[id: "The cap held firm awhile, but crumbled eventually between her fingers. She had merely intended to satisfy her disbelief. Just a little water flashed against the black insides, but, yes, there it was—singing in the darkness. Rain and river. Iron and salt. How many years, she wondered, had it been carried along? She shook it, and it
sang again. Brightly, cleanly around its course. Somewhere behind and above her, Toby was asking a question. She had no answer. She had no answer yet, but she put the canteen to her mouth and saw, yes—a house; their house and its mesa, their stream and its water, and seas; seas and chimneys; the distant funnel of a greenblack hurricane; coins, buttons, buckles, dizzy blue beads and this canteen; this canteen, and this camel, and Coyote in his winter coat; a long unbroken road, a line of misshapen shadows, and men all around laughing at, no, laughing with each other, laughing around the fire, resting on their camels; a girl, small, thin-legged child of the desert, with her hand outheld; and water—the roar of rivers leaving their canyons, rushing over land, over cliff, over the thicksalted bed of some strange dark sea; and now her house again; camel and rider side by side in thenbrush, folded side by side in a deep trench—no, grave; both in the grave together, and the blinding flash of a camera; passersby shouting, “hey is this the place?”; yes, this is the place; this is the place—until it isn’t; her house—until it isn’t; no water and therefore no house, no paper, no town at all, one way or the other, no matter what; but then some other town, some other house, some house elsewhere, some new house in Wyoming; and Evelyn there—Evelyn with her in the new house, after all; and Toby; little Toby stacking his towers; Toby again, but older now, his hair grown back and brown, not blond as she had expected; brown-haired Toby reading a book; Toby, brown-haired and leaving that other house, leaving Nora and Evelyn for Denver; and Desma swinging an ax; Desma swinging from a tree, or in a porch swing; and Rob swinging, swinging around to look at her from among the goblins; swinging through the Sanchez ranch gate in his Sunday suit, swinging the shotgun into his hands; swinging Josie around the hardwood; and Josie; Josie walking crook-footed, crook-footed forever; Josie forced to wear a brace, forced to wear glasses, always-dizzy Josie; always-dizzy but alive, run-over by a camel and lived to tell it Josie; Josie and Rob in some distant town, in some unfamiliar church; a shower of rice and a small child; no—two children; a house somewhere in the blue north; tarot cards on a felt tabletop and graying Rob in overalls and some strange contraption in his driveway; and Dolan; little Dolan resting his chin on folded hands, watching the silk of the sieving line darken; Dolan, by firelight, stitching up his brother’s arm with bandaged hands; and now walking arm-in-arm with a dark-haired woman through a city that must be San Francisco; and Nora, taking the train; taking the train past singing waters, taking the train to rock with her bare foot the cradle of a solemn little girl-child; Dolan and girl-child in a green park; no—churchyard; child laying flowers down, child waving to Dolan from the schoolhouse steps; Dolan’s scarred knuckles braiding all that schoolgirl hair; and Nora in some new house, alone; or in some new house with Emmett—and Emmett gray, Emmett old, Emmett aging alongside her, as Evelyn had; Emmett from room to room in his slippers; Emmett holding her hand in sleep; his sleep and hers; and Evelyn; Evelyn in the new house at twenty; Evelyn at thirty; Evelyn on the Denver train; Evelyn in the theater seat beside her, holding back tears for Toby, brown-haired Toby taking his bows onstage; taking his time at the lectern, taking a turn through the lamplit neighborhood with a tall young man; and Evelyn’s hand in her own in the kitchen; and Emmett laughing with Evelyn on the porch; on their porch; on the porch of some new house, theirs but not this, not this one at all; not this sundrowned farm with
