Pigs in Heaven - Barbara Kingsolver [14]
Sand Dune is not sandy so much as dusty. Everything Taylor can see in the Parker Strip is covered with dust: battle-scarred regiments of mobile-home parks, cellophane flags whipping from the boat docks, and out in the river the duckish, bobbing boats with yellow bathtub rings on their bellies. A fine silt clings even to the surface of the Colorado, proof that this river has had all the fight knocked out of it.
The town is a congregation of swayback tile roofs and front yards blighted with the kind of short, trashy palm trees that harbor worlds of sparrows. Portions of dilapidated stucco wall stand along the road like billboards, crowded with a square-lettered style of graffiti. There’s no chance of losing her way here: the approach to Angie’s Diner is festooned with yellow ribbons and a bedsheet banner stating: HAPPY EASTER LUCKY BUSTER. Taylor pulls in at the motor lodge Angie told her to look for, the Casa Suerte, next door to the diner.
“Wake up, kiddos,” she says gently. She’s afraid Lucky might bolt, but he doesn’t. He and Turtle both rub their eyes, equally children. “We’re here,” she says, and helps Turtle out of the car. She’s uncertain how to handle Lucky. He takes off in no particular hurry across the courtyard of the Casa Suerte toward the diner. At the building’s front entry is a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe, who is studded all over with yellow stick-on bows as if she’s been visited with some kind of pox. On the other side of the door a colorless bulldog is ensconced on a padded chair, panting in the air-conditioning. He stands up and barks twice. A big woman in Lycra shorts and a tight yellow T-shirt appears, arms open, to envelop Lucky like a starfish.
“Get in here!” she shouts at Taylor, scooping a hefty arm through the air. Taylor has Turtle in hand and was hanging back to give them their reunion, but apparently this is routine. Some women have swarmed out to make a brief fuss over Lucky, while an old man stands picking the bows off the Virgin, putting them in a plastic sack to save for next time.
Angie’s Diner is draped with paper streamers and banners welcoming Lucky home. “Get in here,” Angie repeats, once they are inside. “This photographer here wants to take the little girl’s picture that saved my son’s life. Is this her?”
“This is Turtle,” Taylor says. Turtle’s grip on her fingers is jeopardizing the blood circulation.
“Oh, Lord,” Angie says, swamping Taylor with a hug. “I about lost my mind this time. Once he got kidnapped down to the border by some mules, and that was bad but I think this was worst. Sit, let me get you some pie. Did you all eat lunch yet? Red, get over here!”
The counter is crowded with porcelain knickknacks, and Angie is so busty and energetic in her yellow T-shirt it seems likely she’ll knock something over. A freckled man with a camera introduces himself as “Red from the paper.” He hands Taylor a copy of the Sand Dune Mercury and attempts to remove Turtle from her other hand.
“It’s okay, I’ll be right here,” Taylor promises Turtle’s upturned eyes. She rubs the feeling back into her fingers and stares distractedly at the paper while Red poses Lucky and Turtle in front of the salad bar. She’s stunned when the banner headline eventually registers:
LUCKY BUSTER SAVED BY PERVERSERING TUCSON PAIR.
She has to read it twice to get the intention of perversering. “Wow,” she says.
“The papers picked it up all over the state,” Angie informs her. “Would you sit down and let me get you something to eat? You kids must be starved.”
Taylor follows Angie to a table near the dust-frosted window pane. Angie’s hair is dyed such a dark black that she has a slightly purple scalp, like some of Jax’s backup singers. She turns around suddenly and tells Taylor in a quieter voice, “I owe you for this. You just don’t know, that boy means the whole world to me.”
Taylor is startled by the tears in Angie’s eyes and can only think to say, “Thank you.” For no physical reason Taylor can work out, Angie reminds her of her own mother. It must be nothing more than the force of her