One Door From Heaven

made her way from day to day in a curious and fragile state of expectancy.
        After giving her good looks, fate had never again been generous. Consequently, Micky wasn't able to identify a reason for this almost sweet anticipation. Defensively, she tempered it with wariness.
        Nevertheless, during the week that she'd been staying with Aunt Gen, she awakened each morning with the conviction that change was coming and that it would be a change for the better.
        Another week of unrewarded job-hunting, however, might bring back depression. Also, more than once during the day, she'd been troubled by a new version of her former rage; this sullen resentment wasn't as hot as her anger had been in the past, but it had the potential to quicken. The long day of rejection left her weary in body, mind, and spirit. And her emotional unsteadiness scared her.
        Barefoot, she went into the kitchen, where Geneva was preparing dinner. A small electric fan, set on the kitchen floor, churned the hot air with less cooling effect than might be produced by a wooden spoon stirring the contents of a bubbling soup pot.
        Because of the criminal stupidity and stupid criminality of California's elected officials, the state had suffered electricity shortages early in the summer, and in an overreaction to the crisis had piled up surpluses of power at grossly high prices. Utility rates had soared. Geneva couldn't afford to use the air conditioning.
        As Aunt Gen sprinkled Parmesan cheese over a bowl of cold pasta salad, she served up a smile that could have charmed the snake of Eden into a mood of benign companionship. Gen's once golden hair was pale blond now, streaked with gray. Yd because she'd grown plump with age, her face was smooth; coppery freckles and lively green eyes testified to the abiding presence of the young girl thriving in the sixty-year-old woman. "Micky, sweetie, did you have a good day?"
        "Sucky day, Aunt Gen."
        "That's a word I never know whether to be embarrassed about."
        "I didn't realize anyone got embarrassed about anything anymore. In this case, it just means 'as bad as a sucking chest wound.' "
        "Ah. Then I'm not embarrassed, just slightly sickened. Why don't you get a glass of cold lemonade, honey? I made fresh."
        "What I really need is a beer."
        "There's also beer. Your uncle Vernon liked two icy beers more evenings than not."
        Aunt Gen didn't drink beer. Vernon had been dead for eighteen years. Still, Geneva kept his favorite brand in the refrigerator, and if no one drank it, she periodically replaced it with new stock when its freshness date had passed.
        Although conceding the game to Death, she remained determined not to let Death also take sweet memories and long-kept traditions in addition to his prize of flesh.
        Micky popped open a can of Budweiser. "They think the economy's going down the drain."
        "Who does, dear?"
        "Everyone I talked to about a job."
        Having set the pasta salad on the dinette table, Geneva began slicing roasted chicken breasts for sandwiches. "Those people are just pessimists. The economy's always going down the drain for some folks, but it's a warm bath for others. You'll find work, sweetie."
        The beer provided icy solace. "How do you stay so upbeat?"
        Focused on the chicken, Geneva said, "Easy. I just look around."
        Micky looked around. "Sorry, Aunt Gen, but all I see is a poky little trailer kitchen so old the gloss is worn off the Formica."
        "Then you don't know how to look yet, honey. There's a dish of pickles, some olives, a bowl of potato salad, a tray of cheese, and other stuff in the fridge. Would you put everything on the table?"
        Extracting the cheese tray from the refrigerator, Micky said, "Are you cooking for a cellblock full of condemned men or something?"
        Geneva set a platter of sliced chicken on the table. "Didn't you notice-we have three place settings this evening?"
        "A dinner guest?"
        A knock answered the question. The back door stood open to facilitate air circulation, so Leilani Klonk rapped on the jamb.
        "Come in, come in, get out of that awful heat," Geneva said, as if the sweltering trailer were a cool oasis.
        Backlit by the westering sun, wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a small green heart embroidered on the left breast, Leilani entered in a