“The Indians sometimes had two or three wives,” she said. “The women always did whatever the men said, but they didn’t really have to pay any attention to them. You know what I mean? They’d cook and sew and take care of the babies, but they could really ignore the men except when they were actually screwing. The men were off hunting or having debates. They didn’t have much to do with the women.”

She sat up quickly and jerked the shawl around her face. It was a gray shawl of soft wool. Her mouth was firm. “What’s New York like? I’ve never been there.”

I told her about New York. Got lyrical. We walked around the house. We weren’t touching, but it seemed as though she was leaning on me.

“It doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Well, everybody sees it differently.”

Kate was tied as far from the house as possible. Small black balls of shit were piled beneath other trees, and showed where she’d been. The music reached her and her ears flopped and twitched.

“Do you like goat milk?”

“No. It’s too strong for me,” I said.

“I do.”

Somebody inside the house laughed.

“Do you know how to make acorn flour? Some Indians used to live on that. Nothing else at all. They were near Palo Alto, I think.” She rubbed the side of her face where her tears were drying. “I’d like to do that. Just wander around in the sunshine naked and eat acorn cake for supper with a drink of water.”

“Your baby couldn’t do that.”

“The Indian babies did.”

“My mother used to make a good, cheap bread out of oatmeal. That was nice. You pound it around a lot and then let it sit in a warm place by the stove with a wet dish towel over it till it rises. The whole house smells good. It’s supposed to be better for you than regular bread.”

Her face brightened. “Really? Could you live on it?”

“We used to put peanut butter and jelly on it and drink milk.”

She untied Kate’s rope and untangled it from the brush. The goat paid no attention at all. Angelina came loping across the lawn and sniffed excitedly at the goat’s pale udders.

“Can you get me the recipe? I’d like to make bread.”

We led the goat toward the house, around to the kitchen door. Carlotta handed me the rope and darted into the dark kitchen. She came out with a clean coffee can and crouched at the goat’s rear.

“Hold the head up close. Her tits are tender for some reason.”

Carlotta put the can below the left tit and squeezed spasmodically. The goat’s pale eyes rolled and her ears flapped. I could hear the thin drill of the milk into the metal.

“I always thought goat milk tasted like greens. Weed greens,” I said.