“Did I?” he said.
“Did you what?” she said.
“Like a train,” he said.
She offered him something. “Eat,” she said.
A warming filled his hand. He held it.
“Vern?” she said.
“What now?” he said.
“Do you think there’s a heaven?”
Under his nose, he held it still.
“Ask me what I think,” she said.
“Do you want to hear something true?” he said.
“Don’t know,” she said. “Depends.” She crossed her arms. Her knees she brought up chestwise.
His jaw was slowly working. “I never liked to travel,” he said.
“That so?”
“It is.”
“Myself, I would say it depends,” she said.
“Would you?”
“I would.”
“What on?”
“How far,” she said.
“To where?” he said.
She expelled her breath.
“Bad answer,” he said.
“What am I eating?” he said.
“Something or other,” she said.
“Which?” he said.
“I’m stiff as a board,” she said. “I’m stiff as a clapboard house’s boards.”
“Sweet,” he said. He wrapped her in his jacket despite she wore a coat. He whistled — a shallow, languid sound.
“Is it morning?” she said.
“No,” he said.
“Now?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“My gloves,” she said, patting. “Look. Are you looking? I think I’ve gone and lost them.”
He had finished eating.
“Don’t sweat it,” he said.
THE woman had a stove, stove-in, in the middle of the ramble of her yard. She had pumps for gas, for air, with icy nozzles stiffly hanged, drinks for sale so cold, the glass was crazed. She had tricky chairs, a pillow sprouting feathers. She had wrenches and marbles, selected appliances, haywire toasters, fryers furred with some contagion, claw-foot tubs, assorted seamy clothes. She had no arms. None at all. Rooted in her chin, she had what looked to be whiskers.
“Ma’am,” he said, “good day.”
“It is,” the woman said.
“People call me Jordan,” he said. “Call me Jordan.”
“Do they?” she said.
“Like the river,” he said.
“Rae,” Rae said.
“Mrs. Hatch,” the woman said. “Like Mrs. Hatch.”
“Missus,” Rae said. “Nice place.”
“Onliest shopping around,” Mrs. Hatch said.
“Onliest anything else,” Rae said.
The land seemed placid, embalmed. Flat-out and trackless.
“Jordan,” Rae said, “ask her.”
“What day is it?” he said.
The eyes went dark.
“Missus?” he said.
“Jack,” she said. “You think the world was made for you to come and rule it, don’t you?”
“Sunday?” he said.
“Don’t know as I know,” she said. “Don’t know as it rightly matters.”
“Guess not,” he said.
“Thursday or Tuesday or some such,” she said.
“What about Wednesday?”
“Either, or,” she said.
“What all is this?” Rae said.
“Not Sunday,” Mrs. Hatch said. “I’m working up a powerful sweat.”
There were barrels full of dresses — women’s and children’s, dolls’, too. In one of the barrels, a small cat rolled. Cat-eyed. Lifeless. Stockings with tassles. A shoe.
“I might have been wanting gloves,” Rae said.
“Where do you keep the cash?” he said.
“One at a time,” said Mrs. Hatch. “Don’t know as I carry gloves.”
“So where is the till?” he said.
“Jack,” she said.
“I told you once,” he said. “Jordan. Like the river.”
“Maybe a ribbon,” she said to Rae. “Or maybe a frilly nightie?”
“Move,” he said.
Her sleeves moved, drifty and weightless. The weather seemed entirely given to change.
“Who is he to you?” Mrs. Hatch asked.
“Just do what he says,” Rae said. She was fingering man-size shirts. Dressylike. Over the pockets, names of men were roundly sewn, silky and cursive.
“Move,” he said, louder.
Mrs. Hatch yawned. “Is this some kind of stickup?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Well, where is your weapon at?” she said.
“Don’t know as I need it,” he said. “What’s to stop us from robbing you blind?”
“Him,” she said.
“Who?” he said.
“Our Lord,” she said.
“Whose?” he said. “Jesus’?”
“I’ve got me a knife,” Rae said.
“I warn you,” Mrs. Hatch said. “I aim now to pray.”
“How?” he said.
“Easy — for your soul,” she said.
“How can you,” he said, “without you have arms?”
“Vern,” Rae said.
“Damn it, Rae,” he said. “Don’t let her know.”
Wind whipped up. A dark cat snapped across the yard. Leaves blew sideways from nowhere, wrongly formed.
“Don’t think I don’t know,” Mrs. Hatch said. “I know you. I knowed you the minute I first laid eyes.”
Bibs lifted, defiled, into the air.
Rae covered her ears. “Mercy,” she said. She was not making predictions, she said. “Jordan,” she said, “Hey, River,” she said, “come on.”
He was spilling over barrels, a gas pump, toasters, frisking Mrs. Hatch.
“Heavenly Father,” she said as wet wind roared.
“Save it,” he said. “Nothing,” he said. “Rae,” he said. “She don’t got so much as a dime.”
Rae sat herself down on the riotous earth. There was something she was holding by the tail. “Missus,” she said. “Please,” she said, “do you think you could give us directions?”
THE valley loomed stark and gloomy, dwellingless. A dented-in basin. A miserable trough. For days, they’d eaten ice. Nights, they’d eaten ice. Her hair was iced with ice. He had, as you would surely imagine, an unshaved chin, which was not without ice.
It chafed her, she said.
Birds were lying stiff-winged and bent-necked.
“Don’t eat them,” he said.
“Why north?” she said.
“What?” he said.
“Why not south?” she said.
His breathing was audible.
“Don’t you rightly wonder?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Fact,” he said.
“What fact?” she said.
“Fact is,” he said, “this is the way we been heading. Women,” he said.
“There’s no one here,” she said. “Not one lone soul.”
“Us,” he said. “We are.”
She lifted her hair. “I ache,” she said. “Go carry these yourself.” She was pulling out shirts from out of her person, stitched: Daryl, Red, Jack.
“What are those?” he said.
“What do you think they are?” she said. “Yours.”
“Mine?” he said.
“Who else?” she said.
“Stole?” he said.
“You know I don’t like that word,” she said. “She didn’t so much as look.”
“I see,” he said. “So where will I wear them?”
An owl lay busted. Trees began to screech, tormented by the elements.
“I don’t expect I know,” she said.
A hawk stretched boldly, deadly on the earth.
“Night bird,” she said.
“Vulture,” he said.
“I never killed a thing,” she said.
“Lucky you,” he said.
“I didn’t,” she said.
He smothered a yawn.
“Oh, that,” she said.
They stood there, stunned with ice.
“Where all do we sleep?” she said.