A second shot ripped a hole through Truman’s shoulder, blood misted over Tiffany’s face, and the woman barreled Truman’s corpse into Truman’s friend. The table collapsed under the weight of the three bodies. Tiffany couldn’t hear her own screaming.

Time jumped.

Tiffany found herself in the corner of the closet, a raincoat pulled up to her chin. A series of muffled, rhythmic thuds made the trailer sway back and forth on its foundation. Tiffany was cast back to a memory of the Charlottesville bistro’s kitchen all those years earlier, the chef using a mallet to pound veal. The thuds were like that, except much, much heavier. There was a pop of ripping metal and plastic, then the thuds ceased. The trailer stopped moving.

A knock shook the closet door.

“Are you okay?” It was the woman.

“Go ’way!” Tiffany howled.

“The one in the bathroom got out the window. I don’t think you have to worry about him.”

“What did you do?” Tiffany sobbed. Truman’s blood was on her and she didn’t want to die.

The woman didn’t answer right away. Not that she needed to. Tiffany had seen what she had done, or seen enough. And heard enough.

“You should rest now,” said the woman. “Just rest.”

A few seconds later Tiffany thought she heard, through the sound baffles left by the gunfire, the click of the exterior door shutting.

She huddled under the raincoat and moaned Truman’s name.

He had taught her how to smoke dope—take small sips, he said. “You’ll feel better.” What a liar. What a bastard he had been, what a monster. So why was she crying over him? She couldn’t help it. She wished she could, but she couldn’t.

8

The Avon Lady who was not an Avon Lady walked away from the trailer and back toward the meth lab. The smell of propane grew stronger with each step until the air was rancid with it. Her footprints appeared behind her, white and small and delicate, shapes that came from nowhere and seemed to be made of milkweed fluff. The hem of her borrowed shirt fluttered around her long thighs.

In front of the shed she plucked up a piece of paper caught in a bush. At the top, in big blue letters, it announced EVERYTHING IS ON SALE EVERY DAY! Below this were pictures of refrigerator units both large and small, washing machines, dishwashers, microwave ovens, vacuum cleaners, Dirt Devils, trash compactors, food processors, more. One picture showed a trim young woman in jeans smiling knowingly down upon her daughter, who was blond like Mom. The pretty tyke held a plastic baby in her arms and smiled down upon it. There were also large TVs showing men playing football, men playing baseball, men in racing cars, and grill set-ups beside which stood men with giant forks and giant tongs. Although it did not come right out and say so, the message of this advertising circular was clear: women work and nest while men grill the kill.