Page 4 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

“So the ‘beware of dog’ sign is just for show?” I ask.

Sara carries herself with a peculiar lightness, like she’s tethered to the earth by the faintest force, a balloon ready to sail toward the stratosphere. She wrangles two dogs by the collar and holds the third between her knees in a game of canine Twister. “Never said they were friendly,” she says.

“I can’t go back to Kansas City without legs.”

“Seriously, get in here.” She lowers her head toward the dog beneath her, planting a kiss atop its head. “Are you going to behave, girl? You going to be good when I let you go?”

Against my better judgment, I haul my suitcase and duffel bag through the gate. She releases the dogs, and, thank Christ, none of them lunges for me. Swats on the rear send all but the biggest dog trotting toward the awning. She plants herself beside Sara with a grumble.

“The bluetick is Julius, the Rottweiler is Augustus, and this girl here is Zenobia. She’s a wolfdog.”

“You own awolf?”

“Wolfdog.”

I throw my hands up. “You lost me at wolf.”

“Oh, she’s a sweetheart.” Sara kisses Zenobia’s head again to prove her point, as if the dog (wolf?) not biting off her nose is praiseworthy. “She’s a Czechoslovakian wolfdog. They were the national dog of Czechoslovakia, for God’s sake. Besides, ifI’d mentioned I had a wolfdog, I don’t think you’d have stayed here.”

“I wouldn’t call it a selling point.”

Sara starts for a hug, but stops short and settles for an awkward pat on the arm. I’m touched she remembers my distaste for hugging. “It’s good to see you, Providence Byrd. Prison khaki wasn’t your color.”

“Wasn’t yours either.”

“Bullshit. I look great in khaki.”

I chuckle and follow her into the trailer. The stifling heat reminds me of my father’s liquor store. He refused to run the air conditioner, even when temperatures soared into triple digits. The windows are open and the box fans are on high, but the trailer is still unbearably hot. I fight the temptation to roll up my sleeves. We dodge landmines of dog toys on our way to the dining room table, which is littered with bills both opened and unopened. Just before Sara sweeps them into her arms to deposit them on the couch, I notice at least one is stampedPAST DUE.

“My AC’s busted, so get ready to drown in sweat until sundown.” Sara wrestles with a water jug in the kitchen. The plastic warbles as she moves her hands, loosening and tightening her grip. The kitchen is ripped straight from the 1970s, all harvest yellow countertops and laminate cabinets with a pastel blue refrigerator to boot. “I know we did the whole ‘Hey, let’s catch up once we’re both off parole’ thing while we were inside, but I never thought we’d follow through.”

“We sent birthday cards, at least,” I say. “Better than anyone back home ever did for me.”

“Well, I’m sorry our reunion isn’t under better circumstances. And I’m …”

“What?”

“I don’t know if I should say I’m sorry about your mother.”

The water jug finally opens with a thin crackling noise, like a popped spine. I don’t know what she should say either. Ihaven’t made heads or tails of my own feelings yet. I first yielded to the animal instinct all daughters feel toward their mothers. As natural as it is for them to protect us, it is natural for us to protect them too. It’s the least we can do to thank them for bringing us into this world. Anyone who would dare harm our mothers deserves our wrath. We would delight to watch the vultures scrape the flesh from their bones. Anything to protect our mothers. But for me, this instinct comes steeped in hypocrisy.

I have also harmed the woman who gave birth to me.

I’m miles away. I jolt into the present when Sara snaps her fingers and hands me a glass of tepid water. I only realize how thirsty I am when it touches my lips. “You should give your condolences,” I say after a greedy gulp. “Even just for my sisters’ sakes.”

“Condolences makes it sound like she died.”

“She’s been missing three days and she’s got the Tillman County Sheriff’s Department heading the search. It’s not a winning combination.”

Sara leans back in her chair toward a cluttered desk and produces an ashtray shaped like California. The mere sight of it sends a jolt through me, and my fingers, stained yellow with nicotine, twitch in anticipation. I didn’t smoke before prison, but after years of listening to Sara extol the wonders of the cigarette, I started craving them as if I’d had a pack a day my whole life. (I also started craving the adrenaline rush Sara described when she stole her first car, but grand theft auto was an easier temptation to resist.) My body goes lax at the first inhale. Pure bliss.

“Did you stop in Annesville on your way here? See your sisters at all?”

“I’ll probably see them later at the search,” I say.

“Nervous?”

“Horrifically.”

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