Miranda pressed the vinegar-soaked rag into the creases of a ceramic angel’s robe. A wall of holy glass eyes stared down at her from her mother’s mismatched row of curio cabinets: some large and doe-eyed, some tiny black pinpricks. A crowded flock of angels with golden halos and outstretched palms, all covered in a layer of dust and dirt that blew in from the dustbowl fields. Probably dried cow shit, too. More like bullshit. Their painted faces all smiled softly, frozen in serenity.

She glanced over her shoulder to see if her mother had seen her smirk. But Mrs. Datlan was staring deep into the bottom of a bag of Cheetos, her round feet propped up by her floral brocade recliner.

Miranda moved on to the next angel, polishing away the grime.

“That’s right, you dirty girl. Wash the angels, wash your sins away.” Mrs. Datlan’s evangelizing was punctuated by a series of loud crunches.

Miranda stared at the expansive wall of angels. Their eyes always seemed to follow her.

“I would have washed it away. You wouldn’t let me.” She ground the rag deeper into the lines of a ceramic angel’s face. The paint of its eyes came away against the rough cloth.

Mrs. Datlan struggled out of her chair, spilling Cheetos across the dingy carpet. “If you think any child of mine is going to murder my grandbaby with the help of some sin-spewing doctor, then all the angels in the world can’t help you, girl.”

Orange-powdered fingers raked across Miranda’s face.

“I’d beat you bloody if I could. But you’re carrying a blessing, even if it is a bastard one. Now finish up.”

Miranda’s hand shook as she reached for the next angel, ringing the figures against each other like small bells. “And when did I stop being your blessing, Mama? When did I become your curse?”

Mrs. Datlan crumpled the empty Cheetos bag and threw it onto the sagging, dusty corduroy chair that still occupied the center of the room, its cushion five years cold. “You’re not my Miranda. My Miranda left me.” Mrs. Datlan’s voice broke. She slouched back to her chair.

Miranda nodded as she scraped the face from another angel. “True enough. She left with Dad.”

“Dad is with the angels. You can never go there now.”

“The damn angels are everywhere.” Miranda let her fingers loosen, felt the figure slip, and watched it fall to pieces at her feet.

Her mother howled. The baby stirred. That’s right, little angel. They’ll holler and you’ll dance, just like I always did. But not anymore. I’ve had enough.

***

Jake twisted her hair in his fist. She pressed her back against the tractor tire and tried to turn away, but he gripped her chin and wrenched her face to meet his.