be a partic.i.p.ant in her own life, that she should be ashamed ashamed of wanting to spend a few hours with her own husband!-and she knew she should leave immediately. She made an excuse about a forgotten appointment at the clinic and on her way out made sure to slip the of wanting to spend a few hours with her own husband!-and she knew she should leave immediately. She made an excuse about a forgotten appointment at the clinic and on her way out made sure to slip the Cosmo Cosmo from underneath the teetering magazine pile and tuck it under her arm as if it belonged to her. She stepped out into the bright day, the sidewalk scorching white beneath her feet, the sky a pale panel of blue over her head, and walked slowly at first, her hair wet and wild, her face still covered with the handkerchief, and then began to run, making a break for it like the outlaw she was. from underneath the teetering magazine pile and tuck it under her arm as if it belonged to her. She stepped out into the bright day, the sidewalk scorching white beneath her feet, the sky a pale panel of blue over her head, and walked slowly at first, her hair wet and wild, her face still covered with the handkerchief, and then began to run, making a break for it like the outlaw she was.

4.

THE A-HOLES OF OLD HOUSE

THEY CAUGHT HIM IN THE UNDERWEAR. HE HAD JUST SLIPPED HIS foot into a pair of nylon tights when that little bubble-eyed freak Louise peeked in the room and ran down the stairs screaming her head off, "Rusty! Oh no! Rusty! He's in the underwear! Rusty's in the underwear!" Like she was Paul Revere telling everybody the Russians were coming. foot into a pair of nylon tights when that little bubble-eyed freak Louise peeked in the room and ran down the stairs screaming her head off, "Rusty! Oh no! Rusty! He's in the underwear! Rusty's in the underwear!" Like she was Paul Revere telling everybody the Russians were coming.

He happened to be wearing some panties over his jeans too, he wanted to see how they looked, kind of like an experiment. They were made of a smooth blue satiny material with a tiny bow on the band and were so small he had a terrible time getting them off. He yanked and pulled and had them down to his ankles when Aunt Beverly walked in and scared him so bad he tipped backward and cracked his head on the edge of the dresser.

Even though his head hitting the dresser had made a noise, and he was now in a lot of pain, Aunt Beverly didn't say, Are you okay, Rusty, hmm, you want an ice pack or something on that? Are you okay, Rusty, hmm, you want an ice pack or something on that? She just watched him squirm around on the floor trying to stretch the panties around his feet. Rusty thought, She just watched him squirm around on the floor trying to stretch the panties around his feet. Rusty thought, Aunt Beverly, you old witchy woman Aunt Beverly, you old witchy woman, which made him feel a little less like he might c.r.a.p his pants in fear.

Someday, when he had discovered his own mysterious personal superpower, which would most likely be chemically radioactive laser beams that shot out of his eyes, he would do battle with Aunt Beverly and blast that witchy stare right off her fat face until her hair caught fire and she had to jump through a window and into the cow trough outside to put out the flames. And all the brothers and sisters would run screaming before him and his deadly laser beams, and he would blast one or two of them in the back before he said, Come on back, guys, I'm just kidding, ha ha, I won't harm the rest of you as long as Aunt Beverly apologizes for all her wrong actions and crimes against humanity Come on back, guys, I'm just kidding, ha ha, I won't harm the rest of you as long as Aunt Beverly apologizes for all her wrong actions and crimes against humanity, and Aunt Beverly would come up to him all wet from the cow trough and her bald head still smoking and say, I'm sorry, Rusty, please forgive us all, won't you, we will do whatever you say as long as you'll allow us to keep our precious lives I'm sorry, Rusty, please forgive us all, won't you, we will do whatever you say as long as you'll allow us to keep our precious lives.

Now there was a bunch more girls gathered in the doorway laughing, oh, so insanely happy about what was going on here, it looked like their big white teeth were going to pop out of their mouths. Rusty laughed too, just to show them he understood how funny this underwear situation was, but instead of laughing he snorked, which made them laugh harder, which made his face get hot and itchy. Aunt Beverly trained her witchy-woman stare on them for a second and they ran away howling and giggling, Hee hee, oh my gosh! Stop it! Shhhhh! Hee hee, oh my gosh! Stop it! Shhhhh! and in about thirty seconds everybody in the family, including the neighbors and other innocent bystanders, would be up to date on the underwear thing. What a gyp. and in about thirty seconds everybody in the family, including the neighbors and other innocent bystanders, would be up to date on the underwear thing. What a gyp.

Aunt Beverly stood right over him and asked what he thought he was doing, creeping around in the Big Girls' room like some kind of pervert, trying on their underwear.

Rusty held his breath and had to concentrate extremely hard not to let her make him cry. When he had to breathe again he tried not to snork, which was what came out anyway.

"This is funny?" she said. "You think any of this is amusing?"

No, Rusty didn't think any of it was funny, especially not the snork. He mumbled that he had been looking for his tube socks in the Big Girls' drawer because they sometimes took his socks just to make him mad.

"Honestly. You want to blame this little abomination of yours on the girls now? You sneaking through their drawers and putting on their intimate items is their fault, is that what you're saying?"

He looked down at his shirt, which was too small with a tear-hole and grease spots on it, not that anybody cared. And come to think of it, weren't his own underwear gross and ratty too? Gray and full of holes and so stretched out the Jolly Green Giant could wear them under his little skirt thing no problem? Of course the girls' underwear was clean and fresh and extremely elastic. If he had good underwear, the nice tight kind that looked sharp and made you feel good about yourself, then maybe he wouldn't have to go trying on other people's intimate items, would he?

Aunt Beverly told him he was to go to his room, where he would stay for the rest of the day, until she and the other mothers decided on an appropriate punishment.

Appropriate. This was Aunt Beverly's favorite word, her power word, the word that granted her her awful destructive might, which she would surely lose forever if she didn't say it at least fifteen times a day.

That sort of talk isn't appropriate. Let's find a more appropriate activity, children. We'll discuss this at an appropriate time. Your shoes, Rusty, do not smell very appropriate. How about, Rusty thought, you kiss my appropriate behind? you kiss my appropriate behind?

"What?" said Aunt Beverly. "What did you say?"

What? He hadn't said anything! Had he? He turned his head away so she could not look into his eyes. The possibility that Aunt Beverly might be able to see deep into his inner brain with her witchy-woman stare did not surprise him at all.

"Not only will you stay in your room for the rest of the day," Aunt Beverly said, "but you will go without dinner tonight. And no dessert for the rest of the week. One more word from you and you will be grounded for the rest of the month. I will not allow this kind of perversion in my house."

At this, Rusty just stood there like a big b.u.t.tfudge bawling his fat brains out. He thought about his own sorry stretched-out underwear, which made him cry harder, and how everybody would know that he was trying on girl's panties in the middle of the day, and the worst, no dessert for a week. What a big dang gyp! What a big dang gyp! He cried so hard he began to cough, and s...o...b..r came out of his mouth, which often happened because he had some kind of condition that made him have too much spit in his mouth. But Aunt Beverly did not hug him, or say, He cried so hard he began to cough, and s...o...b..r came out of his mouth, which often happened because he had some kind of condition that made him have too much spit in his mouth. But Aunt Beverly did not hug him, or say, now-now now-now, or make him a gla.s.s of chocolate milk on ice like his own mother would've, she just gave him one last stare and went out the door.

Well, crying like that made him feel a little better, and staying in his room wouldn't be so bad-at least he wouldn't have to do ch.o.r.es. Out in the hall, Parley was waiting for him. Parley was two years older and could run faster and throw farther and make musical armpit farts everyone thought were hilarious. Rusty tried to walk by, but Parley stood in his way with his arm against Rusty's chest, and whispered, f.a.g f.a.g. Rusty pushed past him, but Parley stayed right with him, doing the musical armpits and singing, A-f.a.ggety-f.a.g-f.a.g-Fee, A-f.a.ggety-f.a.g-f.a.g-Foo. A-f.a.ggety-f.a.g-f.a.g-Fee, A-f.a.ggety-f.a.g-f.a.g-Foo.

One of the sorriest things about Old House was that it was really old old, with squeaking floors and clanking radiators, but the worst part of it was you had to march up about six hundred stairs to get to the Tower, which was where they made Rusty stay, most likely because they wanted him to reduce in size his sizable love handles. So he climbed, huffing and stopping once in a while to let some spit dribble out of his mouth, while Parley was with him step for step calling him the world's most out-of-shape h.o.m.o.

Rusty spent the next two hours in the Tower bedroom, which was not his bedroom at all, but a room that belonged to Parley and Nephi, who promised to murder him in his sleep if he kept up his snoring, which was why he now slept with a hammer under his pillow. They had st.u.r.dy beds with nice fluffy pillows, while he slept on a foam rubber pad on the floor.

For the thousandth time, Rusty read the sign hanging above the dresser. A few months ago Aunt Beverly made a bunch of them and hung them up in everybody's bedroom, even put one in the bathroom. In her flowery, old-style writing it said:

Christ Is the Head of This House The Unseen Guest at Every Meal The Silent Listener to Every Conversation

See if that doesn't creep you right out.

No, this was not his bedroom, or his house, and Aunt Beverly, no matter what anybody said, was not his mother. His mother was back at Big House, where he belonged with his real real brothers and sisters, who were all, honestly, a bunch of a-holes too. He had to live in Old House with Aunt Beverly's family because somebody had the big idea to do an interfamily exchange program, where children from the different mothers went to live at the other houses, so they could all love each other and understand each other, and have no divisions or strife among them, which was all a big fat gyp. brothers and sisters, who were all, honestly, a bunch of a-holes too. He had to live in Old House with Aunt Beverly's family because somebody had the big idea to do an interfamily exchange program, where children from the different mothers went to live at the other houses, so they could all love each other and understand each other, and have no divisions or strife among them, which was all a big fat gyp.

People said the exchange program was his father's idea, but Rusty and everybody else knew that all of his father's big ideas were really Aunt Beverly's, and that Aunt Beverly got this idea from the Jensens, a family in the church who were always trying to be cooler than everyone else, with their brand-name clothes and Six Flags vacations. Last year the Jensens signed up for the Foreign Exchange Program and got two j.a.panese kids: a sister and a brother. You should have seen them dumb j.a.panese kids! One minute they're back in their little paper house in j.a.pan eating Chinese food with chopsticks, and the next thing they know they're in the Jensen compound with eighteen new brothers and sisters and four mothers and having to stand in line for a bowl of cornflakes! They were only there for a couple of weeks before somebody alerted the authorities, who took them to a regular American family in Colorado where they didn't have to wait half an hour for a chance at the toilet.

So now that Parley was gone, Rusty sat on one of the beds that wasn't his and looked out the window. It was a bright day, the sky blue and without a cloud, but cold enough that there wasn't a lot going on in the side yard or the pastures beyond. He watched a couple of Brother Spooner's cows trying to hump each other, which was fun for a while until he realized that they were doing it only because they were as bored as he was. He watched Raymond the Ostrich strut around in the smaller pasture next to the Spooner home. People said Brother Spooner used to have dozens of ostriches at one time, he was planning to make millions of dollars selling them for ostrich hamburgers, turning what was left over into cowboy boots and those feathery scarf things dancing ladies wear, but it turned out there weren't a whole lot of people interested in eating something that looked like a giant mutant turkey. So Brother Spooner had gotten rid of all his ostriches, except Raymond, who had once attacked a kid from town who was trying to siphon gas from the Spooners' tractor, and because Raymond had run the kid down and kicked the living dookie out of him and defended the Spooner way of life, he was now considered part of the family.

After the cows stopped humping and Raymond disappeared behind the feed bin and Rusty could not look out the window a minute longer, he crossed the room and regarded himself in the mirror on the closet door. His face was still red from crying, and blubber showed through the gaps in his shirt. He was sort of fat all right, and the owner of a shirt so raggedy and stained it looked like he had stolen it off a dead hobo, but he was no f.a.g.

"f.a.g, you say?" he asked in his Scoundrel accent, which always made him feel better, doing the squinty-eyed thing while taking a drag from an imaginary pipe. "Get a hold of yourself, man, you may be many things to many people, but a f.a.g f.a.g? My dear man, I dare say not not."

5.

OLD HOUSE

Look closely and you'll see: in this house there is trouble. There has been trouble here for a good many years, though you'd hardly know it by appearances. The children, rambunctious as always, scamper and gossip and play, the mothers busy themselves making dinner, and the father-where is he, anyway?-labors somewhere in the outer precincts of the backyard.

No, nothing obviously the matter. If you didn't know any better you might think: domestic sweetness, familial bliss. But look a little closer, get right up close, and you can't miss the off-kilter rituals, the sorrows nursed in isolation, the back-door transactions, the mini-dramas of dread and anxiety and longing. At this very second, for example, you'll find Daughters #2 and #3 in an upstairs bedroom, hatching a plot of revenge on Daughter #5 for being a kiss-up and a tattletale and exposing their respective crushes on two of the best-looking boys in the valley, while Daughter #5 herself is curled up in her hiding place under the stairs, trying to stanch the most recent of her spontaneous nosebleeds, which she believes to be divine punishment for impure thoughts and questionable intentions, and because of which she has become a tattletale and Miss Goody Two Shoes in hopes of getting on G.o.d's good side. In the woodshed you'll find Son #4 weeping bitterly and eating his own earwax. In the front room is Daughter #10, right out there in the open, sitting alone on the lavender Queen Anne divan, talking openly, idly to her dead brother, Son X, while two of her living brothers, Sons #11 and #6, aim their homemade rubberband guns at the back of her head and count: one, two, three. And maybe, if you're paying attention, you'll notice Mother #2 slipping into the hall bathroom the second it comes open to give her wig a quick adjustment and stuff her latest and rather unpredictable roll of stomach fat under the band of her pantyhose-she wants to look good for her man tonight!-and coming back into the kitchen, letting out that braying laugh with which she tries to hide large and complicated feelings.

The house, a gothic Victorian with a jagged roofline and a three-story tower fashioned from blond sandstone, makes proud display of its odd-shaped rooms and narrow hallways and tilting staircases-an architecture that, despite Mother #1's every attempt to suppress such things, encourages factionalization and secrecy and disorder. Away from the warm bright center of the house where the mothers try to outdo each other in the kitchen, there is a shadow world of disputed territories and black-market economies, a shifting and complex geography of meeting places and neutral zones and sour little crevices and dusty pockets where children go to steal a few desperate moments of solitude.

Mother #1 has done everything she can to battle such chaos, to sniff out any hint of sloth or insurrection. Not that anyone cares or notices. Not that anyone expresses any grat.i.tude at all for the way she endeavors daily to improve these children's souls, to clean up their diction and straighten out their morals and impart to them an appreciation of their divine legacies, their celestial bloodlines. Not that anyone, including the adults who sometimes share the house, pays any attention to the dozens of placards she has made using her self-taught calligraphy skills, placards that feature suggestions, warnings, reminders, and admonishments placed in strategic locations around the house: On the front door: Please Remove Shoes Below the doorbell: Ringing Twice May Be Necessary In the foyer: Please Place Shoes in Shoe Box-Neatly and Quietly Above the foyer light switch: Turn Off Light When Not in Use And so on as you make your way through the house. The upstairs bathroom, known as the Black Hole of Calcutta, requires eight placards all by itself: On the door: Please Keep Locked When Occupied And under that one, another: Please Respect the Privacy of Others Under the toothbrush rack (which features nine toothbrushes lined in a neat row, each plastic handle bearing its owner's name in the same Edwardian script): Remember: Use Only Your Toothbrush and Your Toothbrush Only Next to the toilet paper holder: No More than Four Squares Per Use, No Fewer Than One On the wall next to the tub, under a plastic blue egg timer on its own ceramic shelf: Showers Two Minutes Maximum Above the toilet: Lid Down When Not in Use And below that: Boys, Lift Seat When Making Water And below that: Boys, AIM!!! Please and Thank You At the top of the stairs on the wall of the landing there is a large black-and-white portrait of Brigham Young, his meaty face pressed into a frown of dire warning, as if to say: Don't even think about it.

You cannot take five steps in this house without being reprimanded or corrected or warned, without being reminded that rules and laws are what separate us from the worst aspects of ourselves and are all we have to keep sin and ugliness and anarchy at bay-and that is exactly how Mother #1 would have it. No one in this house has any idea, but Mother #1 is well and personally acquainted with sin and ugliness and anarchy, and she has come to know that rules and commandments and laws, if you hold to them fast and believe in them with your whole heart, can save your life and maybe even your soul.

Likewise, no one in this house would have any idea that Mother #3 has her own inner life, small though it may be. Mother #3, more than anyone in the family, is easy to miss. She speaks, if she speaks, second or third or fourth. You can walk right past her, as her own children often do, without seeing or noticing a thing. One of the children, Daughter #11, has started a rumor that has been picking up steam among the under-seven segment of the domestic population, that Mother #3 is disappearing, fading in and out, flickering into nothing at inopportune and often comical moments, like a ghost in a black-and-white cartoon. For so long she has asked for nothing, required nothing, taken nothing, only given. It is the story of so many mothers in this small valley and, for that matter, in the larger world that she has heard so much about. It's very simple: she has given too much, and now there is very little left of Mother #3.

From the kitchen she calls for someone to bring up some potatoes from the cellar but, as usual, no one pays her any mind. So she goes down herself, and comes upon the Three Stooges in their customary spot next to the old industrial boiler, practicing some native sport that seems to involve kicking each other repeatedly in the behind. Boys, Boys, she says, gathering the potatoes from the bin, she says, gathering the potatoes from the bin, boys, boys. boys, boys. But they go on as if she weren't there, kicking, guffawing, groaning in mock or possibly real pain. The Three Stooges love each other dearly-anyone can see that-and they demonstrate it by slapping, tripping, and choking each other silly. They are inseparable, these three, except when they are separated, which is most of the time, when Stooges #1 and #3 go home to Big House, and leave Stooge #2 behind to pine after them, jealous of the life they share without him. Stooge #2 is a born worrier, and his worries tend to center on an uncertain future in which he and the other two stooges will be separated for good. He is only seven years old, but he knows about things like jobs and death and marriage, things that could steal him away from his brothers and them from him, and the thought of these things only makes him punch and kick and squeeze them harder, sometimes with such force he worries he might one day truly hurt them. But they go on as if she weren't there, kicking, guffawing, groaning in mock or possibly real pain. The Three Stooges love each other dearly-anyone can see that-and they demonstrate it by slapping, tripping, and choking each other silly. They are inseparable, these three, except when they are separated, which is most of the time, when Stooges #1 and #3 go home to Big House, and leave Stooge #2 behind to pine after them, jealous of the life they share without him. Stooge #2 is a born worrier, and his worries tend to center on an uncertain future in which he and the other two stooges will be separated for good. He is only seven years old, but he knows about things like jobs and death and marriage, things that could steal him away from his brothers and them from him, and the thought of these things only makes him punch and kick and squeeze them harder, sometimes with such force he worries he might one day truly hurt them.

Upstairs in the kitchen Mother #3 hands Mother #4 a bowl of washed potatoes and wordlessly they begin to peel. After so many quiet nights spent in her small duplex, Mother #4 still marvels at the great wash of sound that never recedes, only falters for a moment and then rushes back like a stiff breeze coming off the sea. Even in the midst of all this commotion she knows none of it really belongs to her, and marvels at the strange fact of her dearest wish: to be part of it, to give in to its distractions, to find herself the owner of a life lived rather than a life endured. And then she looks into the face of Mother #3, worn smooth and almost featureless, with moist eyes that can't settle on anything more than a heartbeat at a time, and she knows this is a very dangerous wish. She could so easily become Mother #3-or Mothers #2 and #1, for that matter!-and she wonders what it is she wants, exactly, what in heaven's name has brought her here.

Mother #3 takes the peeled potatoes to the stove, leaving Mother #4 to look out the window at the broad gray shapes of dusk. Mother #4 can't help it, she searches the backyard for any sign of her husband. She wants him to be out there in pooling dark, watching her. She wants him to know how lost she is.

Where, then, is this husband, exactly? You can be certain he is not paying any attention to the house. If he were, he'd see that in the dark it looks radioactive, full of careening particles, the chaos of warm bodies. He'd be more than a little threatened, and rightfully so, by so much heat and light.

At this moment the Father is hiding, as usual. His secret lair is the ground floor of the Doll House, a ramshackle two-story playhouse made of plywood and cedar shakes whose construction he abandoned three years ago after the death of Daughter #9. After the funeral he boarded up the windows, except for the small one that faces west, put a padlock on the tiny door, spray-painted several black X' X's on the walls and ramparts, and condemned it, declared it off-limits, henceforth and forever.

When he's at Old House and wants to be alone, which is most of the time, he sneaks out here (he keeps the key to the padlock on a retractable janitor's key ring) and squats on a milk crate, his head occasionally b.u.mping the splintery ceiling, his face framed by the small window that looks out across the river to the Spooner place. Often, he engages in a long-distance staring contest with an ostrich who patrols his territory with a haughty air, like a retired industrialist who has nothing left to do but admire all he owns. One day-and he has fantasized about this in great detail-he wouldn't mind going over there and breaking the thing's neck.

This spot, this is where he was sitting when it happened. He doesn't know what he's doing here now, doesn't know if it's self-punishment, or escape, or a refusal of time's pa.s.sage. Some part of him, he knows, will be sitting here all his life.

It used to be that when he was alone like this he talked to G.o.d: What am I supposed to do? Please tell me what to do. But since Daughter #9 has been taken from him he has kept his silence.

Now, in this secret place, he allows his mind to go wherever it wants. Tonight, for instance, he is thinking about tomorrow morning, how he will wake early when the house is asleep and load up his pickup and make the long drive to Nevada. He considers how easy it would be to blow right on by the Highway 19 exit to continue on toward someplace where the living is free and easy, where there is no one to please and the obligations are few. He knows he is capable of such a thing; he has done it once already, abandoned one life for another.

He has been engaged in this kind of thinking for many months now, but lately his thoughts have centered on a woman, a dark-skinned stranger, and somehow for him she has come to comprise-in her short, muscled legs and her braided hair and her bright laugh-his desire for release, his dreams of escape. He believes, in a way that he doesn't fully understand, that she might be the one to save him.

Tonight, the darkness has swallowed everything except a bright wire of gold along the horizon. The Father watches the wire grow thinner and finer until it disappears, leaving behind a residue of lavender and blue. Very faintly, as if from some kinder and simpler time, the voices of his children rise out of the murky dusk, reminding him that there are things to do, that he has responsibilities of a certain kind, that he is, whether he likes it or not, the Father. The voices are louder now, calling for him to come in. He loves these children. He does, he loves them so much. He looks out the window. He stays a little while longer.

6.

THE STATE OF HIS SOUL

THE p.u.s.s.yCAT MANOR SAT JUST OFF STATE HIGHWAY 19, ITS TINY patch of lawn a perfect, unnatural green in the middle of this high desert plain. The brothel was an old ranch house with three different mobile homes attached at odd angles, giving the structure the aspect of a train wreck's aftermath. The sign out front- patch of lawn a perfect, unnatural green in the middle of this high desert plain. The brothel was an old ranch house with three different mobile homes attached at odd angles, giving the structure the aspect of a train wreck's aftermath. The sign out front-p.u.s.s.yCAT MANOR-GIRLS GALORE-featured an extremely curvy cartoon cat in lingerie stroking its own tail and purring in blinking pink neon: PRRRRRRRR. PRRRRRRRR. Eleven o'clock in the morning and the parking lot was two-thirds full. Eleven o'clock in the morning and the parking lot was two-thirds full.

Slumped down in the front seat of his pickup, parked in the back corner of the lot next to a pair of dumpsters, Golden watched customers of all stripes-sweating tourists, businessmen, a couple of pimple-faced Marines-come and go. He'd been sitting here half an hour, wiping the sweat from his brow, taking toots off his Afrin while Cooter snoozed peacefully against his thigh. "If you're going to do it, do it," Golden suggested to his reflection in the rearview mirror. "If you're not, then get back to work." Apparently, this bit of self-motivation did the trick. He waited until the coast was clear and hustled across the parking lot, wincing at the hard light and clutching at his thighs to keep his keys from jingling in his pockets.

The parlor of the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor, dim and cool as an underground chamber, smelled like cigarette smoke and money. The only true light came from a hanging lamp in the corner and the neon beer signs flickering over the bar. Everywhere you looked, there were half-dressed women: some lounging on the red velvet sofas, a couple standing in the faint glow of the jukebox, deliberating over the selections as if studying a sacred text, and one, a striking black girl with glitter in her afro, sitting at the white baby grand in the corner and tapping out "Go Tell Aunt Rhodie" with one finger.

Golden walked through the door and all the women looked up at him. He blinked and turned to leave.

"Come back here, honey!" cried the black girl. "We ain't gonna bite you, not less you pay us to!"

The other girls shrieked with laughter, and one of them intercepted him before he could make it outside. "Come on, why don't you give yourself a minute," she said. "We're all very nice and you can take your time deciding." She was a rosy-faced blond girl wearing a pink kimono open to her navel.

Golden took a breath. "I'm not. It isn't. I don't have anything to decide." Defeated, and knowing he would be unable to make himself any clearer than that, he chose a spot on her forehead and stared at it with conviction so as not to risk a glance at her cleavage.

She took him by the elbow and guided him toward a hallway whose entryway was hung with strings of clicking gla.s.s beads. They pa.s.sed through the beads, which raked at Golden's hair and slithered across the bridge of his nose and around his shoulders. With her hand on his arm like that and those b.r.e.a.s.t.s swaying at the edge of his vision, he would follow her anywhere.

Finally, at the end of the hallway, after pa.s.sing a series of doors from behind which came all manner of odd and startling human noises whose nature he didn't care to speculate on, Golden was able to wrest his elbow from her grip. "I'm the contractor on the new building." He held up his yellow hard hat for corroboration. "I'm here to see Miss Alberta."

"Miss Alberta's the matron here," the girl said. "She doesn't see men, not anymore."