Dad and Hub took turns holding her up with her head down, so they could get on their knees to try and suck that stuff out. Jelly stuff, silver gray, out of her nostrils. The blackbright shine was going away in her eyes, and the twitch against her ribs was getting calmer. Once, bowing backwards, she gave out a call, thin and high. It reminded me of the sound of Grandpa's little wooden varmint caller that he blows in the dark when he wants to lure in a fox or a cougar or a bobcat. Or says he does.

Hub kept sucking and puffing. She was getting bloated. Dad let him do it for a long time before he said, Give it in, Hub. She's dead. When Hub stopped and Dad put her down, the air coming out made a sound, but not an animal sound. It was a kind of silly honk, like Caleb's Harpo horn he got a long time later.

Sherree and Joon filled an apple box with rose petals and clover blossoms. Mom found a piece of silk from China. Out at the pump the cows and horses all stood around and watched. We put a round stone on top, a fine big stone Mom found on a river called Row. Before we were born, she said. Dad played his flute and Dobbs blowed his mouthharp and Joon tinkled on that old Fisher-Price xylophone Great-grandma Whittier gave me that still works. Hub blew once on a blade of grass – it made that same thin sound – and the funeral was over.

So we missed Star Trek at Buddy's and Sunday supper and Grandma and Grandpa's and everything. Dad cut our hair instead. Everybody went to bed early. Then, this morning, still foggy before the schoolbus comes, there's a loud bunch of barking from the pond. Mom says, Never you kids mind finish your breakfast and get things ready. She'll go see what it's all about. She goes out the sliding kitchen window and heads down through the mist. Hub gets up and watches, sipping his coffee, then the barking stops and he comes back to the table. Joon puts his lunchbucket on the table next to his plate and Hub grunts. I think for a minute he's going to go to cussing again. But then here comes Mom back, Stewart and Lance jumping all over her! She's carrying our five-gallon minnow-catching bucket held high from the dogs, and she's red with excitement.

I thought it was a frog a bullfrogthat the darned old heron had crippled but couldn't carry off, she says. Except when I got closer I saw it was hairy. It was swimming like anything out where Stewart was barking, round and round and around in the pondweeds. I told Stewart, No! Leave it alone! Hush! And as soon as he hushes, I swear, here it comes right up the bank at us! I scooped it in the bucket before I knew what it was…

It's a big old bull gopher, mean-looking as the devil. His front teeth are terrible, like two rusty chisel blades. He's up on his hind feet in the can, chittering and snapping at our faces over the brim. Hub takes the bucket and grins down into it, pretty terrible-toothed himself. Him and the animal chitter back and forth a minute, then he opens his lunchbox and dumps the gopher right in, right with his plaid thermos bottle and his apple and his celery and his Saran-wrapped sandwiches, and snaps it shut.

I'll turn him loose up at the logging show, Hub says, turning his yellow grin toward Joon the Goon.

Be careful, Joon says, grinning herself, that you don't get mixed up and turn loose your cheese sandwich and eat the gopher. Yeah, Sherree says, ree-ally – like she can – and goes out to wait for the bus. Caleb says Yeah, ree-ally. Mom says Here comes the bus Quiston get your assignment sheet Caleb where's your shoes! Hub says he will be careful, thanks for breakfast, see y'all this evening…

I don't know what I'll say, first period oral assignment – Tell What You Did For Your Mother On Mother's Day.

– hibiscus blooms fall with heavy plops, lie sprawled on the sunny cobblestones and cement benches like fat Mexican generals, scarlet-and-green parade uniforms, gawdy and limp, too hot and tired to rise back to the rank of their branches. Later, perhaps. Now, siesta…

"Not good!" yells the gray crewcut American from Portland with his fifty-year face running sweat and his new Dodge Polaro sitting behind a tow truck outside the Larga Distancia Oficina. "Not three thrown in less than five thousand miles!"

Yelling from Puerto Sancto, Mexico, to Tucson, Arizona, where he'd bought his last transmission after buying his second in Oroville, California, where he'd paid without much complaint because it is possible to strip the gears with the hard business miles he'd put on it, but a tranny again in Tucson? And now, less than a week later? The third blown?

"Not good at all! So listen up; I'm gonna jerk the thing out and ship it back first train your direction. I expect the same promptness from you garage boys, right? I expect a new transmission down here in time for us to make the festival in Guadalajara one week from tomorrow! There's no excuse for this kinda workmanship I can tell you that!"

What he didn't tell the garage boys in Tucson was that he was pulling a twenty-four-foot mobile home.

"I been a Dodge man ten years. We don't want a ten-year relationship to blow up from one fluke, right?"

He hung up and turned to me. Next in line, I had been his nearest audience.

"That'll get some greasemonkeys' asses smoking in Tucson, won't it, Red?" He leaned close, as if we had known each other for years. "They aren't a bad bunch. Fact is, I hope I can find me a mechanic down here with a fraction the know-how as those Arizona boys."

Reaffirmation of Yankee superiority left him so flushed with feeling for his countrymen that he chose to overlook the stubbled look of me.

"What's your name, Red? You remind me of my oldest boy a little, behind that brush."

"Deboree," I told him, taking his hand. "Devlin Deboree."

"What brings you to primitive Puerto Sancto, Dev? Let me guess. You're a nature photographer. I saw you out there after those fallen posies."

"Way wrong," I told him. "It isn't even my camera. My father sent his along. He came to Sancto last year with my brother and me, and nobody took picture one."

"So Dad sent you to bring back the missed memories. He musta been a lot more impressed than I been."

"Wrong again. He sent me to bring back jumping beans."

"Jumping beans?"

"Mexican jumping beans. When we were down here last year he met a mechanic who also grew jumping beans. He bought a hundred bucks' worth of this year's harvest."

"Jumping beans?"

"Five gallons. Dad's going to give one bean away with each quart of his new ice cream, to publicize the flavor. Not Jumping Bean – Pina Colada. We run a creamery."

" 'Debris,' huh?" He gave me a wink to let me know he was kidding. "Like in 'rubbish'?"

I told him it was more like in Polish. He laughed.

"Well, you remind me of my kid, whatever. Why don't you join me in the Hotel Sol bar after your call? We'll see if I remind you of your old man.

He winked again and left, roguishly tipping his fishing cap to the rest of the tourists waiting to contact home.

I found him under a palapa umbrella by the pool. His look of confidence was already a little faded, and he was wondering if maybe he shouldn't've also had a good U.S. mechanic come with the transmission – pay the man's way now, fight it out with the Dodge people later. I observed some of these Mexican mechanics were pretty good. He agreed they had to be pretty good, to keep these hand-me-downs running, but what did they know about a modern automatic transmission? He pulled down his sunglasses and drew me again into that abrupt intimacy.