“Her legs are matchsticks—
            Her face is a death mask”
                     —National Enquirer 

1.
Las Vegas hasn’t been the same since Joey Heatherton
retired, so Daddy gambles, plays the nickel slots.
Mama stays behind, minds the store. Later, she will
feed the children left at home, study the weather map
in the newspaper. In a photo album on a high shelf in
the coat closet, there are Kodacolor snapshots, past trips
to Vegas, Hawaii, Aruba, Key West. One photograph
in particular of them, standing in a clear blue pool under
green plaster seahorses spouting colorless water. No scars
on her breast yet. His heart, still limber as an acrobat.
 
2.
It’s just me wandering the aisles of the neighborhood
drug-store. Lingering over the gossip rags, fingering
over-the-counter remedies. I am searching for a cure
for something I don’t understand. What is the definition
of resistance? I dress in black, cook up acts of rebellion,
wonder if I am too old to cry. I put this distance between
us, consulted an atlas for good measure. Something
I’ve become professional at, without much training,
practice. I could call collect, but the line is always busy.

“Guy,” Fat Anna bellows from the bottom of the stairs.
“Guy,” this time louder. Then his response, muffled
behind the closed apartment door, two flights up, “Yes.”
“In the wardrobe,” she says, decibel level the same,
“next to the bed, where I keep my shoes.” “Your shoes,”
 
he echoes as he opens the door. “There’s a straw purse
with flowers,” she’s giving detailed instructions slowly,
carefully, “where I keep my money.” He’s listening,
maybe adjusting his hearing aid. “Money,” he repeats,
a mynah bird in baggy wash pants and a faded flannel shirt.
 
“Bring it to me. The Jew’s got a sale on suitcases. I want
you to see them.” He is shuffling away from the door
into another room. In the vestibule, Fat Anna hums, checks
her watch and her nails, maybe tries to run her fingers
through hair thick with years of lacquer and peroxide.
 
Sitting on the edge of the bed, more awake than I want
to be at this hour on a Saturday morning, in the apartment
below theirs, feet touching the floor for the first time
today. Now I know where the loot is stashed.