the Joshua trees. Finally, my mother got up and grabbed her almanac. She paced while she read. Dolly handed her a pen from the glove compartment, and my mother scribbled a note. She drew her finger across the right-hand page and landed on something. The moon and sun had conspired to create a solar eclipse, which weâd wait for. This was something spiritual. âSomeone does give a lick about my life,â she said.
A few minutes later, we watched the moon blot out the sunâs blinding rays, darkening the daylight for a few minutes. My mother stood up suddenly. âSomeone get me my lipstick. I want everything perfect when I tell you where weâre going next.â
I ran to the car and rifled through the glove compartment. I found the silver medallion of St. Augustine, pictured with a flaming heart. I had shoved it in there months earlier after a nun put it in my hand. I would later learn that St. Augustine was the patron saint of brewers, and this medallion was sometimes given to folks struggling with addiction.
We watched my mother gulp down the last of the whiskey. âI donât know if Jews are supposed to wear patron-saint medallions,â she said. Still, I hooked the silver chain around her neck. It dangled beneath her Jewish-star pendant.
âHeâs the saint of a good-luck life,â Dolly lied.
My mother peered into the side mirror and applied a layer of bright red lipstick. Beautyâit was her greatest vice.
She gazed out at the sprawling desert. âDo I look okay?â For what , I wondered. We were all drenched in sweat. âNo oneâs gonna steal my husband from me again. Ruthie, run back and get my guitar. I donât want to leave it in the sun.â
I ran back and grabbed my motherâs guitar. Sometimes she called it âthe husbandâ because she liked to curl up with it at night.
âWell,â said Dolly, hands on her hips, âthereâs no one on this farkakte road, so we canât hitch.â
âYou girls,â my mother said, passing us with her guitar case, her pink muumuu billowing in the heat.
That afternoon we walked for ten miles, until we hit a gas station. As we passed by the cacti, dirt, and rocks, I imagined a hillside of burning Joshua trees.
Our beautiful mother met a mensch. We had watched his wife get out of their red Camaro, stamping off to the side of the gas station to smoke a cigarette. She had kicked off her black high heels and leaned her back against the wall. She blew her cigarette smoke out in a long straight line. My mother said it was a hot day to be wearing that heavy red suit. And in heels, no less. âShe not happy. Iâm going to talk to her.â
She was an angel, my mother.
I could see the woman running her fingers through her straight brown hair. I ran over to my mother, who had bummed a cigarette.
âItâs not that we canât afford that car. He got a dealâhe saysâfrom a friend. You know, he doesnât make squat as a health inspector. Itâs just that he spent all our vacation money on that car but he canât scrape together two nickels to take me out to a proper lunch. One vacation, thatâs all I wanted, and he takes me to In-N-Out Burger for a Double-Double. Itâs all the way in Baldwin Park, the flagship store with two drive-thrus. I said, âTake me to the Sands Restaurant, for the love of God. I want to sit in a nice dining room with cloth napkins and look out at the ocean!â Is that so much to ask?â
My motherâs ears perked up. âHealth inspector, what a fascinating job.â
âI wouldnât want to do it. By the way, my name is Sasha.â She shrugged and took a long drag of her cigarette. âIâm sorry. I just unloaded all this on you, poor thing. You go on. Iâm going
to smoke another cigarette and figure out where I want to go for my vacation.â
âNo, no. I completely understand. My husband is
Sharon Kleve, Jennifer Conner, Danica Winters, Casey Dawes