We laughed about all the kids who believed in the Santa myth and got
nothing for Christmas but a bunch of cheap plastic toys. "Years from
now, when all the junk they got is broken and long forgotten," Dad said,
"you'll still have your stars."
AT TWILIGHT, ONCE the sun had slid behind the Palen Mountains, the
bats came out and swirled through the sky above the shacks of Midland.
The old lady who lived next door warned us away from bats. She called
them flying rats and said one got caught in her hair once and went crazy
clawing at her scalp. But I loved those ugly little bats, the way they
darted past, their wings in a furious blur. Dad explained how they had
sonar detectors kind of like the ones in nuclear submarines. Brian and I
would throw pebbles, hoping the bats would think they were bugs and eat
them, and the weight of the pebbles would pull them down and we could
keep them as pets, tying a long string to their claw so they could still fly
around. I wanted to train one to hang upside down from my finger. But
those darn bats were too clever to fall for our trick.
The bats were out, swooping and screeching, when we left Midland for
Blythe. Earlier that day, Mom had told us that the baby had decided it
was big enough to come out soon and join the family. Once we were on
the road, Dad and Mom got in a big fight over how many months she'd
been pregnant. Mom said she was ten months pregnant. Dad, who had
fixed someone's transmission earlier that day and used the money he'd
made to buy a bottle of tequila, said she probably lost track somewhere.
"I always carry children longer than most women," Mom said. "Lori was
in my womb for fourteen months."
"Bullshit!" Dad said. "Unless Lori's part elephant."
"Don't you make fun of me or my children!" Mom yelled. "Some babies