Bliss appraised her handiwork with a satisfied nod. “There,” she said. She got up from her cross-legged position on the floor and bounced into the kitchen, her dreadlocks flapping behind her. She reappeared a moment later with a photograph.

“I thought you might want to have this,” she said.

Susan took the color snapshot. It was a photograph of her as a toddler, standing in the yard with her father. He still had his heavy beard and was bending down so he could hold her hand; she was looking up at him and beaming, all plump cheeks and tiny teeth. Her brown hair was tied up in messy pigtails, and her red dress was dirty; he was wearing a T-shirt and holey jeans. They were both sunburned and barefoot, and they appeared completely happy. Susan had never seen the photograph before.

She felt a wave of sorrow wash over her. “Where did you find this?” she asked.

“It was in a box of his old papers.”

Susan’s father had died when she was fourteen. Now when Susan thought of him, he was always kind and wise, a picture of paternal perfection. She knew it wasn’t that simple. But after he was gone, both she and Bliss had fallen apart, so he must have had some leveling influence.

“He loved you so much,” Bliss said quietly.

Susan wanted a cigarette, but after spending her childhood lecturing Bliss about lung cancer, she didn’t like to smoke around her. It seemed an admission of defeat.

Bliss looked like she wanted to say something motherly. She reached up and sweetly smoothed a piece of Susan’s pink hair. “The color’s faded. Come into the salon and I’ll touch it up. The pink is flattering on you. You’re so pretty.”

“I’m not pretty,” Susan said, turning away. “I’m striking. There’s a difference.”

Bliss withdrew her hand.

It was dark and wet in the backyard. The back porch light illuminated a half circle of muddy grass and dead sedum planted too close to the house. The straw man was in the copper fire bowl. Bliss leaned over and set the straw on fire with a white plastic lighter and then stood back. The straw crackled and burned and then the flames crept up the little straw man’s torso until they engulfed him fully. His little arms were splayed wide, as if in panic. Then all human shape was lost to the orange blaze. Susan and Bliss burned Susan’s father every year so that they could let him go, start fresh. At least that was the idea. Maybe they would stop if it ever took.

Susan’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away. That was the thing. You thought you were emotionally steady, and then your dead father went and had a birthday and your crazy mother went and set a straw doll on fire in his memory.

“I’ve got to go,” Susan said. “There’s someone I need to meet.”

The club was choked with cigarette smoke. Susan’s eyes stung from it. She pulled another cigarette out of a pack on the bar, lit it and took a drag. The music pounded through the floor. It snaked along the walls and up the stools and tunneled its way through Susan’s legs and vibrated the copper surface of the bar. Susan watched the yellow pack of cigarettes jump. It was dark. It was always dark in that club. She liked the way that you could be there and hide in plain sight from the person right next to you. She was good at drinking. But she’d had one drink too many. She considered this. It had probably been the blackberry martini. Or possibly the Pabst. Her mind blurred from the booze and she placed a hand flat on the bar until the sensation passed.

“I’m going outside for some air,” she said to the man next to her. She yelled it to be heard over the music, but the club’s throbbing baseline sucked the life out of all other sound.

The front door was on the other side of the dance floor, and as she made her way through the Monday-night DJ crowd, she compensated for the drinking with a too-careful stride, head held high, level, arms extended a few inches from her sides, eyes straight ahead, cigarette burning. No one danced at that club. They just stood around, shoulder-to-shoulder, nodding their heads to the beat. Susan had to touch people to get them to part for her, a shoulder, an upper arm, and they would melt a few inches back so she could pass. She could feel their eyes follow her. Susan knew she attracted attention. It wasn’t that she was pretty exactly. Her look belonged in the 1920s: a wide face with a large forehead that tapered to a small chin, skinny limbs, a rosebud mouth, and a flat chest. Her chin-length hair and very short bangs made her look even more like a deranged flapper. Striking was definitely the word for it. Without the pink hair, she might even have been beautiful. But it distracted from the sweetness of her features, making her look harder. Which was sort of the point.

She got to the door, squeezed past the bouncer, and felt the crisp fresh air wash over her. The club was in Old Town, which up until recently had been called “Skid Row.” Back when people still called Portland “Stumptown,” there had been a thriving Shanghai business in that part of town, and thousands of loggers and sailors had gone into a bar or brothel, only to wake up in the hold of a boat. These days, Portland ’s biggest industries were tourism and high-tech, many of Old Town’s weathered turn-of-the-century brick buildings were being redeveloped as lofts, and you could tour the Shanghai tunnels for twelve dollars.

Everything changed eventually.

Susan dropped what was left of the cigarette on the wet cement, ground it under the heel of her boot, leaned up against the brick wall of the club, and closed her eyes.

“Do you want to smoke a joint?”

She opened her eyes. “Fuck, Ethan,” she said. “You scared the shit out of me. I didn’t think you heard me in there.”

Ethan grinned. “I was right behind you.”

“I was listening to the rain,” Susan said, lifting her chin at the glistening black street. She smiled slowly at Ethan. She had only known him about two hours, and she was beginning to suspect that he was smitten. He was not her usual type. He was in his late twenties, in that particular punk-rock way. He probably wore cords and a hooded sweatshirt every day. He lived with five other guys in a crappy house in a cheap part of town. He’d worked in a record store for eight years, played in three bands, listened to Iggy Pop, the Velvet Underground. He smoked pot and drank beer, but not the cheap stuff. “Do you have a one-hitter?”

He nodded happily.

“Let’s walk around the block,” she said, taking his hand, arm swinging, leading him out into the steady spit of Portland rain.

He loaded the one-hitter as they walked and passed it to her for the virgin drag. She took a hit, feeling the satisfying burn in her lungs before she exhaled. She placed the one-hitter in his mouth and guided him around the corner of the building they were passing. There wasn’t much traffic in that part of town at night. She put her face right in front of his. He was taller, so she was looking up.

“Do you want a blow job?” she asked gravely.

He smiled that sort of dumb smile that guys get when they cannot believe their good luck. “Uh, sure.”

Susan smiled back. She had given her first blow job at fourteen. She’d had a good teacher. “Really?” She tilted her head in an exaggerated expression of surprise. “That’s funny. Since you haven’t been taking my calls.”

“What?”

Their noses were almost touching. “I’ve left you eleven messages, Ethan. About Molly Palmer.”

His smile vanished and a coin slot-shaped furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“She was your college girlfriend, right? Did she ever tell you about her relationship with the senator?”

Ethan tried to back up, realized he was against a wall, and instead shifted awkwardly before settling on crossing him arms. “Who are you?”