"I hate Erma," I told Mom.
"You have to show compassion for her," Mom said. Erma's parents had
died when she was young, Mom explained, and she had been shipped off
to one relative after another who had treated her like a servant.
Scrubbing clothes on a washboard until her knuckles bled—that was the
preeminent memory of Erma's childhood. The best thing Grandpa did for
her when they got married was buy her an electric washing machine, but
whatever joy it had once given her was long gone.
"Erma can't let go of her misery," Mom said. "It's all she knows." She
added that you should never hate anyone, even your worst enemies.
"Everyone has something good about them," she said. "You have to find
the redeeming quality and love the person for that."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "How about Hitler? What was his redeeming quality?"
"Hitler loved dogs," Mom said without hesitation.
IN LATE WINTER, Mom and Dad decided to drive the Oldsmobile back
to Phoenix. They said they were going to fetch our bikes and all the other
stuff we'd had to leave behind, pick up copies of our school records, and
see if they could rescue Mom's fruitwood archery set from the irrigation
ditch alongside the road to the Grand Canyon. We kids were to remain in
Welch. Since Lori was the oldest, Mom and Dad said she was in charge.
Of course, we were all answerable to Erma.
They left one morning during a thaw. I could tell by the high color in
Mom's cheeks that she was excited about the prospect of an adventure.
Dad was also clearly itching to get out of Welch. He had not found a job,
and we were dependent on Erma for everything. Lori had suggested that
Dad go to work in the mines, but he said the mines were controlled by