'Well hi Bobbie, hi Margaret!' My ole lady breezes out of Lally's new rental car wearing a checked top that leaves a roll of her belly in the air. I guess she quit mourning already. She also has sparkly red sunglasses. All she needs is a fucken poodle to carry, I swear. The vacuum in her ass no longer sucks her hair into a helmety perm, now it hangs wanton and loose.

Lally wanders up to my stall and prods a joy cake. 'Turnover?'

'Four-fifty,' I say.

'The smiles on these cakes aren't even facing the right way – come on, Vern, lure the bucks in – these aren't the only cakes in the world, you know.'

'Thank fuck for that,' I want to say, but I don't. You'd think I had though, for the fucken daggers he stares at me. Then he just strolls away.

'Nice gown,' he snorts over his shoulder.

Mom lingers back. 'Go ahead, Lalito, I'll see you at the sizzle.' Her eyes flick over the crowd, then she sidles up to me like a spy. ' Vernon, are you all right?' That's my ole mom. I swell with involuntary warmth.

'I guess so,' I say. That's what you say around here if you mean 'No'.

She fidgets with my collar. 'Well, if you're sure – I only want you to be happy.' That's what you say around here if you mean 'Tough shit'. 'If you could just get a job,' she says, 'make a little money, things'd be fine again, I know they would.' She squeezes my hand.

'Mom, with Eulalio around? Please…'

'Well don't deny me my bitty speck of happiness, after all that's happened! You always said be independent – well, here I am, asserting my individuality as a woman.'

'After what he did to me?'

'After what he did to you? What about what you did to me? This is something special with Lally, I know it is. A woman knows these things. He already told me about an amazing investment company – over ninety percent return, virtually guaranteed. That's how much they offer, and he told me about it, not Leona or anyone else.'

'Yeah, like we have money to invest.'

'Well, I can take out another loan, I mean – ninety percent.'

'With that snake-oil merchant?'

'Oh baby – you're jealous,' she licks her fingers and rubs a trail of spit across an imaginary smudge on my cheek. 'I still love you the most you know, golly, I mean…'

'I know, Ma – even murderers.'

'Hi Gloria, hi Cletus!' She leaves me with a kiss, then sashays east up the stalls, dragging my soul in the dust behind her. Don't even ask me what the laws of fucken nature say about this one. I mean, you see reindeer and polar bears on TV, and you just know they don't get alternating rage and sadness over their fucken loved ones.

Next thing you know, my goddam heart stops beating anyway. Just clean fucken stops in its tracks, the whole damn thing. I immediately fucken die. There, less than ten feet away, steps Mrs Figueroa – Taylor 's mom. God, she's beautiful too. The waistband on her denims throws a shadow on her skin, which means there's space in there. Just the up-thrust of her butt keeps her jeans up. Not like my ole lady, who just about needs a fucken military harness. My mouth quivers like an asshole, trying to say something cool to win her over, to get Taylor 's number. Then I see a fucken choir gown on my body. By the time I look back up, the meatworks' barber has stepped in front of her. He doddles through the crowd towards the beer stand, dressed like he's at a fucken funeral or something.

He bumps into my stall on the way. 'Sorry, miss,' he says to me.

Mrs Figueroa laughs, to finish me off. Then she's gone. The barber catches another ole guy's eye across the beer stand. 'I'm gettin a posse up,' he calls, 'to hep the Guries find that weapon. Cleet, if you're interested, we're headin out in about an hour.'

'Where'll we meet?'

'Meatworks – bring the kids, we'll barbecue after the hunt. We're gonna cover the trail through Keeter's – word is, the teacher Nuckles said somethin about a gun out there, afore he went haywire.'

Jeopardy. I have to get to Keeter's. My eyes search the market for a window of opportunity, but all I see are drapes in the form of Lally, Mom and the goddam pastor. Then I just keep fucken seeing them; with Betty Pritchard, without Betty Pritchard. At Leona's champagne stand, away from Leona's champagne stand. I tingle cold in the heat for a whole hour, then another. Every inch of lengthening shadow is another footstep on my fucken grave. Georgette Porkorney arrives. Betty comes to meet her, they walk past my stand.

'Look, he's just so passive,' whispers George. 'Of course he'll fetch trouble if he stays so passive…'

'I know, just like that, ehm – Mexican boy…'

George stops to do a double-take at Betty. 'Honey, I don't think passive's the word, in light of everything.'

'I know...'

The only relief comes with Palmyra; she musses my hair and slips me a Twinkie. Finally, at two o'clock, the pastor goes into the prize tent with Mr Lechuga.

'Bless you all for supporting our market,' a loudspeaker blares. Clumps of people move towards the tent. You can see Mom, Lally, George, and Betty on the far side of the lawn, mooching by Leona's champagne stand. You can't actually see Leona, but you know she's there because Mom throws back her head when she laughs.

'And now,' says Gibbons, 'the moment you've all been waiting for – the grand prize draw!' Everybody turns towards the tent. My window opens.

'Hey dude!' I call a passing kid, of the kind that can't close their lips over their braces, like they have a fucken radiator grille for a mouth or something. 'Wanna job for an hour?'

The kid stops, looks me up and down. 'Not in a freakin dress I don't.'

'It ain't a dress, duh. Anyway, you don't have to wear it, just mind these cakes awhile.'

'How much you payin?'

'Nothing, you get a commission on sales.'

'Flat or indexed?'

'Indexed to what?' Like, the kid's only fucken ten years ole, for chrissakes.

'Vol-ume,' he sneers.

'I'll give you eighteen percent, flat.'

'You for real? These stupid cakes? Who ever heard of a joy cake anyway, I never heard of no joy cake.' He turns to walk away.

'And here's the winning ticket,' says Gibbons. 'Green forty-seven!' A sluggish frenzy breaks through the tent. The kid stops, and drags a mangled pink ticket from his pocket. He squints at it, like it might turn fucken green. Then Mom's voice occurs.

'Well, oh my Lord! Here Pastor, green forty-seven!'

The ladies and Lally clot around her, cooing and gasping, and hustle her into the tent. Boy is she boosted up. My ole lady never won anything before.

'Dude!' I call metal-mouth back.

'Twenty bucks flat, one hour,' he says over his shoulder.

'Yeah, like I'm Bill Gates or something.'

'Twenty-five bucks, or no deal.'

'Here's the lucky winner,' says the pastor, 'of this sturdy, pre-loved refrigerator, generously donated, without a thought for their own grief, by the Lechugas of Beulah Drive.'

That's the last you hear of my ole lady's voice. Probably forever. What you hear is just Leona.

'Oh – wow!'

'Thirty bucks,' the kid says to me, 'flat, one calendar hour. Final offer.'

I'm hung out to fucken dry by this fat midget, who could just about net crawdads with his fucken mouth. Or rather, I would've been hung out to dry if I was even coming back to pay him. But I ain't coming back. Today I'll give the gun a wipe, grab my escape fund from the bank, and blow the hell out of town. For real.

'It's ten after two,' says the kid. 'See you in one hour.'

'Wait up – my watch says quarter after.'

'It's fuckin ten after – take it or leave it.'

Whatever. I rip the gown off and stuff it into a box under the table, then I run crouched alongside the railroad tracks toward the green end of Liberty Drive. Preacher Gibbons's voice echoes down the line behind me. 'Speaking of refrigerators, did y'all hear the one about the rabbit?'