It is hot even in the mornings now, hot blue above, hot yellow below. I go out now before the sun tops the black Nevada mountain range on the horizon. In the afternoon the wind whips the sand into stinging clouds and I stay inside.
I give the maid a few extra dollars. She thanks me in Spanish. Spanish is a very courtly language, musical, like water over stones. Leo always complained that the Latinos were trying to take over his college. I wonder why he hated them so much.
In the quiet evenings, the air-conditioning whirring and the shades drawn, I lie on the bed and think about the college. I think how we trained people to become just like us. This kind of thinking is very hard work, but when I have a thought it sticks to the grain of sand that is my soul.
AUGUST 26
Leo and my husband are at the door. When I open it, they look stunned and step back.
They are looking at me. I see myself their way, disheveled and plain. No mask of makeup, no curls, no shoes. My legs are brown now and strong.
They are both sweating in their suits.
“We've come to take you home,” they say. My husband starts to cry. They follow me into my room and sit on the bed, their eyes raking around the furniture, looking like tarantulas. My husband is still crying angrily.
“Who do you think you are?” he asks.
Leo says, “The new school year is starting next week. Everything is a mess. I'm willing to overlook this irresponsible behavior.”
They do not wait for me to speak. They rush on, whining.
I shake my head, and I hear the tone change, becoming sinister. They are talking about nervous breakdowns. My husband says I can't abandon my children. Molly is back and she needs me.
I shake my head.
Leo takes my arm. He says I need a doctor, and tells my husband to help him. My husband looks at him, at me. Now he is the one who smells of brandy.
“Go away,” I say. They pick me up and carry me to the car. Leo drives and I am firmly strapped between the two of them in the front seat. We drive out the long flat highway. It's got to be a hundred ten degrees out here. I see my cactus receding in the distance. The wind is blowing up a real sandstorm.
Leo turns on the wipers and peers out the front window, going slower. My husband is telling me that they had to do it for my own good.
SEPTEMBER 10
I am back at home. I am seeing Dr. Bernstein three times a week. My eyes feel gritty, as if sand were blowing through my head. My soul may already have blown away. My father asks on the phone, “When are you gonna get me out of here?” His voice sounds weaker.
I don't think anymore. Dr. Bernstein says it would hamper my recovery.
SEPTEMBER 12
I am back at work. Leo has started an affair with his secretary. My husband says I better get with the program and start cooking again.
I wake up with a start, my throat dry, my eyes stinging. My husband is snoring. He has drunk a lot of brandy.
I'm rushing into the sandstorm. The wind shrieks and picks me up and tosses me into the howling chaos.
I tumble out of bed. I blow into the kitchen, past the sandy, dirty pots and pans and the sandy, filthy floor, and out the door to the garage.
Wind is roaring through my head. I tote the can of gasoline into the bedroom and pour gas all around the bed. Then I climb up quietly and take the batteries out of the smoke detector. I light the match and toss it toward the bed. There is a blast of heat and more wind.
I have made my own desert.
I force the bedroom door shut on the flames. I walk out into the night in my nightgown, but now the desert is gone, only the darkness remains, there's only confusion, confusion, confusion.
My body gets into the car, carefully setting the can of gasoline onto the passenger seat.
Where are we going? I ask, turning the keys in the ignition.
A siren sounds in the distance as I turn onto the boulevard.
It seems that we are going to Leo's.