10. That Patrick

Patrick. Christ. I'd forgotten about him. You know, dear, he did that to himself. They all do. I am who I am, my girl, and they are who they are. That's all any of us ever are; sometimes we just explode when we're mixed.

It had been much too hot to wear shorts in a car with vinyl seats for eight hours. When they arrived in the Black Hills, the backs of her mother's thighs were graffitied with red welts. This Patrick, this new boyfriend, pressed against her mother and moved them slowly, clumsily, through the Avenue of Flags at a zigzag. Dolores traced one welt with her finger. Her mother's skin felt slick and slimy. "Stop it," her mother said, and batted away her hand.

Concrete pillars held flags that made sounds like bed sheets from a clothes line when the wind kicked through. Blues and reds, whites and golds, stripes and stars and squiggles and circles: They waved to her. She stopped to stare, her head tipped back, her mouth open. The universe said Hello. "Hi," she said back and smiled.

Photo © 2008 by Brandon Cox
www.angelslanding.com

She returned her attention to the walkway; her mother and This Patrick were replaced with the legs and waistbands of strangers. She rotated in a circle, careful not to inch forward or backward. "Mom?" she called. This had happened before with That Leland in Kansas City on The Plaza. What had her mother said to there then? If you're lost, stay put. Stay put. She sat, her legs, criss-cross, in the middle of the cement.

The flags above her continued to wave, no longer hello. They summoned one another, rallied. Child down! she heard them cry as the wind kicked through. Has anyone seen the mother? they yelled. Maybe one from Israel scanned the horizon. She'd heard of that--Israel--on the news.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" a man said. His knees were locked and hairy; he bent over with his hands still in his pockets. His breath smelled like maple syrup. A woman in a plaid skirt clutched her purse behind him. She was impatient.

"I'm okay," she told him.

ETA on the mother? Anyone? Maybe it was Brazil. She'd seen a postcard from That Samuel. The people lounged by a beach and were beautiful.

"My mom is coming."

And she arrived, breathless, and with her hair out of place. "Jesus, Dolores. You've got to keep up," she said, and scooped her up by the elbow.

Patrick scowled. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to bring her."

Her mother brushed dirt from the seat of Dolores's shorts. "You know what's a good idea, Pat? You go sit in the goddamn car if you don't like it." She held Dolores's hand and pulled them forward, no zigzag, always ahead, straight line, don't dawdle. "Sorry, Dolo. He won't last. You and me the rest of the day, okay?"

The wind kicked through, and the flags cheered for you, my girl. Remember that?

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