His unconscious sister on the floor, an emaciated mutt giving him the eye, and discreet piles of shit everywhere. Time to save the dog.

The woman was looking for a bathroom when she came across the girl. The party was held at her boss’s colonial. Through the screened in porch, she spied the guests beneath the evening sky. Lilac vines framed her view, and she waved tentatively at a colleague who was promoted ahead of her. She walked through a living room to a corridor with two narrow staircases that led in opposite directions. She ascended the stairs on the left. A girl of about four or five appeared at the top. She wore a flannel nightgown, which was awfully warm for the weather, and held a brush in her hand. The girl must be Matilda, her boss’s daughter, whom she had seen glimpses of as a smiling toddler on her boss’s computer screen. The girl didn’t look like her mother.

“Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”  The girl pointed with her brush.

“Thanks,” she said and rounded a corner. The ceiling dropped and she ducked her head as she made her way to the bathroom. Almost as soon as she sat down on the toilet, the doorknob turned.

“I’ll be right out!” The woman scrambled into her underwear. The garment was aubergine and laced. The person she was hoping to seduce had left an hour ago with someone else.

“Will you brush my hair?” The girl asked her, gaping at the scar that bisected her right thigh.

“You should knock first,” she said. She washed her hands in the sink. The girl held out her brush. Her hair was a tangled mess.

“All right.” She took the brush and sat at the edge of the claw-foot tub. The oval hairbrush was a silver antique. There was a repoussé design of a woman’s head at the top. Flowers flowed out of her hair and continued down the neck into the handle. Its buff bristles raked out an angle. The woman wondered what animal they came from. Boar? The brush was quite heavy.

The girl faced her. Her skin was warm and her hair was damp around her temples and at the base of her neck.

“Let me know if this hurts,” she said. She began at the top, taking small sections of her hair at a time and disentangling the knots as best as she could with her hands before using the brush. She could hear the party below. The faucet dripped behind her. She turned the girl so that her back was to her and lifted her hair. Night crept in. Something hard brushed against the tip of her finger. She rooted for the origin in the deep recess of a large knot. She felt it again.

“Do you feel this?” The woman asked the girl. It wasn’t bone. She unraveled the mass, extracting a silver pocket watch from her hair. She put it up to the girl’s ear.

“It’s ticking,” the girl said, cupping it. The woman hummed a half-forgotten song from her childhood. “Mmmm. Mmmm… Schwarz, schwarz, schwarz ist alles, was ich hab.” A musical prodigy, her mother was a piano accompanist in the Young Girls League, and after the war became a celebrated oboist.

“What’s this?” The woman asked. She pulled from the girl’s hair a miniature portrait of a boy in buckled knee breeches and hanging sleeves.

“He looks like a girl,” the girl said.

“Yes, he’s very pretty, isn’t he?”  The woman brushed out the knot and turned the girl so that she faced the door.

“Should we lock it?” The woman asked. The girl locked the door. From the kitchen came the sound of water and clanging dishes.

“Just in time,” the woman said. The girl nodded and smiled. The woman lifted another section of hair. This time, a porcelain horse fell onto the carpet at her feet. The girl picked it up and beamed. She placed it on the sill with her other treasures. Her hair was luminous in the moonlight.

“You’re not Matilda, are you?”

“Why do you have that scar on your leg?” The girl asked.

“My ex-husband did this,” she said, running a finger from her hemline upward to the edge of the puckered skin. “After he raped me.” She loosened a few more knots with her fingers. She felt something cool and hard.

“What is it?” The girl asked.

“We’ll see.” The woman probed further but the object eluded her as a thief its captor. At last she got hold of the thing and pulled it out.

“A kettle.” The girl sounded disappointed.

“But it’s copper, see? Look at its patina.” The woman traced the amoeba-shaped layer. The girl placed the kettle on the sill without further comment. The woman had difficulty making out the girl in the darkness. Her hand began to ache from holding the brush, which had indented her palm with its floral pattern. She formed a fist and rolled out her wrist. She ran the brush through her hair. Ooo!  The girl’s eyes widened. They both turned to the door. The woman put her finger over her mouth. The girl imitated the gesture. After a minute she resumed her task but stopped when she heard what sounded like a whir. The woman gave the girl her brush. Whoo. Whoo. The woman parted the curtain of hair and grabbed the creature by its spindly legs. It nipped at her, drawing blood.

“Shit,” she said, licking her finger. She held the owl close. Its white feathers were soft.

“I don’t like it,” the girl said. “It’s ugly.”

Woo, the owl replied. It regarded the girl with its yellow eyes.

“Should we kill it?” The woman asked. “We can drown in it in the bathtub.”

“Let’s strangle it,” the girl offered, stroking its downy fur.

“Good idea. Its quieter.” The little owl blinked at them. The woman snapped its neck easily. The girl cradled the bird and whispered to it. There was a knock on the door.

“Shall we?” The woman asked.

“Woo, woo,” the girl cooed, “Woo.”

Though they were friends once, and comrades, the two women no longer spoke. The townsfolk had long claimed a victor, but there was still some doubt regarding the origin of their conflict. Perhaps because of this and for other reasons, they were uneasy in the women’s presence. If one of the women entered the bakeshop where customers jostled for cakes and streusel, the crowd quieted, fearing the other would follow. This had never happened. Nevertheless, the customers paid in haste, waving off the cashier’s protestations that they were either short or overpaid, already fumbling for their sweet treat. They wished to forget the unpleasant encounter, if such a frivolous moment could be called as such. Outside the shop, they put the confection in their mouth. The treat was rummy and wet. They resolved not to go back, but as it was the only bakeshop in Celle, they always did. After all, it was the woman’s fault. They would have chosen more wisely if she had not distracted them.

The women, for their part, would have laughed at the absurdity. What nonsense! It was a lifetime ago. But if they should glimpse their foe’s rickety figure pedaling along the boulevard with a cigarette between her pursed lips, their mood would spoil. And when their children called to complain about the colicky baby and the wife who wanted to move to Stuttgart and the boss who was an oaf, they were not quite gruff. Yes. No, she wasn’t smoking. Yes, that’s right. Good. Will see you soon. Bye now. Yes. Goodbye. The women hung up and thought about their children, all of whom, except for the twins and the only boy, had turned out badly. They thought of their own mothers. One had been a cellist who could play Bach’s Sarabande perfectly after hearing it performed when she was thirteen. The other had been gymnast and dog trainer for hussars. In order to forget their children and their mothers and, most of all, the girl who had betrayed them, they busied themselves with other things. One woman washed her clean sheets, unused because she preferred to sleep on the porch with an afghan. The other drank a glass of beer and scoffed at Miss Sophie’s idiotic manservant on television. Both women ate a piece of souring cake from the bakery and retired early. In their dreams, they were chased through a forest of pines. They woke drenched and panting, and struggled to remember what had plagued them, but as usual could not.

* * *

Because Gert and Stoffi were as different as two girls could be, they were fated to be like sisters. Stoffi was a climber. She scaled walls and trees and bales of hay. The spot she loved most was St. Ludwig’s tower. Stoffi thought she could see the ocean from there, but really she had no sense of either geography or reality. Sometimes she saw marauding elves on Peters’ farm, charging the barn and stealing the cows. Sometimes she saw werewolves sipping daintily from cups of tea. Sometimes she saw God diving in and out of crowds, thumping hats and pinching cheeks. Stoffi loved numbers and stars, despised her baby brothers and rhubarb, and was afraid of owls. She was nearly useless on the farm, where her father was always after her to clean the pens and muck the stalls. She was good with the dogs but could not be trusted with the livestock, and her parents looked forward to the day her brothers would be old enough to take her place. Gert, on the other hand, was obedient and quiet, and lived in a two room flat with her mother. She did all of the cooking and most of the cleaning. Her most prized possession was a silver brush her mother stole from her benefactress, Princess “Schnapps” Mathilde of Saxony, but that Gert believed was an heirloom from her father’s side. Like her mother, Gert had a perfect ear, which she demonstrated on her teacher’s piano. But she was indifferent to music, and played in a toneless and flabby manner. Despite the fact that he was paid with lifted knick-knacks and moldy fruit, Mr. Auer endured these lessons because he was in love with Ms. Heppel. Her beauty had no equal, but she was as much a child as her daughter, perhaps more so. Gert looked nothing like her, and since her mother had moved here when Gert was an infant, the town more or less assumed the girl was pilfered as well.

So it was that the girls lived and dreamed and worked (or not), strange to one another but not strangers. Where the other girls at school admired Gert for helping out with their homework and defending them from Leni, the class bully, Stoffi admired her for the freckle in her left eye. And though Gert’s opinion of Stoffi was not known, when Stoffi’s throaty laugh reverberated on the playground, Gert would look up from her book and regard her with a curious, amused expression.

One day Gert played even more poorly than usual at her lesson, and when Mr. Auer scolded her for not heeding the diminuendo and fortepiano, she confessed, in fits and starts, her dilemma. Mr. Auer tried to make out what the poor girl was getting at. Ahh, he thought. She needed money for some sort of club. He gave her a glass of milk and told her not to worry. Gert’s face lit up. The lesson resumed without further incident, but Gert was too excited to focus and made no progress. Meanwhile, Stoffi came home from school in a state of near hysterics and prattled on as she fed one of the babies. Exhausted, her mother stopped her daughter and reminded her that she was needed at home. In response, Stoffi bit her baby brother on the forearm, hard. Her mother smacked her and sent her to bed without supper. In her room, Stoffi wiped her tears and climbed out the window. The dogs came over to the fence, wagging their tails. Shhh, she said, and entered the pen. They surrounded her, licking her hands in search of treats. Gathering blankets from their cubbies, Stoffi made a bed for herself and watched the chimney smoke billow into girls dancing happily across the sky. The dogs nestled against her and soon they were all asleep.

Hannah Koehler was the leader of the sorority, as the league was known in the early days, before it became compulsory. The daughter of a postman who would end up joining the resistance and disappear at the outbreak of the war, Hannah held the inaugural meeting at the boys’ school because it had better facilities. At first, the girls were apprehensive. The boys were gone for the day, and the hallways were eerily quiet. But once Hannah reassured them, the girls became giddy, darting around like kites in the wind. Hannah arranged the chairs in a semi-circle. Gross! Elsa said as soon as Gert took her seat next to her and Minna. Gert’s heart dropped. Elsa pointed to a boy’s jacket that hung from a peg against the wall. Minna giggled. See? Elsa elbowed her. Gert laughed tentatively. Comrades, Hannah said in a grave tone. Please listen. She began her speech. The girls were to be courageous, loyal, dependable, and above all honest. Here, Hannah paused. The door had opened. A girl entered. Her cheeks were flushed and her brow glistened. Hannah welcomed her and she took a seat next to Gert. Hannah continued. There would be physical training, singing, and crafts. They were to perform their duties with dexterity and assist their comrades with any task. Any questions? There were several. Would there be any hunting? No. Not even rabbit? No, I’m afraid not. I’m a hunter, one girl boasted. You are? Yes, I’ve hunted rabbit and duck and fox. Really? Oh, yes. They were amazed. This went on. Another girl asked if there would be fishing. No, no fishing. The girls thought it over. We will have lots of fun! Hannah said, too brightly. The meeting came to a close and Hannah collected the dues. When Hannah got to the girl who came late, the girl broke down. Hannah was not prepared for this situation. The poor girl was beside herself, and yet it would be unfair to the other girls who paid for the same privilege. I’m sorry but I cannot allow it, she said. The girl began to cry. The others tried to comfort her, but they were used to her outbreaks in class, and did not feel too sorry. Gert, however, put her arm around her and said she could help. What were a few more pfennige to Mr. Auer? She reasoned. After all, he loved her mother. Everyone knew that.

Indeed. Gert brought the money to the next meeting. Stoffi couldn’t believe it. She hugged and kissed her and would not let go of her hand. Afterward, Stoffi walked Gert home. Stoffi kissed her again on both cheeks and thanked her. Gert climbed the stairs and greeted her mother, who was stringing her bow on the bed, and went to start dinner. She heard her name being called and looked out the window. There was Stoffi below. Goodbye! She called and waved. See you! Gert waved and watched as Stoffi ran down Pilzergasse. From then on, Stoffi and Gert were inseparable. Gert taught Stoffi how to slipstich and tie a knot and Stoffi showed Gert how to climb a rope and divide fractions. They won a relay race and made badges. Gert helped with Stoffi’s chores. They sang in choir and when it was warm, swam in the river Aller.

The girls grew. May became June.

That one’s Pegasus, see? And over there, to your right, that’s the Little Fox, Stoffi said. They were lying with the dogs under the stars. The shepherds had grown accustomed to Gert, even looking out for her when Stoffi came to feed them by herself. Gert loved the farm. Stoffi’s mom and dad were nice and thankfully didn’t know her mother. Gert didn’t understand why Stoffi wanted to keep the sorority a secret from them, and made Gert promise to confirm her story that classes had been extended. Stoffi had pleaded with her for days when Gert said she could not do it, and wore her down so much that she finally relented. They slept most of the summer like this. One of the dogs began to snore. Do you know where they come from? Stoffi asked. Their mother, silly. No, not the dogs. The stars. Gert yawned. God made them, she said, resting her head against Stoffi. They were quiet for a while. Gert, are you awake? Mmm. Do you hear him? Who? Gert turned on her side. God. Go to sleep already. A dog defecated close by. He’s crying, Stoffi whispered, but Gert had fallen asleep.

The sorority was suspended for summer exams. The girls studied at Gert’s and slept at Stoffi’s. One afternoon when it was too hot in the apartment, they climbed the tower at St. Ludwig’s. They went to the park and laughed at the men who tipped their caps to them. They saw Elsa on her bike and chased her. Elsa told them she saw Hannah kissing a boy outside the cinema but they would not believe her. They took turns riding up and down the boulevard. Stoffi climbed a tree and flashed them from below. The girls rolled on the ground. An old woman passed, muttering under her breath. Look at her beard! Stoffi said. Stop! I’ll pee myself! Gert cried. Elsa bid them goodbye and Gert and Stoffi ran with her, singing, until Gert tripped over a curb. Gert! Stoffi helped her up. Aside from a scraped knee and bruised hip, Gert was uninjured.

The next week, Gert tossed clothes and turned over furniture. She opened and closed cupboards and drawers and hatboxes. She found saucers and figurines and cufflinks and a men’s Rasiermesser. There were perfume bottles and pearls and Christmas ornaments. Stockings, watches, and three tennis rackets. A fencing sheath and pipe. Monogrammed napkins and tea towels and scarves. There were her mother’s sheet music and strings, her night cream and brassier. And Gert’s books and pencils and wool socks. They had milk and potatoes and canned meat. They had a desk, two chairs, a table, and a bed. They had everything but the one thing Gert was looking for. Stoffi offered to look with her, but Gert said it was pointless. She failed her grammar exam and did not eat lunch. When Leni picked on Minna and called her a fat cow, Gert was unmoved. Stoffi picked some cornflowers for her, which cheered her a little. There was no sorority after school, but Gert agreed to meet at the farm.

She was late. Her mother had wanted to help with dinner and set fire to the kitchen. The rest of the afternoon was spent cleaning. It was dusk when she left the apartment. She passed St. Ludwig’s and the park and Peters’ farm. She reached Stoffi’s. Large pines bordered their property, and Gert hurried her steps until their house came into view. The fields glowed beneath a bright moon. A fox crept along the fence. Gert stopped to pet the horses. She heard a dog bark and then Stoffi. The pen was on the other side of the house. In the window, Mrs. Gottlieb was knitting with a boy on her lap. Gert turned the corner. There was Stoffi, kneeling in front of Brita with her back to her. She was grooming the bitch’s coat. Stoffi? Gert stepped forward. Stoffi rolled up her tools in a strip of burlap and scrambled to her feet. Gert! The dogs nudged her legs. Stoffi kissed her. Her lips were damp. The weather’s turning, Stoffi said, eyeing the sky. Yes, Gert agreed. It is.

Fall arrived. It was too cold to sleep at Stoffi’s. Gert attended her mother’s concert at the castle. The Venetian theater was palatial with its red and gold balconies. Mr. Auer sat next to her, irritating Gert with his phantom conducting. Gert’s mother looked like a movie star in her green dress, swaying in the instrument’s embrace. Like a lover, Mr. Auer pictured. Or a crazy person, Gert thought. When they got home, Gert waited until her mother was sound asleep before leaving. Clouds obscured the moon and the wind kicked leaves from their limbs. Gert pulled her cap down and checked for the Rasiermesser. A man appeared, smoking a pipe, and seemed to match his step with hers. Gert walked on. When she arrived at her destination, she turned to see if she had been followed. She had not. The house was dark. She located the burlap easily. Stoffi had hid it in a pail in the barn. You careless fool, she thought. Gert slipped into the pen. Her favorites came out of their cubbies. The others appraised her sleepily. She went to the pregnant bitch first. She moved on to the second female, hacking with her razor at her glossy fur. Her hands were cold. Gert finished and cleaned up. When she left, the clouds had dispersed into a slender procession.

Stoffi told her all about the dogs’ contagion. They quarantined Nix and Schatzie. It happens, she said. They can lose their coats and their sores become infected. They went to their sorority meeting and discussed plans to attend next summer’s convention in Hannover. Hannah suggested putting on a Christmas show to raise money. The girls liked the idea. After the meeting, Stoffi asked Gert if she wanted to come over but Gert said she had to get home. Stoffi had a funny habit of puffing out her cheeks when she was melancholy. She did this now. Gert took Stoffi’s hand and swung her arm. They departed. Gert returned one week later. She brought leftover sausage she saved from dinner to coax the young bitch. The legs and back were difficult, but Gert was satisfied. The overall effect was that of patchy polka dots. Gert waited before coming back for the males. For the next few weeks, Gert didn’t see much of Stoffi. Stoffi went home right after classes, and was absent at the meetings. Gert accompanied the girls on the piano for their upcoming show. Mr. Auer noted that her technique had improved considerably.

The dogs could not be sold, and Mr. Gottlieb, fearing that the infection would spread to the livestock, put them down. Gert’s mother came home with a Chinese box, and Gert used it to store her silver brush. Stoffi returned to the meetings, helping Elsa with the decorations. The Christmas show arrived. The tinsel trim and paper lanterns made the room festive. The girls took their places. Gert sat at the piano and positioned her hands above its keys. She lifted her head and turned to signal the chorus. The girls looked straight ahead. All except Stoffi, whose gaze was fixed on Gert. Stoffi blinked slowly like a child who, after waking in the middle of the night frightened, grows accustomed to the dark.

Pretty soon the whole room was nodding and, from then on, no one looked her in the eye. She drew landscapes borrowed from her childhood until the voices in the court receded and she was a girl on her family’s ranch outside of Buffalo, Wyoming. They were watching Lulu foaling in the dark. The mare’s breath fills up the stable. Good girl, her mother clucks with her teeth that don’t fit right. The girl is thirteen or fourteen, on some scaffolding outside the gym, dangling her legs through the slats. She’s fooling with her swollen lip, rolling the blood in her mouth. To avoid the bus, she hitches a ride home with her science teacher, who makes a pass at the railroad crossing. Her lip hurts less than she thinks. She gets a job at DJ’s Thriftway in her sophomore year. Sometimes, she babysits her co-worker’s son on Friday nights, and plays videogames with him on the computer. She gets As and Bs mostly, and thinks about going to junior college. The following winter, Lulu stops eating. The girl tries her favorites, molasses cookies and peppermint sticks, but she turns her head and lets her filly take them. She dies two weeks later. On a bright and crisp day in June, she rides the young mare through the foothills of the snow-capped Bighorns. She comes across a horseback riding guide leading a band of tourists in straw cowboy hats. They wave and one of them, a woman in a bejeweled jean jacket, takes a picture. This photo, along with her mug shot and yearbook picture, will appear on the national news, and then later, in a crime book about women who kill. But today, she’s just a girl on a horse, waving in a friendly way before heading home.

The woman was looking for a bathroom when she came across the girl. The party was held at her boss’s colonial. Through the screened in porch, she spied the guests beneath the evening sky. Lilac vines framed her view, and she waved tentatively at a colleague who was promoted ahead of her. She walked through a living room to a corridor with two narrow staircases that led in opposite directions. She ascended the stairs on the left. A girl of about four or five appeared at the top. She wore a flannel nightgown, which was awfully warm for the weather, and held a brush in her hand. The girl must be Matilda, her boss’s daughter, whom she had seen glimpses of as a smiling toddler on her boss’s computer screen. The girl didn’t look like her mother.

“Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”  The girl pointed with her brush.

“Thanks,” she said and rounded a corner. The ceiling dropped and she ducked her head as she made her way to the bathroom. Almost as soon as she sat down on the toilet, the doorknob turned.

“I’ll be right out!” The woman scrambled into her underwear. The garment was aubergine and laced. The person she was hoping to seduce had left an hour ago with someone else.

“Will you brush my hair?” The girl asked her, gaping at the scar that bisected her right thigh.

“You should knock first,” she said. She washed her hands in the sink. The girl held out her brush. Her hair was a tangled mess.

“All right.” She took the brush and sat at the edge of the claw-foot tub. The oval hairbrush was a silver antique. There was a repoussé design of a woman’s head at the top. Flowers flowed out of her hair and continued down the neck into the handle. Its buff bristles raked out an angle. The woman wondered what animal they came from. Boar? The brush was quite heavy.

The girl faced her. Her skin was warm and her hair was damp around her temples and at the base of her neck.

“Let me know if this hurts,” she said. She began at the top, taking small sections of her hair at a time and disentangling the knots as best as she could with her hands before using the brush. She could hear the party below. The faucet dripped behind her. She turned the girl so that her back was to her and lifted her hair. Night crept in. Something hard brushed against the tip of her finger. She rooted for the origin in the deep recess of a large knot. She felt it again.

“Do you feel this?” The woman asked the girl. It wasn’t bone. She unraveled the mass, extracting a silver pocket watch from her hair. She put it up to the girl’s ear.

“It’s ticking,” the girl said, cupping it. The woman hummed a half-forgotten song from her childhood. “Mmmm. Mmmm… Schwarz, schwarz, schwarz ist alles, was ich hab.” A musical prodigy, her mother was a piano accompanist in the Young Girls League, and after the war became a celebrated oboist.

“What’s this?” The woman asked. She pulled from the girl’s hair a miniature portrait of a boy in buckled knee breeches and hanging sleeves.

“He looks like a girl,” the girl said.

“Yes, he’s very pretty, isn’t he?”  The woman brushed out the knot and turned the girl so that she faced the door.

“Should we lock it?” The woman asked. The girl locked the door. From the kitchen came the sound of water and clanging dishes.

“Just in time,” the woman said. The girl nodded and smiled. The woman lifted another section of hair. This time, a porcelain horse fell onto the carpet at her feet. The girl picked it up and beamed. She placed it on the sill with her other treasures. Her hair was luminous in the moonlight.

“You’re not Matilda, are you?”

“Why do you have that scar on your leg?” The girl asked.

“My ex-husband did this,” she said, running a finger from her hemline upward to the edge of the puckered skin. “After he raped me.” She loosened a few more knots with her fingers. She felt something cool and hard.

“What is it?” The girl asked.

“We’ll see.” The woman probed further but the object eluded her as a thief its captor. At last she got hold of the thing and pulled it out.

“A kettle.” The girl sounded disappointed.

“But it’s copper, see? Look at its patina.” The woman traced the amoeba-shaped layer. The girl placed the kettle on the sill without further comment. The woman had difficulty making out the girl in the darkness. Her hand began to ache from holding the brush, which had indented her palm with its floral pattern. She formed a fist and rolled out her wrist. She ran the brush through her hair. Ooo!  The girl’s eyes widened. They both turned to the door. The woman put her finger over her mouth. The girl imitated the gesture. After a minute she resumed her task but stopped when she heard what sounded like a whir. The woman gave the girl her brush. Whoo. Whoo. The woman parted the curtain of hair and grabbed the creature by its spindly legs. It nipped at her, drawing blood.

“Shit,” she said, licking her finger. She held the owl close. Its white feathers were soft.

“I don’t like it,” the girl said. “It’s ugly.”

Woo, the owl replied. It regarded the girl with its yellow eyes.

“Should we kill it?” The woman asked. “We can drown in it in the bathtub.”

“Let’s strangle it,” the girl offered, stroking its downy fur.

“Good idea. Its quieter.” The little owl blinked at them. The woman snapped its neck easily. The girl cradled the bird and whispered to it. There was a knock on the door.

“Shall we?” The woman asked.

“Woo, woo,” the girl cooed, “Woo.”

At the progressive dinner party, everyone got a little drunk and stopped after the third house. Vegetable platters were left uneaten. A few of the husbands took over the kids’ video game. Someone rubbed the dog the wrong way, and it bit him. Calvin and Iris introduced themselves to more new neighbors. Calvin pointed to their house. “The one with the garage,” someone explained. The previous owners expanded the roof to make room for their RV. Iris was going to turn it into a recording studio. One of the women called after two shirtless boys, eleven or twelve, skateboarding down the street. They called back, laughing.

Calvin and Iris held hands on the way home. When one of them left for work or went to the grocery store, they’d repeat what the boys said. The next summer, they declined an invitation to attend a neighborhood cookout. The boys grew up and wore their hair in golden ringlets. Iris spent most nights in her studio. Years later, Calvin was driving and a song came on the radio. “I love this song!” His pretty companion said, turning up the volume. “My ex-wife wrote that,” he told her, proudly.

She hadn’t wanted one when she was young. Leading the girl furtively by the hand, no guardian in sight, the woman marveled at finding love.

My father, Dale, hits on P.J. Harvey at her rock show. Actually, it is a P.J. Harvey lookalike. There are dozens like her, wannabe rock stars in ankle boots with pin-sized heels. The others, boys with thrift shop tees over crisp oxfords, men like my dad whom everyone assumes is a roadie because he looks like he’s in a heavy metal band, and older women with scattered hair and dry lips, jostle to prove they’re up to it. I prefer the latter. They have a startled, somewhat embarrassed look, as if they tend to people’s vanity and ailments like a bikini-waxer or hospital attendant. Under cover, with the aid of protective gear. I think, these are the women my dad should be interested in, not the ones everyone else wants. I thought my dad was an original, but I am wrong.

“This is not New York,” Dale tells me in his van. On its side is a sign that reads, “Daddy’s Little Girl Flooring.” It’s alarming how many calls he gets out of this. He used to work with another guy, Greg, in Manhattan, but he died so I came to work with him. Now, if we’re refinishing, there’s usually a woman at the door who will say by way of greeting, “You must be Daddy’s Little Girl.” I imagine people wondered who the little girl was when it was just my father and Greg.

“I know this isn’t New York,” I say. “It’s been ages.” I am fond of outdated expressions that make me feel madcap and carefree. He doesn’t mean we left New York a half-hour ago, and are well into the heart of New Jersey or Connecticut. He means, we left New York for good. We did, four years ago. After a year of doing floors together in New York, we moved the business to Fort Collins, Colorado. What Dale refers to is the traffic outside Denver, where we’re headed. We’re idling on I-25. Unlike some people who would’ve said, “What’s the holdup, this isn’t New York,” or if they’re really pissed, “What the hell, this isn’t fucking New York,” my father states the obvious as if he’s unsure of it’s veracity.

My dad loves P.J. Harvey as much as he loves Fleetwood Mac and The Eagles. He admits it is odd, given the fact that most parents find her music to be just a lot of noise, but something about her speaks to him. He heard my boyfriend Larry playing her album To Bring You My Love when he came to pick me up for work, and asked if he could borrow it. Larry tried to convince him to take her first album instead but Dale would have none of it. This was a cardinal sin. Larry believes in listening to music chronologically, from the first album to the last, always. I have questioned him on this extensively. What if the first album sucks, and your favorite is the most recent? Or you hear a song on the radio, and go to buy the CD, only to find the song your looking for is on the second, or third, or fourth? What then? According to Larry, you’re screwed. You have to start from the beginning, every time. In fact, the whole notion of “favorite” is blasphemous. There’s a larger picture to see. He doesn’t listen to the radio, for this reason. Larry goes nuts when he comes across a Greatest Hits collection. Concerts are out of the question, since they’re a Greatest Hits collection with amped up applause and bad feedback. Hence, his absence at tonight’s show.

“You need to dump that dumbass,” Dale tells me. “He’s probably getting fries with that shake, if you know what I’m talking about.” Not even P.J. Harvey can make my father hip, I’m sad to say.

But we all have our music quirks. I tolerate album covers that feature the band by a warehouse far, far away because I have to. As for solo artists, I’ve noticed that most women artists I like are often on the ground, playing dead, but done up glamorously, they might as well be on a satin ottoman. The only difference is a smudge of blood and bruise around the lip and eye. My father has nothing but contempt for music videos, especially ones that feature an artist tied to a chair with a bunch of “thugs” around him, who ends up in a psychiatric ward, unshaven, in a dirty robe.

My father has never liked Larry because he wears shorts all year long, and has one of those jobs that are hard to grasp for people who don’t do what he does. After careful scrutiny, followed by an afternoon of light stalking, I’ve only been able to come up with this: he works in a laboratory. Larry does smell antiseptic, with a trace of Sweet n’ Low. The first time we had sex, I thought he had a cold, and was overdosing on throat lozenges.

It was a sad smell, and as we were having sex, I vowed to stop seeing him.

I changed my mind midway through it when Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time,” came on the radio. It did too, and not only because we were in my Honda in a parking lot. The truth is that I hadn’t had sex in a year, and this occasion didn’t make up for lost time. You would think the coincidence would have solidified my decision to break up with Larry, but a catchy tune that belies a darker meaning is like a lightening bolt to pay attention. So I didn’t.

At the show, my father and I take turns going to the bar. I watch the crowd, which can only be described as a panorama of déjà vu. The music scene is small here, and people appear and reappear no matter where they are. Tonight is a real happening. We find a good spot against the wall, to the right of the stage. It’s important to be on the right, since I lost some of my hearing in that ear when I was eleven. My best friend, Gabe, tried to drown me at the pool. I kicked him in the stomach so he smashed my head against the concrete. They evacuated everyone from the pool, and the blood in blue and white reminded me of a rocket pop I had before I went in. Afterward, everything sounded as if I was underwater.

I was never mad at Gabe for what he did. He was trying his hand at bigger things, and would go back to what he knew best, torturing smaller, defenseless creatures. I figured, the worst is over, and invited him to a sleepover. After some pleading, my mom consented. She made popcorn and Rice Crispy treats but refused any to him. He didn’t complain. Out of fear, I guess. I was terrified of my mother, who divorced my father a year later.

When Larry’s pissed off, he’ll talk in my bad ear, or move his lips as if he’s speaking. But I know there’s no sound coming out. I have gotten so used to not being able to hear, it took me a while to realize that sometimes I can hear like everyone else. Like P.J. Harvey, who is famous for whispering and going so quiet it’s impossible to understand. She treats her music as if it’s a secret she’s reluctant to share.

My father hands me a beer before the show, and turns his attention to the plethora of young women around him. Doesn’t he know this makes me uncomfortable? Of course all the hetero boys are doing the same, and the girls go by with grim faces and stiff necks. Not seeing but seeing. The youngest ones laugh too loudly, and sprint down the aisles. The boys fall for this act, willing to see mystery where there is none.

“Dale, what’s yours?” my dad shouts over the opening act, a punk band from Kansas City. The woman is about my age, with low breasts and tattoos up and down her arms. She shakes my father’s hand. “Laura,” I hear her scream.

“This is my daughter, Penelope.” He puts his arm around me, and squeezes. I can be a prop.

“Nice to meet you.” Her hand is sticky and cool.

“That is so sweet,” she says and gives me a smile a five year old would find condescending. I offer to go to the bar. Laura orders a Jack and coke, my father another beer. He makes a big deal of handing me a twenty. When I get back, Dale gives me a half-smile that’s really a question. I pat his arm. Yes, I answer. I’ll get lost.

P.J. Harvey comes out in a white pants suit. She’s tiny, but has a voice that defies her size. I’m several rows behind Dale and Laura, and watch them head bang to the music. I want to move as well, but am surrounded by a passive bunch. They feign thoughtful attentiveness through cocked heads and closed eyes. During a ballad I can barely discern, my father lifts his left arm high and sways, a lighter poised in his hand. The singular flame hovers over his companion’s head, threatening to catch it on fire.

Looking at him, unabashed as the sole lighter possessor in the entire place, I realize he’s happy. When we first moved to Fort Collins, we were sick from the altitude. With the mountains so far west, we didn’t think we were up so high. Each day presented a new symptom. Bloody nose, earache, vertigo. My ears felt full and hollow, and I couldn’t tell what was close or far away. My dad had dreamed of living out west all his life, but began to think he had made a mistake. The west my father sought didn’t have suburban sprawl. Nevertheless, he has thrived beneath its sunny disposition, where afternoons are warm, even in winter.

After the show, I wait for my dad in front of the theatre. The smell of smoke is everywhere. Dale and Laura wander toward me, new-fangled and affectionate. They begin to walk ahead, in the opposite direction of where we’re parked.

“The van is this way, Dad.” Laura laughs, a little uneasily. She grabs my father’s shoulder. The veins in her hands are prominent. She’s older than I thought. On her arm is a tattoo of the Virgin Mary, done up like a cowgirl and surrounded by stars, with a lasso in her right hand.

“You go on without me,” my dad says. I hear one word of this. It is “oust.”

“We’re going the wrong way.” I say. My father stops. Under the streetlight, they both look soft, with pink skin and translucent hair.

“You’ll be fine, Lope. I’ll see you tomorrow.” We’re an hour away from home, and have a seven a.m. appointment in the morning. He must be thinking the same thing, because he says, “I’ll catch the bus.”

If I had known earlier, I wouldn’t have had so much to drink. “OK,” I say. My father hums P.J. Harvey. I recognize the song, “You Said Something,” which always makes me miss New York. I go into a 7-Eleven for a coffee and bottle of water, to sober up. I think of Larry waiting at home, eyeing the clock while listening to Kris Kristofferson. At this late hour, it’s most likely Who’s to Bless and Who’s to Blame.

Outside, I drink my coffee in the cold air. I see my father and Laura cross the street. Their hands are stuffed into their jean pockets, and their pace is brisk, purposeful. Even though he’s blocks away and my ears are ringing, I can hear him sing:

And I’m doing nothing wrong

Riding in your car

The radio playing

We sing up to the eighth floor

Driving home with the windows down to keep me awake, the shape of the mountains glow above the city lights. In the four years we’ve been here, we have yet to visit them. They’re as foreign to us as a picture postcard. Beautiful, but not to be trusted.

One year it rained and Annie didn’t want to go. I was too sick the next. When we got around to going the following year, Annie was hell-bent on revenge. She wore a shirtdress and gladiator sandals. At Dante’s, the male officers looked like the boys we had gone to high school with just two years before, and we couldn’t decide if this made them more or less likable. The women, on the other hand, had everything we wanted. I couldn’t drink because of the meds, but my sobriety didn’t help me from being hustled out of sixty dollars by a Lt named Chloe playing pool. Annie did shots with two guys with names that also started with the letter A. “Triple A,” one joked, licking bits of lime from his lips. We took pictures and posted them on Annie’s cheating boyfriend’s wall. Before we left, one of them, Austin I think, got down on one knee and asked me to run away with him. “Okay,” I said. I had Annie but that was it. My mom lived with her boyfriend in Denver. I didn’t know where my dad was. I wanted to disappear. But one month later it was Annie who vanished. A detective came to interview me in the hospital. She asked me questions about Annie, about her cheating boyfriend, about men she met online. She asked me if I noticed anything unusual in the last few months. Before she left, the detective gave me her card and told me to get better soon. It had been a long time since anyone said that to me. I guess because it no longer seemed like I would. I studied the card and remembered a guy who was hanging around Annie at Dante’s. He was cute but Annie refused his offers to buy her a drink. I asked her if she knew him and she shrugged. Later, Annie told me he was on her bus route and knew her name, even though she hadn’t given it to him. I used the detective’s card as a bookmark, and lost it, eventually. A year passed. I hadn’t disappeared. I was taking mechanical drawing at the community college. I wanted to be a carpenter. The fleet arrived once more to unsettle the river and disentangle its secrets. I didn’t think about Annie much, but beneath the Steel Bridge she came back, a watchful celebrant among the big ships.