She moved the basket of jalapeños from her lap, leaned forward in the rocker and reached out for the rifle that she'd kept close by since Juan died.
She stroked the veined walnut stock. It had been kept underneath the bed along with things that they did not often use. An extra quilt, a tablecloth her sister had embroidered, a pair of black doeskin shoes her Uncle Jesús had made for her wedding, a white mantila, a few toys that had survived a succession of children.
Imelda needed new shoes for her First Holy Communion. There was no money, Javier told her. Yolanda had a little savings, money she’d find in his clothes when he came home with Texas whiskey and drank until he passed out. She never took much, and not always. She counted the coins; she had enough. But how would she explain new shoes to Javier?
So Yolanda found her wedding shoes and she stuffed the toes with two of her linen handkerchiefs. They looked huge but they stayed on the little girl's feet because of the straps and the buttons.
Then Juan was dead. And Javier was dead. Then Carlos.
Josip strained to see the figure waiting for him outside the house. It could have been her; could yet be Genevieve if she were still alive; if she had waited for him.
With every step his heart thumped harder, bruised with each leap. He looked down at his feet, counted once more to fifty. When he looked up; she was just a speck of woman--but yes, it was a woman for a billowing skirt dripped over to the floor. Would Genevieve ever wear purple?
She set the rifle against the wall behind her and rocked as her eyes closed into sleep.