Playing With Matches (34 page)

Luz has discovered that books in the stall around that corner cost only a few cents.

Auntie received a letter from Izzie Thorne, and she forwarded it to me. Miss Izzie is in Africa, just now, disbursing money she raised to dig water wells. I have no doubt she’ll get the job done.

November comes, and Thomas flies to Belize. He joins us in a little café for a Thanksgiving dinner of wild rabbit and fried calabaza. The kids lift glasses of cold
horchata
—boiled rice water with milk and vanilla and sugar.

Mostly he and they wander the marketplaces, among the cheap cameras and painted Mayan plates and strings of green
chilies. I want never to keep my children from him—I envy them knowing their father at all.

I knew only my mother, and what a mess that was. In the last year of her life, I struck a lot of matches.

It was I, of course, who set the fire the night she died. I took the cigarette from her mouth, went out to the porch, and touched it to the floor by the cot where I lay. I watched a circle of wood blacken and grow larger and begin to smolder, saw the flame ignite. I had no thought for Mama or anyone else. If
I
burned up, it would be the end of all our troubles.

Perhaps Finn was there; maybe he saved me, dragged me down to the river. Somebody did. And maybe, last summer, when I saw him in the woods, he thought by confessing, he could save me again.

In the mornings, the four of us walk to the cathedral where Luz and I sit in Call with other sisters. Today my knees are bare, my denim skirt short. Luz has chosen one just like it. Her hair is wrapped in a triangle of cloth. Harry leans comfortably over her lap.

When we all say
Amen
, he hooks his chubby arm around her neck, pulls her down, and whispers in her ear. Thomas and I watch. A moment passes. Harry does it again.

Luz whispers back.

Harry smiles up at us. Timid. Like a baby emerging from an unfolding womb. A newborn lamb with a voice.

Thomas puts an arm around my shoulders.

“Gloria,”
I say.

We. Shall. Not. Be. Moved.

This book is for
Darrell, Bill, Melvin, Harold, Ron,
Charles, Jack, Lloyd, and Doug, with love.
All these years, I don’t know what
I would have done without you.

Thy people shall be my people.
 
—Ruth 1:16

In Appreciation

I
n the making of this book, I want to thank the people of southern Mississippi. I am truly sorry for your many natural devastations. It’s easy to see why you keep returning.

Eternal blessings on Robert, Barbara, and Annette who looked up and saw me standing there.

And now (drum roll, please): to the incomparable Danny Baror, for believing in my voice; and to Kate Miciak, who is my dear friend as well as my bright-and-shining editor, thank you from all the corners of my heart. Kate, you are surrounded by the most wonderful crew.

As ever, Kathryn,
gracias
for reading and questioning me. Hugs and kisses to the Dead Writers, who lent their eyes and ears, and blessings for all time on other friends who listened and listened.

And of course to Gary and all my family—I love you, I love you.

ALSO BY CAROLYN WALL

Sweeping Up Glass

About the Author

CAROLYN WALL is an editor and lecturer. As an artist in residence, she has taught creative writing to more than four thousand children. She is the author of the award-winning debut
Sweeping Up Glass
. Wall lives in Oklahoma, where she is at work on her third novel.