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Back Midnight Cactus Save as PDF
Chapters (39)
  1. Cover Page
  2. midnight cactus
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. part one
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. part two
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. Author’s Note
  39. Acknowledgements

Duval puts up his hand and Winfred stops questioningly.

‘You can trust me, you know,’ I say, unable to keep from bridling.

‘It’s not that.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Alice,’ he says, his voice low, ‘it’s one thing drawing a line in the sand but it’s another thing to cross it. I won’t risk turning you into a real fugitive.’

I look at him and I think maybe he doesn’t realize it, or maybe he wants no part of it, but whatever that line is, I have already crossed it. Whatever normal life used to be, I have lost all sense of it. I am an English woman living in Arizona in a ghost town, allowing Mexicans to slip in and out of the shadow of the law while I pull the wool over my children’s eyes and keep my husband at bay with secrets and lies, and who for? Who for, if not for him?

24

Through the open window of Emilio Chavez’s patrol truck, a rush of hot air picks up the flyer from the top of the dashboard. Small feet kick the back of my seat as the children scrabble to catch it.

‘Ro-do,’ Emmy spells out.

‘Rod-e-o, dummy,’ Jack says.

‘What is a rodee-o anyway?’ Emmy asks, signalling the end to her morning’s sulk.

I twist round. ‘You know, lassos, bucking broncos, fun stuff like that.’ In the back seats, the children are strapped neatly into their seatbelts. They’re not exactly appropriately kitted out for the day’s outing. Jack is clad entirely in faux army gear from Wal-Mart. Emmy is wearing the pair of lizard-skin cowboy boots that she’d found in the thrift shop, and subsequently barely removed from her feet. These are teamed with her tartan kilt and a machine-shrunken woolly thing, far too hot for the weather but which I’ve nevertheless sanctioned as thanks for her having graciously agreed to forsake her new orange Mexican embroidered dress – the one Dolores had given her.

‘But why can’t I wear it?’ she had wailed. ‘Whywhywhy? It’s so unfair! You get to wear what you want so why can’t I . . . oh, God, I hate being a child,’ she roared. ‘I want to die DIE do you hear then I won’t have to be a child any more.’

‘Exactly, you’ll be a dead child,’ Jack pointed out placidly. ‘You still won’t be a grown-up, so what’s the point?’

‘I don’t care if I’m a dead child.’ She punched him in the arm. I’d rather be a dead child than be bossed around all day long. Bossed around my WHOLE LIFE.’