BEAUTIFUL LADY OF THE SNOW

      Annabelle puts her hand in the water and scoops out one of the goldfish she got at the county fair. The other one leaves its little red and green castle to float up against the glass and watch. The fish flips over a few times on the counter. Annabelle doesn’t want to hurt it; she only wants to stroke the shiny gold with her finger. But the fish flips so hard it sails off and lands on the floor next to her shoes, the new black patent-leather ones she got for First Communion. It doesn’t look gold anymore, down in the shadows by the cupboard. She picks it up; it is quick and alive in her hand, its mouth opening and closing, trying to suck in air. Suddenly it wriggles free, flying away. She steps back, startled, and feels it squish under her heel.

      She squats down to look. The head is flattened, a little liquid oozing from it. She gets a paper towel and crumples it around the fish, the way she has done with spiders. Then she puts it in the trash can under the sink, hiding it beneath a coffee filter full of wet grounds.

      When Annabelle’s mother comes into the apartment from the motel office, Annabelle is sitting on the couch with her feet straight out, watching TV over the shiny tops of her shoes. She wears them in the apartment all the time; her mother doesn’t want her to scuff them by wearing them outside, except on special occasions.

      Annabelle’s mother manages the motel, and they get a free apartment behind the office. Annabelle’s mother also has to take care of Grandpa, who lives in a trailer a few miles away and needs to go everywhere in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank. Grandpa can walk, when he needs to, but it is easier for him to ride, Annabelle’s mother explained. Sometimes Grandpa makes Annabelle ride on his lap, and Annabelle hates that, hates sinking into the fat thighs, the smothering arms wrapped around her. Plus, he smells like an old cigar. Even though he is not supposed to smoke anymore, she knows he sits in a green plastic chair outside his trailer and does just that. The cigar butts are right there, in a Maxwell House can, and it is filled nearly to the top.

      There are two good things about Grandpa’s place. One is the white cat that lives in the woods behind his trailer, that will run up to eat the food Annabelle sets out for it on a napkin, as long as Annabelle stands far enough back. The other is that Grandpa will let Annabelle have sweets, though it is sort of a good and bad thing at the same time. Grandpa says he intends to spoil her rotten, and Annabelle understands this to mean that one day all the chocolates and Cokes and Oreos her grandfather has given her will turn her insides black and hollow, like the picture of a decayed tooth the dentist showed her. Not only her teeth are going to rot, but her whole body. Sometimes Grandpa will sneak a candy bar into her plastic Barbie purse, for later. It is a secret between them, something her mother doesn’t know.

      “Lord in Heaven,” her mother says, coming over to the couch to sit next to Annabelle. “I’m sweating like a pig.” She is wearing a white sleeveless blouse and shorts that show the purple veins on her legs. Her face is splotched with red. She wipes it with a washcloth and then uses the washcloth on each armpit. The couch is old, the worn cushion sinking under her weight. Annabelle moves to the other cushion and draws her knees up. If her feet touch the floor, the scaly monster that lives under the couch will drag her under.

      “Having fun, baby?” her mother says, touching Annabelle’s hair.

      Annabelle shrugs.

      “At least you got the air-conditioning.” The apartment is cool, but in the office there is only a big fan that turns back and forth, pushing the hot air around. Her mother licks her thumb, then uses it to rub at a spot of dried milk on Annabelle’s chin. Annabelle scowls and tries to duck, but her mother holds her head firmly with one hand until the milk is gone.

      “There,” her mother says. “Now you’re pretty.”