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September Bishop licked dried blood and orange juice from between her fingers. As Canadian tourists poked through the nylon mesh bags, September held her bloody front tooth out to one woman. "Good Lord." Her squishy, pale hands latched onto her husband's arm. "What happened?" "Leggo, Velma." "Lost it in an orange," September replied. "Been loose for a week." "Who's watching you?" She pointed to the wilted woman making change from a lockbox. Displayed in the playpen, her baby brothers squalled in the Florida heat. September challenged, "Guess where Daddy is." Velma rooted through her plastic pocketbook, locating a crusty Kleenex under a half-eaten roll of five-flavor LifeSavers. "Where?" September wriggled her tongue over the web of her thumb. "Wrasslin'." "Wrestling?" "Pappy Bingo's Gator Farm. Five dollars a ticket. Best show in Alachua County." Velma tried to dab at September's mouth. "You poor little thing." Behind her tinted glasses, Velma's eyes glazed. "Harv, you hearing this?" "Hmm." "How do you live, sweetie?" "Folks buy oranges." "Harv, pick a bag. Pick five. Here honey." Velma pressed wadded, unfamiliar American bills into September's sticky hands. As they pulled back onto Highway 301, September sucked another slice, stuffing her secret profit into her pocket. |
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© 2001 by Stephanie Lenz
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