My landlady scheduled a visit. After four months we had never met in person. Chillingly, her child got muddled into our plan. I decided on opening with something terrorizing so as to keep the brat at bay. I had a presentiment of horrendous damage. But I had a list of things that needed attention.

First thing the kid did was crawl into my hammock, half slipping and grappling, like a drunken bug in a web. Thankfully her mother admonished her, “No, peanut!” and yanked her to terra firma.

I presented the list. My landlady is a stunning blonde with periwinkle eyes and there’s nothing she cannot fix. We went to some monolithic hardware store that she was intimately familiar with. The kid sat cross-legged in the wheelie cart. The other shoppers were predominantly men, quietly grazing in their zoned out way, until she swished by and they could not help themselves but crane.

Back at the ranch mama moved rocks and coral boulders and was up to her elbows in mosquito swamp effortlessly fixing fountain pumps and replacing rubber hoses and plastic parts. In high heels and a long dress she installed screen doors and fixed air conditioners and rewired a fan. I was in love.

Meanwhile the kid and I began to play. Despite her pink dress and ribbons she was a tomboy. Soon, mud was churned and clung in her hair and smudged on her face. I decided I liked her. Being half feral myself I was moved by the urge to share my toys. I scooped the tiny girl into my arms and placed her gently on the hammock. Before I lay the child down, I whispered, “If you need to move around you have to move very slowly. Ok?” She assured me she understood the drill.

I promptly forgot about her and got busy marveling at mom’s dexterity. I was petitioning her, asking if she could maybe stay and look after me, when suddenly we heard piercing shrieking.

We turned to see the hammock flipping, and the child flying at the ground with her mouth wide with terror. She was grabbing at the warping canvas, except it was flapping, and she could gain no purchase. The inevitable crash was made worse when her delicate face smashed directly against the wood supports. The only thing louder than the noise of impact was the screaming.

I had to cover my ears.

The mother cradled her child, muffling the pitiful howls, absorbing the pain. Patting fast-rolling tears on the traumatized baby-face.

Thank heavens no skin was punctured, no blood was shed. Really, it was nothing more than a protruding tomato-red welt on her forehead. A disfiguring bump that we all pretended was not nearly as bad as it looked. Surely it would go down?

The weeping dwindled to moans.
“Mom, can I have an ice cream as big as the world?”
“Yes, peanut.”

I suppose they won’t be visiting again anytime soon.