88.

Right before the end of school,

right when Liz

started her night crying,

Momma

got Liz a little black pup,

all wiggly with joy.

Lizzie named him Midnight.

If I get you this,

Momma said,

will you stop all the nighttime

crying?

Yes, Momma,

she said.

We stood in the animal shelter,

poopy smells enough to coat

your tongue

listening to animals bark and cry.

Right in front of us was the

fat black pup,

not a lick of white hair on it.

Sure is cute,

I said

and

held my nose.

Sure is,

Liz said.

She crouched over,

her hair falling forward,

and pushed her fingers

through the wire of the cage,

letting that little thing

lick at her.

I stood beside Lizzie,

my leg touching her side.

He loves me, Hope.

See that?

she said.

She gave me a kind-of glance

and I saw this spark in her eyes.

I said,

Yeah, I see he does.

Momma bought

that little ol’

pup.

Lizzie and me,

we both loved Midnight

all the way home,

sweet baby that he was.

That night and every night

for a little bit

it happened like this:

Lizzie climbed into bed

with that dog.

The two of them would lie

there and before long, once

all the lights were out, Liz

would start her bawling.

It was small crying at first,

then it got louder

until some nights,

I dreamed of an airplane

flying close

to my ear.

There were evenings when

I felt as scared as my sister

sounded.

Her voice frightened me,

crying out

like that.

Made me want to bawl

myself

alongside her.

Momma would close me

and Lizzie out there in our room,

locking us in

with Midnight.

What is it, Liz? What?
I asked.

Why you crying?

Why?

And she’d shake her

head and hold that dog

tight.

Let me turn on the radio,

I’d say, or a CD.

Sometimes it would help,

sometimes not.

Come get in bed with me,

I’d say.

You can even bring Midnight,

bad breath and

all.

Sometimes it would help,

sometimes not.

Let me tell you a funny story,

I’d say.

Sometimes it would help,

sometimes not.

And once Midnight moved

into our house, he cried

along with Liz.

Please,

why do you cry at night?

I asked,

tired out.

Life is different in the day,

Liz would say

in the mornings,

her eyes red from the

weeping

and dark circles

sweeping toward

her cheekbones.

I don’t think Momma

meant to run Midnight over.

I really don’t.

I saw her eyes when

the dog cried out and

Lizzie came running

to scoop him up.

There was as much surprise

in Momma’s eyes

as there was sadness in

Liz’s.

Momma didn’t get out of the

car, though. Just looked

at me, face all squinched up

and said,

Hope, throw him

over the fence

in that high grass

or bury him out where

we burn the garbage.

And as she pulled away she said,