As I left to go back to work I saw the woman with the cardboard box, still in the living room. She was sorting through a handful of possessions she had laid out on the sofa-a black skirt, a small book bound in red vinyl, a framed photograph, a pair of baby’s sneakers tied together by the laces-and carefully putting them back into the box.

On Wednesday, just as I was finishing up the last patch of the day and getting ready to head for home, I spotted Lou Ann stepping off the bus at the Roosevelt stop. I yelled for her to wait up, and she came over and talked to me while I used the water hose to wash the black dust off my hands. One thing I can tell you right now about tires: they’re dirty business.

Lou Ann had just been for a job interview at a convenience store on the north side. She’d left Turtle and Dwayne Ray with Edna and Mrs. Parsons.

“So the first thing the guy says to me is ‘We get a lot of armed robberies in here, sweetheart.’ He kept on calling me sweetheart and talking to my boobs instead of my face, this big flabby guy with greasy hair and you just know he reads every one of those porno magazines they keep behind the counter. ‘Lots of stickups, sweetheart, how do you hold up under pressure?’ he says. Holdup, that was his idea of a big hilarious joke. Jeez, the whole thing gave me the creeps from the word go.”

I could see that she had dressed up for this interview: a nice skirt, ironed blouse, stockings, pumps. In this heat. The humiliation of it made me furious. “Something better’s bound to come along,” I said. “You can hold out.” I wiped my hands on a towel, hollered goodbye to Mattie, and we headed down the sidewalk.

“I hate that place,” she said, nodding back over her shoulder at Fanny Heaven.

‘Yeah,” I said. “But on the bright side, Mattie says they don’t do a whole lot of business. She thinks having a place called Jesus Is Lord right next door kind of puts a hex on it.”

Lou Ann shuddered. “That door’s what gets me. The way they made that door handle. Like a woman is something you shove on and walk right through. I try to ignore it, but it still gets me.”

“Don’t ignore it, then,” I said. “Talk back to it. Say, ‘You can’t do that number on me you shit-for-brains,’ or something like that. Otherwise it kind of weasels its way into your head whether you like it or not. You know those hard-boiled eggs they keep around in jars of vinegar, in bars? It’s like that. After a while they get to tasting awful, and it’s not the egg’s fault. What I’m saying is you can’t just sit there, you got to get pissed off.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

“The thing about you, Taylor, is that you just don’t let anybody put one over on you. Where’d you ever learn to be like that?” Lou Ann wanted to know.

“Nutter school.”

ELEVEN

In the third week of May, Lou Ann got a job as a packer in the Red Hot Mama’s salsa factory. This meant that she stood elbow to elbow with about a hundred other people in a sweaty packing line dicing chiles and tomatillos and crushing garlic cloves into moving vats, with so much salsa slopping onto the floor that by the end of the day it sloshed around their ankles. The few who hoped to preserve their footwear wore those clear, old-fashioned rainboots that button on over your shoes. Most people gave up the effort. On days when they were packing extra hot, their ankles burned as if they were standing on red ant hills.

The ones that handled the chiles grew accustomed to tingling fingertips, and learned never to touch their eyes or private parts (or anyone else’s), not even on their days off. No matter how they scrubbed their hands, the residue of Red Hot Mama had a way of sticking around, as pesty and persistent as a chaperone at a high school dance.

Truly this was a sweatshop. Half the time the air conditioner didn’t work at all, and all the time the fumes made everyone’s eyes water so furiously that contact lenses could not be worn on the premises. Lou Ann’s vision was 20/20, so this wasn’t a problem, nor was any of the rest of it for that matter. Lou Ann loved her job.

If Red Hot Mama’s had given out enthusiastic-employee awards Lou Ann would have needed a trophy case. She brought home samples and tried out recipes, some of which would eventually be printed on the jar labels, and some of which would not, God willing. She gave us lectures on how the tiniest amount of cilantro could make or break the perfect salsa. Six months ago I’d never heard of salsa. Now I was eating it on anything from avocados to pot roast.

It came in three speeds: the jars with green lids were “mild,” whereas pink meant “hot.” The red-lidded jars were so-called “firecracker style.” The latter was not a big hit with the kids. Turtle would cry and pant at just the slightest taste, fanning her tongue and eying Lou Ann like she was some spy that had tried to poison us. Dwayne Ray had better sense than to let the stuff enter his mouth.

“Enough already,” I told Lou Ann. “How about we just put the jar on the table and use the honor system?” On my nights to cook I made the blandest things I could think of: broiled white fish and mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese, to give our taste buds a chance to grow back.

But Lou Ann had bought the company propaganda, hook, line, and sinker. “It’s good for you,” she said. “Some doctors recommend a teaspoon a day to prevent ulcers. Plus it clears your sinuses.”

I informed Lou Ann that, thank you very much, my sinuses had just about vacated the premises.

Telling it this way it sounds like a lot of fights, but actually I was liking Lou Ann a great deal these days. In the few weeks since she’d started working, she had begun to cut her hair far less often and finally stopped comparing her figure to various farm animals. Having a job of her own seemed to even out some of Lou Ann’s wrinkled edges.

She mostly worked swing shift, which meant that she left at three in the afternoon, leaving the kids with Edna Poppy and Mrs. Parsons until I came home a couple of hours later. For the longest time Lou Ann was scared to say two words to Edna, for fear she might let slip some reference to eyes. Finally I cleared the air, just stating right out to Edna that for a great while we hadn’t realized she was blind, because she got on so well. Edna had just assumed we knew all along. She took it as a compliment, that it wasn’t the first thing we noticed about her.

Once she started swing shift Lou Ann’s experimental family dinners, featuring Five-Alarm Casserole and so forth, were limited to her days off. Most of the time I fed the kids and put them to bed before Lou Ann came home at eleven. Then she and I would eat a late supper, or on nights when it was still too hot to look a plate of food in the eye, we’d sit at the kitchen table fanning ourselves in our underwear, reading the paper, and drinking iced coffee. Sleep was hopeless anyway. But mostly we’d talk. At first all she could ever talk about was cilantro and tomatillos and the people at Red Hot Mama’s, but after a time things got back to normal. She would leaf through the paper and read me all the disasters.

“Listen at this: ‘Liberty, Kansas. The parents and doctor of severely deformed Siamese twins joined at the frontal lobe of the brain have been accused of attempting to murder the infants by withholding medical care.’ Lord, you can’t really blame them, can you? I mean, what would you do? Is it better to be totally retarded and deformed and miserable, or just plain old dead?”

“I honestly couldn’t say,” I said. “Not having been either one.” Although, when I thought about it, being dead seemed a lot like not being born yet, and I hadn’t especially minded that. But I didn’t give it a lot of thought. I was interested in the weather forecast. We hadn’t had a drop of rain since that double-rainbow hailstorm back in January, and the whole world was looking parched. When you walked by a tree or a bush it just looked like it ached, somehow. I had to drag the water hose around to the back every day for Matties squash and beans. The noise of the cicadas was enough to drive you to homicide. Mattie said it was their love call, that they mated during the hottest, driest weeks of the year, but it was beyond belief that any creature-even another cicada-would be attracted by that sound. It was a high, screaming buzz, a sound that hurt your eyes and made your skin shrink, a sound in the same class with scratched-up phonograph records and squeaking chalk.