“Hey, Mikros, knock it off,” she shouted, which woke Mrs. Gladstone with a start. Mikros switched from licking the bag to bathing the woman’s face with her tongue. “Oh, you tiny starving thing. Did you get all your cookies?” Mrs. Gladstone looked inside, reshaped the bag, tipped the crumbs into one corner, and poured them into her hand.
“Good afternoon, Sophia,” Mrs. Gladstone said while the dog snuffled up the last of the crumbs before jumping to the ground and sniffing around the potted plants. On a side table was a can of Diet Coke with a lipstick-printed straw sticking out of it. Behind her, a hummingbird buzzed through the covered porch and landed on a plastic feeder that hung from the edge of the corrugated roof. As it drank the sugar water, other hummingbirds buzzed in and scrapped for a spot. It was vicious for one explosive moment, then they disappeared all at once. The old woman paid them no mind.
“Have you been reading all day?” Mrs. Gladstone asked.
Sophia nodded. “Dissertations don’t write themselves.”
“I don’t suppose they would,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “I also can’t imagine there would be so much to say about—what is it again?”
“The ethics of preserving ancient artifacts.”
“Oh, that’s right. Museums and national parks and providence. One of these days I’ll remember without a hint.” She smiled and brushed back stray wisps of hair.
Sophia was about to correct her and say, it’s “provenance,” not “providence,” but she’d done this bit before and wanted to skip it this time.
Mikros barked, sending a lizard across the patio and under Mrs. Gladstone’s chair. The dog growled but didn’t chase it. Mrs. Gladstone sat up. “I always wanted to be an architect, my dear, but I was told that was for boys. They told me to be a nurse or a teacher. I told them to blow it out their butts.”
“So you went to college anyway?”
“I went to Hollywood.”
“You’re perfect, Mrs. Gladstone,” Sophia said. “Absolutely perfect.”
“And look at me now. I’m the queen of all I survey.” Mrs. Gladstone unfolded her arms and let a dozen bracelets jangle down to the elbow. “But really, a girl like you should be out on the town on a summer night, not holed up. Don’t you have plans?”
“I like to get out, but you know there’s not much nightlife around here. It’s a little dead unless you’re up for a milkshake.”
Mrs. Gladstone sipped her Diet Coke and set it back on the side table. “Once upon a time, people used to call this hamlet Little Hollywood. Pretty glitzy for southern Utah, don’t you think?”
“What was Kanab like before all that?” Sophia asked.
Mrs. Gladstone shrugged. “What you would imagine. Frontier, red rock, tumbleweeds, Indians. Not much else. A whole lot of nothing, really.”
“Mrs. Gladstone, Native people aren’t nothing,” Sophia said.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Mrs. Gladstone said with a wave.
Sophia didn’t veer. “I’m not sure I do.”
Mrs. Gladstone closed her eyes and tilted her head to show she disapproved of this turn in the conversation. “Back in the day, my dear, you might bump into Ronald Reagan, Ernest Borgnine, Sidney Poitier, Raquel Welch. Everyone who was anyone came to town. We were surrounded by stars, and there were a thousand different flavors of nightlife. A girl could get into the right kind of trouble, if that’s what she wanted.” She looked around, smiled, and shrugged a coy shoulder. “This girl did.”
Sophia knew she wasn’t ready for a detailed description of the right kind of trouble, so she steered the conversation back to her work. “Tomorrow I’m going into Arizona to check sites in the Antelope Valley. South, near the bluffs. I’ll be back by nightfall. Send in the cavalry if I’m not back by Tuesday morning. I’ll leave a map in my trailer.”
“Speaking of the cavalry, that gorgeous ranger dropped by to see you the other day,” Mrs. Gladstone said. She lifted her penciled-in eyebrows and sang: “And he was on a mo-tor-cy-cle.”
“Paul?” Sophia asked, hiding a smile with a sip of her coffee.
“There isn’t an ounce of fat on that man,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “He said he was planning a trip for you two to go off into the backcountry.” Mrs. Gladstone smiled. “So, that’s what they’re calling it these days?”
Sophia sprayed her coffee.
Mrs. Gladstone shrugged dramatically, sending the dozen bracelets clattering in the other direction. “I’m just an old woman, trying to live vicariously through the nomads who stay here with me.”
Sophia held up her book. “Well, tonight you’ll get the chance to absorb information about UNESCO World Heritage Sites.”
“Vicarious education is the best kind, darling,” Mrs. Gladstone said.
Sophia laughed. “Did Paul want something specific, like to ask me if I wanted to go into the backcountry?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Gladstone said, looking around, trying to recall if there was something she was supposed to remember. “He has very good manners for a young man.”
“That is true,” Sophia said. “If you happen to see him again, could you tell him to email me?”
“Don’t the young people just Chap Snap now? Email is so old-fashioned.” Mrs. Gladstone took another sip of Diet Coke, and Mikros climbed back into her lap. The phone in her trailer rang. She struggled to get up, until Sophia offered to get it, then she eased back in her chair. “Thank you, dear,” she said.
Sophia stepped into the trailer, which was a patchwork of bright color: shelves hand-painted orange, purple, and green, full of self-help books and poetry. Two ceramic parrots stood atop overturned terra-cotta pots, arranged to look as if they were chattering to each other. The space was filled with messages written in script on planks of wood: YOU ARE SUFFICIENT—DON’T TOUCH MY CHOCOLATE—FRIENDSHIP IS FOR KEEPS—SOMETIMES LIFE JUST GIVES YOU THE LEMONADE. The whole place smelled of jasmine and garbage.
“It’s next to the fridge!” Mrs. Gladstone called out.
What she meant was that it was under a stack of magazines next to the fridge. Once Sophia found it, she dashed back with the ringing phone and handed it over. As Mrs. Gladstone listened to the caller, her face fell. “You can’t be serious?” she said, then she covered her mouth with one hand. “A shotgun?” Her eyes found Sophia’s. “That doesn’t sound right at all. No, I do not accept it.” Sophia heard the woman on the other end say that a neighbor heard the shots. “The police are still there? What about Raylene? I’ll come get her.” Mrs. Gladstone paused and listened, her face hardening. “Well, how long until the sedation wears off?” she asked.
Mikros trotted back to the porch with a wet sack of trash in her mouth. Sophia tried to take it away, but the dog ran off.
“I don’t like it,” Mrs. Gladstone said into the phone, then she switched it off and set it carefully on the side table and gripped the arms of her chaise, tears softening her mascara. “I’m sorry for this, Sophia,” she said, gesturing to her face. “An old friend took his life today. Bruce Cluff.”