By Daniel Nathan Terry

May-Nell Wilson opened the bag of Wonder Bread, bypassed the heel, took out the first slice, and then gently fed it into the side of the chrome Toast-O-Lator. She tucked a loose strand of her graying hair behind her left ear, leaned over the kitchen counter, and watched, as intently as a child, as the machine swallowed the white bread like a silver snake’s head devouring an egg. She listened to the low hum as the internal coils heated. They sounded so satisfied.

Then for a few moments, the machine grew silent. She waited.

A bowl of chicken broth cooled on the counter beside her. Morning light filtered in through the freshly laundered, eyelet curtains over the sink. The air in the pale blue kitchen filled with the smell of toasting bread.

It was her favorite moment of the day: like magic, the Toast-O-Lator hummed and out came a perfect, evenly brown, crisp square. She retrieved the warm toast, set it carefully on the floor, the broth beside it, and went to call the dog. She knew it was forbidden to have the dog in the house. Jackson would kill her if he so much as found a paw print on the floor, but that hardly mattered now. The dog needed to eat and she needed the dog to stay in the house.

She let him in through the back door. He was next to nothing, just skin and bones, a pale-blonde mutt with black lips and sad eyes. The poor thing had wandered into their yard a few days ago. Jackson had wanted to shoot him or at least call animal control, but after begging and pleading with him, May-Nell had won the dog a reprieve.

“Feed him if you want,” he’d mumbled, as he’d headed out to his work truck. “Just don’t let that mongrel in my house. Don’t want him shitting all over the damn place. And watch yourself. Probably has rabies.”

May-Nell knew the dog didn’t have rabies the moment she looked into his eyes—there was no madness there, just hunger and weariness. At first he wouldn’t eat. She set out bowl after bowl of dry food, even splurged on canned Alpo, but the dog would have none of it. He would just sniff the food, then weakly stalk away as if life wasn’t worth the effort.

Then she thought of the toast. It always cheered her up, why not the dog?

And it did. For two days he’d eaten toast and broth each morning and evening. He’d found something to live for.

Now, she thought, just look at you. I’m sorry for you, I am. Especially now you’re trying so hard. I hope you make it.

“Stay,” she said, quietly.

She petted his filthy, boney head then walked back to the counter, unplugged the Toast-O-Lator, and, after making certain it was cool enough to carry, she cradled it against her breast and walked out into the backyard. She passed the new lawn furniture: the faux-wicker chairs she never sat in which Jackson had bought wholesale to impress his landscaping clients. She barely glanced at the resin statues of Japanese ladies and bizarre lions that had crowded her like unwanted company the moment he had had positioned them at the edge of the blue slate patio he and his men had built last fall. All of it seemed silly to May-Nell, like a miniature theme park attached to the two-bedroom, redbrick ranch. Ridiculous.

Especially the koi pond.

It was a gift from Jackson for their thirtieth anniversary. He had made a big production of installing it, had told nearly everyone who would listen that it was edged in Indonesian river rock, that the tiny waterfall was powered by the finest motor, and that the fish were imported from Japan. He had bragged about how he’d used his whole crew of “Mexicans” to “knock it out in one day.” He’d told May-Nell that now the whole town would know how much he loved her and what a good husband he was.

But May-Nell knew the truth. The rocks were left over from a job he’d done for the Kornfelds, his richest clients. The fish and motor were special orders for a client that had backed out of a contract and went with Thompson’s Landscaping, his rival. And his men, all of them Catholics, were forced to work on a Sunday and were not paid overtime. Jackson had done all of this, not to impress her, but to impress upon anyone who visited that his business was more than a “mow-blow-and-go,” they were going “Big Time.” The koi pond was the proof.

May-Nell hated the koi pond, but most of all, she hated the koi. They horrified her—the way they would rise up, their slick skulls protruding above the water’s surface, the Os of their mouths gasping air like newborns—each time she came to feed them. And their eyes! Black and bulging. They were like mutants, like the result of a terrible scientific experiment. It was as if someone had crossed a goldfish with a hideous, ravenous, spotted frog.

Well, she reasoned, at least I won’t have to feed them again.

She set the Toast-O-Lator carefully upon the stones beside the koi pond, found the liriope-shrouded end of the extension cord near the pond’s edge that ran all the way to an outlet box in the laundry room, and unplugged the waterfall. The water gurgled to a halt.

Then May-Nell plugged in the Toast-O-Lator.

She hesitated. It is a shame, really, she told herself. It’s such a fine piece of machinery. Just look at it catch the morning light! It’s almost time.

She held the toaster close to her heart, kicked off her house shoes, and stepped into the koi pond.

The water was cold and the plastic lining of the pond’s floor was muddy, slimy and full of painful little pebbles. She could feel the long, feathery tails of koi brushing her ankles, could feel a horrible, gobbling mouth sucking on her right big toe. She wanted to jump out and run for the house, but that just wasn’t possible now.

May-Nell waited, listened. There was a big truck rumbling down River Road in the distance, crows were cawing at a cat or a roosting owl in the pines a few doors down, and the redbirds were nesting again in the old camellia beside her bedroom window. She could hear the male redbird singing pretty-pretty-pretty as the female chirped single, sweet, bell-like notes, and, when she listened closer, she could hear their young whispering more, more, more, beetles and berries and big juicy flies!

May-Nell loved the redbirds, but she couldn’t stay just for them. Or for the skinny dog. She could hear him too—an occasional scratch on the back door, and then a high, sad whine.

She held the Toast-O-Lator aloft, as high above her head as her arms would stretch. How it shines! she thought. It’s like a silver mirror. I kept it just like you did, Mama. You hear? Just like you did.

With one sure finger, she pulled the Bakelite handle and the machine whirred to life. It grew warmer in her hands.

And then, through the back door, she heard the kitchen phone ring.

“Hello?”

“Mama?”

“Well, who else would it be?”

“You sound funny. Something wrong?”

May-Nell didn’t respond. The Toast-O-Lator was tucked uncomfortably under her free arm. One of the Bakelite handles dug into her ribs. “I’m getting skinny as that old dog,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“I have to feed that old dog.”

“Mama, I need some money.”

“I thought Leo got a job with Thompson’s.”

“You know what they pay and what things cost. It’s a trial just putting food on table and formula in the bottle. And the diapers! Plus he’s been so sick lately I had to give up the job at the Florist’s. Been trying to get on at the hospital. They’re looking for a receptionist. I gotta real good chance. I just need a few dollars ‘til I hear.”

“You know your father don’t let me handle the money.”

May-Nell heard a truck rumble down the drive outside.

Jackson.

“Anything, Mama. anything you could spare.”

“Princess, your father—“

“Don’t even speak his name to me! After what he said to Leo? And what he said about the baby?”

May-Nell heard the key in the front door.

“No, Princess, I mean your father is—“

“Don’t defend him, Mama! Just look at the way he treats you—“

“No!” May-Nell shouted and nearly let the Toast-O-Lator slip to the floor. “No,” she whispered as she heard Jackson dropping his keys in the bowl by the door, “I mean your father’s home.”

“MAY-NELL?” Jackson shouted.

May-Nell turned and managed to get the outdoor extension cord wrapped around her ankles.

“I gotta go, Princess, must be something wrong for him to come home so early.”

“You mean you gotta go cause he’ll be pissed as Hell you’re speaking to me!”

“Princess Diana Wilson! Such language!”

“Oh, fuck it,” her daughter said and hung up.

“Why the hell didn’t you answer?” asked Jackson. He was standing in the doorway, his jeans caked in blue-gray mud and his eyes mad as a hornet’s.

“I’m sorry, Jackson, I was on the phone with—“

“Don’t say her name, woman, I’m warning you.” He pointed one thick finger at her like she was errant child. “And why the hell aren’t you dressed yet? That what you do all day? Just lounge around in your housecoat? Damn, sometimes I think I shoulda married your little sister. Janelle manages to look good for her man!”

May-Nell wanted to tell Jackson that her sister’s man, in fact, belonged to a poor woman named Alma who had no idea her husband was cheating on her with Janelle. She wanted to tell him that she thought her sister was shameful, carrying on in Riverside like she was. She wanted to shout that Janelle was not to be trusted, but she said nothing. She’d always had her fears about Jackson and Janelle, and didn’t want really want to know.

“Now get me some—” Jackson stopped short and stared at her. “What the hell are you doing with the toaster under your arm?”

May-Nell looked at the floor.

“And what the hell are you doing with my extension cord?”

“Making toast,” she said dully. “Outside. I was making toast outside so I could watch the redbirds and sit with the dog.”

“There’s something seriously wrong with you, woman. I need a bath and a clean pair of jeans. The Simpson job’s gone straight to Hell.”

She carefully untangled her legs from the cord and set the Toast-O-Lator back on the counter. She could hear the male redbird singing on the other side of the wall: pretty-pretty-pretty.

“MAY-NELL!”

She jumped. Jackson was standing in the doorway in just his BVDs, rubbing his  round belly, which was as white and swollen as doughy bread. She looked at his soiled jeans and work shirt in a heap on the kitchen floor, then looked up at his rusty cheeks, his red, sunburned nose, his high forehead and crest of coppery hair. It was hard to believe, she realized, that he had ever been the “handsomest man on earth,” but that’s how she’d described him to her mother that first day, so many years ago. She wondered how anyone could change so much, and then remembered that she was hardly the girl he’d married—

“Pretty-lil-thang,” that’s what he’d always called her instead of her Christian name—

“Pretty-lil-thang, come over here and sit with Jackson,” he’d say. “Pretty-lil-thang, come sit on Jackson’s knee and give him a kiss.”

Now, she was just May-Nell. Had been for more years than she wanted to remember.

She avoided his eyes and looked down at the floor again.

“May-Nell, don’t you know those koi are gonna die without running water? You want to kill them after how much they cost me? Make your toast inside like a normal woman from now on, okay? Understand? Good, now get me a fresh towel and then get that waterfall plugged back in. It’s gonna rain soon. Storm’s coming up.”

And storm it did. The rain came down and the wind hollered like an abandoned child. By bedtime, May-Nell began to fear for the old dog. There was shelter, of course, under the eaves and the small overhang at the back porch, but with the wind raging she doubted they would do the poor thing much good.

She waited until Jackson was snoring loud as bear to creep out of bed, put on her house coat and bed-shoes, and sneak from the bedroom.

The dog was soaked and shivering when she let him in the back door, so she used Jackson’s bath towels to dry him off. When she was finished, the dog shook himself, licked her hand and then stopped trembling. He looked up at her and smiled! She was sure of it. His thin, black lips rolled back and he smiled at her.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered. “Now, how about some toast?”

This time she added half a can of Alpo to the warmed broth in the saucepan, then poured the mixture into a bowl to cool. To May-Nell, it stunk to high heaven, but the old dog sat at attention as the meaty smell filled the room. He was still smiling at her.

May-Nell opened the Wonder Bread and took out two slices. “Now don’t get too worked up, one of these is mine.” She turned to feed the bread into the Toast-O-Lator, then stopped suddenly. She looked down at the dog. “You’ve never seen it in action, have you?” she asked in an excited whisper. “You’re gonna love this.”

She started to move the machine onto the floor, then reconsidered. She pondered it a moment, then pushed the Toast-O-Lator to the very edge of the counter. “You can see from there, can’t you? Good. Now, prepare…to be…amazed.”

And as the splendid machine did its work, she was sure the dog was suitably impressed. He never took his dark eyes from the shimmering surface and when the toast appeared on the other side, he let out one, quick bark.

“Shhhhh…I know.”

After the second piece of bread had toasted, she tore up the dog’s slice into crouton-sized bits, floated them on the dog-stew and placed the bowl on floor.

Bones creaking and one knee popping, she sat down beside him, Indian-style and nibbled her slice carefully as he first lapped at the stew, then devoured the toast and Alpo.

“Well, that’s more like it,” she praised him, tiny crumbs falling onto her housecoat. “Careful, not too fast. You don’t want a belly ache.” She reached out and stroked him behind the ear.

“You remind me of…oh, I haven’t told anybody about this. When I was ten, my daddy bought that toaster for my mama. We’d always just browned bread in the oven, one side at the time. Seems like one side always got too done. But when Daddy brought home the Toast-O-Lator…well, you can imagine.”

The dog licked the bowl clean, yawned, and then lay down beside her.

“I thought we were rich, having such a shiny, fine, modern marvel. One day when mama was working in the garden, my sister and I stayed inside—oh, she was such a sweet little thing then, fragile and deathly allergic to bees. That’s why I had to stay inside and watch her. We decided to make toast. I put in one slice, waited for it to come out, then buttered it, sliced it in two, and we ate it right up. It was wonderful. We couldn’t stop. I just put one piece in after the other until,” she laughed. “Well, when my mother came in a few hours later, the bread box was empty! We had eaten the whole loaf!

May-Nell patted the dog’s blond head.

“But you know what? She wasn’t angry with me. She laughed. She laughed and I laughed and Janelle laughed. And the next morning, at breakfast, when Daddy asked where the toast was, we all just laughed some more. Daddy thought we were crazy—.”

The dog sat up suddenly.

“Well, what’s got into you?”

His ears drooped.

“It’s just the wind.”

The dog stood and shuffled away toward the back door.

“May-Nell?”

Jackson stood behind her, blinking beneath the kitchen swag.

“What the hell’s that mutt doing inside?”

“The storm—.”

“He can stay in the shed tonight. You take him.” Jackson turned to go back to bed.

“But I’ll get drenched—.”

“Then just put him out the door,” he called as he walked back to bed. “Your choice.”

 ***

The rain had been so cold that May-Nell was chilled the next morning, despite wearing her warmest housecoat, when she took the dog’s breakfast out to the shed.

He was relieved to see her and licked her hand when she let him out, but he didn’t eat with the same gusto that he had the night before. She supposed he was still full.

“I’ll leave it here,” she said, then put the bowl down on the grass and rubbed his head.

May-Nell was weary. After she’d toweled off last night and dried her hair, she’d been unable to sleep. Even after the storm subsided in the early morning hours and the house grew quiet, she’d been incapable of shutting down her mind. One thought would come and then another. Her daughter. Her daughter’s husband. The baby. The old dog. Jackson. They all swam around in the darkness every time she closed her eyes. She needed to sleep. Yes, a nap, she told herself, and then I’ll see what I can do for Princess.

As she shuffled back to the house, she heard a commotion coming from the old camellia by the bedroom. It was the redbirds. The male was flitting from branch to branch in the overhanging poplars, sounding bright notes of alarm. The female was on the roof and she was hopping about and clucking as if the still-wet shingles were made of fire. At first, May-Nell thought a cat might be hiding down at the foot of the camellia, just waiting for the redbirds to drop their guard.

May-Nell went to grab a broom to shoo the imagined feline from the yard, when from the corner of her eye she saw the nest.

It was lying in the grass.

May-Nell walked slowly toward it. “Shhh,” she called up to the redbirds, wanting to help them and not add to their distress. “It’ll be alright.”

But it wouldn’t be. She could see that now. The nest was intact—a perfect cup of small twigs, lined with grass and roots as fine as hair—as if it had been shaken from the shrub by the storm and then carried, upright by the wind and set carefully onto the soft lawn,

But the babies were completely still.

They looked like four, naked, shriveled old men. The fine down on their nearly bald heads was slicked to their tiny skulls with rainwater. Their featherless wings were folded at their sides. Their wide, shallow beaks looked like pale-lipped frowns.

May-Nell reached down to touch them. The parent redbirds’ cries became feverish. Her fingers touched cold, damp skin.

The babies were dead.

The old dog came up beside her, suddenly, and May-Nell scooped up the babies, nest and all, held them protectively away, then weakly smiled down at him.

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re not like other dogs. Let’s go get a shovel and do what’s right. These are redbirds.”

May-Nell and the old dog walked to the back of the garden, where Jackson had allowed her to plant some flowers of her own choosing. She dug a hole near a group of cone flowers she favored, and then placed the nest, still cradling the babies like an open coffin, at the bottom.

“We can’t just put the dirt right on them, can we?” she asked the dog.

While she thought about what should be done, she listened to the male redbird, who had followed them to the rear of the property, fretting in the sweet gums above. The female was nowhere to be seen. May-Nell looked down at the cone flowers.

She plucked four of them—no stems, just the lavender, skirt-like blossoms—then placed them one at a time over the body of each baby like a flowered shroud.

“There,” she said. For a moment she considered singing “Amazing Grace,” but when she recalled the words “that saved a wretch like me,” she couldn’t bring herself to. After all, what sin had these babies committed? What had they done to be “lost?” She was sure there must be a hymn about innocents who died in a storm, but she didn’t know it, so she simply said, “Amen,” and pushed the dirt into the grave.

The redbird flashed scarlet in the trees.

May-Nell and the old dog walked back to the house together. She did not stop to feed the hungry koi, who feeling tiny tremors in the water as she passed, rose to the surface, mouths open, waiting for her.

 ***

That afternoon, despite Jackson’s decree that his daughter would never set foot on his property again after what she’d done, Princess stopped by with the baby.

May-Nell was shocked to see how thin she’d gotten. She’d always been such a pretty girl: blond, green-eyed, pink-cheeked, not too tall and not too short, just shapely enough to look like a woman a few years before she should have. Now, standing on the porch steps with the baby propped on one boney hip, she looked like a skinny, long-haired boy.

“You haven’t been eating,” May-Nell said. “You want a sandwich?”

Princess rolled her eyes. “I need money, Mama, not a sandwich. I’m not the only one hungry here. Am I suppose to feed little Leo a sandwich? He’s only six months.”

“I told you that Jack—.”

“Don’t speak his name!”

“He’s your father, Princess.”

“Not according to him.” Her daughter shifted the baby to her other hip.

She looked weary, even more weary than May-Nell these days. She’s just barely hanging on, May-Nell thought. She looks like that old dog.

“Don’t you even wanna hold your grandson?” Princess asked.

May-Nell looked at the concrete floor of the porch. She could hear Jackson shouting at her, Don’t you dare touch that little brown bastard! He’s no grandchild of mine. Goddamn wetback.

May-Nell reached out her arms and Princess handed her her grandson. She cradled him against her breast. He didn’t weigh much more than the Toast-O-Lator. She pulled back the lavender baby blanket that was starred with red roses. She looked down at his tiny head, covered in fine, dark, downy hairs. His eyes were closed.

He wasn’t brown.

“He’s red,” May-Nell said. “I thought Leo was a Mexican.”

“He’s Mayan, Mama,” Princess said. “It’s like Indian, from El Salvador. It’s not fair, you know. Daddy was only too happy to work Leo into the ground for a song. I guess he was good enough for a slave, but not good enough for a son. Now look at us.”

Little Leo cooed and wriggled slightly in her arms. “Shhhh,” May-Nell whispered, “It’ll be alright.”

 ***

May-Nell couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed for hours, listening to the male redbird fretting on the other side of the wall, interrupted now and again by Jackson’s snores and snorts. Jackson smelled like orange Dial from the bath he’d taken at the end of the day.

He would be furious when she told him about the money, but she would have no choice but to tell him. Groceries wouldn’t stretch forever and eventually she’d have to tell him what she’d done with her food allowance.

Still, she smiled to herself when she thought of Little Leo and his red cheeks, of Princess setting a nice supper out for Big Leo. It was worth it, whatever happened.

Maybe, she thought, feeling brave, I’ll just fry up those awful koi and feed them to Jackson when the food runs out. I’ll serve them on toast. What a strange and exotic taste,  he’ll say as he gobbles them up. It’s an old Japanese recipe, I’ll answer, Koi ala King.

She almost laughed out loud. She clamped her hand over her mouth in the darkness, stilled herself, then drifted off to sleep.

 ***

The male redbird was still frantic the next morning. She had hoped she’d wake to find the pair moving on with life, building a new and better nest in the camellia, but the female was nowhere to be seen.

May-Nell fed the old dog his toast and stew. He relished it, cleaned the bowl then actually jumped up and muddied her housecoat with his front paws.

“Now—” she started, then said, “I can’t very well fuss at you if you don’t have a name, now can I?” She scruffed his head and made him get down. “We’ll think of something.”

She hadn’t intended to name him, she realized.

It was the first time she’d thought of her trip to the koi pond in days, and suddenly she remembered that she hadn’t planned to stay around long enough to name him. It was strange now, the memory of holding the Toast-O-Lator, of standing in the cold water, the hideous fish nibbling at her skin. It was a lifetime ago.

It was something that had happened to someone else.

She made the dog get down, picked up the empty bowl, looked at the koi pond and decided again not to feed them.

Let Jackson take care of his own, she thought.

 ***

That afternoon, May-Nell and Montezuma, who sniffed the ground beside her, walked in the garden looking for a special bunch of flowers to put on the baby redbirds’ grave. Nothing seemed right—spikes of salvia were too blue, butterfly weed was too orange and reminded her of the dreadful koi, pinks smelled of funerals. There was, she realized with sadness, no flower in her garden as red as a redbird. She finally decided on covering the grave with the remaining cone flowers which, in the right light, looked reddish.

As above, she thought as she lay them on the tiny mound of earth, so below.

 ***

May-Nell set the last supper she had fixings for on the table while Jackson undressed in the kitchen for his bath. He said he always did that because the kitchen floor was easier to clean than the carpet, but he really did it to annoy her, she was certain of it. He could have, after all, taken off his filthy work clothes on the back porch. It would be easy to sweep, it was near the washing machine, and their privacy fence was so high it would hide his nakedness from God. No, she knew he did it so he could watch her clean up his dirty leavings after supper as he sat at the table, reeking of Dial as he finished his desert.

Jackson tossed his soiled socks into the pile with the rest of his clothes and asked, “What stinks?”

May-Nell bit her bottom lip, stopped setting the table and looked at the floor. It was black and white tile. Jackson had laid it himself. She had wanted red and white like her mama had had in her kitchen, but Jackson had said it would look “trashy.”

“Soup beans,” she said quietly.

“Soup beans?”

May-Nell didn’t want to repeat it. “On toast,” she said, “on toast. They’re real good on toast.”

Jackson stomped his foot and ran his hands through his orange shock of hair. “And what meat?”

“There’s no meat,” she mumbled.

“No meat. And why is there no meat?”

May-Nell started to shake. “We ran out.”

“And why didn’t you go to the store and get more?”

“I gave the rest of the food money to Prin—.”

Jackson struck her hard, open palmed, across the face.

May-Nell cried out, then cowered silently—stunned by the pain. It wasn’t the first time he’d hit her, but it was the hardest. She tasted blood. She could hear Montezuma barking in the backyard.

She could not hear the redbird.

Jackson loomed over her. She could smell the earth on his skin.

“SOUP BEANS ON TOAST!” he shouted so loud she could feel the sound waves strike her like ripples in a pond. “You and your fucking toast! I bust my ass all day long, you give money away to that girl and her wetback bastard and you feed me shit not fit for a dog? Well?”

“I’m sorry, Jackson,” she muttered.

“Sorry don’t mean shit,” he said. “Now, I’m gonna clean up and you’re gonna take the truck over to your daughter’s house and get back my money and buy and cook me a goddamn steak!”

May-Nell waited to lift her head until he’d left the room.

“It’s all mine, you know,” he called from the bathroom. “The food. The house. The money. You. I worked for it. Goddamn it! You and your daughter have made me a laughing stock in town, at my own job!”

May-Nell could hear him turn on the water.

“My good name! You just about ruined my life. You hear me?”

May-Nell didn’t move or answer.

Montezuma’s barks became more urgent.

“And you shut that old mutt up, or I will.”

May-Nell looked at the Toast-O-Lator. It was still plugged in to the extension cord.

Now she remembered. Now she knew why she’d carried it out to the pond. It wasn’t something that someone else did. She had done it. Had wanted to do it. Still wanted to do it.

She walked over to the counter and stared at her reflected image in the Toast-O-Lator’s chrome. She was old. Tired.

She picked it up, held the cool metal against her, and walked from the kitchen, past the bathroom door, and out into the backyard.

She could feel Montezuma nosing her hips and thighs, but she refused to look at him. She wasn’t staying for anyone. Not Princess, not Little Leo, not Montezuma. It was time.

May-Nell looked straight ahead and walked on to the pond. She was leaving and she was taking the koi with her.

Then she stopped cold.

The male redbird perched on one of the Indonesian river rocks and leaned over the edge of the pond. His wings were as scarlet as blood. In his red beak, he held a quivering moth.

As she came closer, she saw the koi rise to the surface, saw the Os of their mouths open. The redbird fluttered his wings and fed the moth to the closest koi. Then he sounded a bright note and then flew off into the trees.

May-Nell stood stock-still with wonder.

After a few seconds, the redbird returned to the pond, this time with a green caterpillar. He leaned over the water and fed another koi.

This time, before he flapped off into the trees, he stood up tall and proud and sang out: pretty-pretty-pretty!

May-Nell started to cry.

Montezuma licked her elbow.

“It’ll be alright,” she said, this time to herself, and turned back toward the house.

Montezuma did not follow her.

She marched through the back door to the bathroom, the extension cord trailing behind her like the tail of a kite.

Cradling the gleaming Toast-O-Lator in one arm, she flung the bathroom door wide with the other.

Jackson, belly deep in sudsy water, his big stomach white as the tub, looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Hell, woman. Nobody really does that. Just get my towel”

“My towel,” May-Nell echoed. “My. Mine. Mine…” She only waited a moment longer, then pressed down on the Bakelite handle, and the Toast-O-Lator whirred to life in her hands.

“This,” she said, as she held out the glorious machine over the bathtub, “is MINE!”

 ***

May-Nell sat in one of her lawn chairs, which she’d pulled to edge of the koi pond, and ate Wonder Bread straight out of the bag. Montezuma lay at her feet, a low, soft, satisfied snore coming from his muzzle.

The male redbird was nowhere in sight.

Soon, the police would come. She’d tell them that Jackson was just too ashamed of his daughter to live with himself.

It was the truth.

As for Princess, well, she’d be alright now. They all would be.

Her hunger sated, May-Nell tired of the doughy bread.

I’m going to need a new toaster, she thought, as she tore off bits of bread and tossed them onto the water. She watched closely as the setting sun slanted its light into the pond, burnishing the water as the koi ate the food she offered.

The fish unfurled their feathery tails, and in the failing light, it seemed they had wings as they floated beneath her.

Twilight came and for a moment the orange scales of their bodies turned scarlet.

DANIEL NATHAN TERRY, a former landscaper and horticulturist, is the author of three volumes of poetry: Waxwings (Lethe Press 2012); Days of Dark Miracles (Seven Kitchens Press 2011); and Capturing the Dead (NFSPS 2008), which won The Stevens Prize. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals and anthologies, including Cimarron Review, New South, Poet Lore, and Collective Brightness. He teaches at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, where he lives with his husband, painter and printmaker, Benjamin Billingsley.