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Edgy dogs tap their toenails beneath the staircase in the courtyard. He flaps his napkin at one, Caffay o-lay! She is uninterested. What a shock! They like the man teasing the dog. She could be one of those crows—that red-black of her hair and intense focus on the nauseous-making crumbs instead of on him, but inside her roils me.

His Olay has subsided.

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He pats the dog, sleek with tourist leavings, while two waiters balance and cart plates and saucers, empty or not, off their table. A cloud hovers, a hiatus in mood that allows him to turn to her just as the mariachi band, out all night, clatters and slumps into the adjacent chairs. Before he can make any further fluttering effort toward her, one of them strums, brushes his hand automatically or accidentally against his strings, and of course the crew sings. Listening to the music, the couples, errant or not, drink from their cups without looking at each other.


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It is as if he too has spent the night in the little bright blue and yellow room under the gorgeous staircase until 2 a. At night, screams my father into their dolorous buzzing.

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Even at night? Whereupon my mother, still indifferent but bold in her cameo-colored nudity, leans out over the roof to avoid the bees, and vomits. Afterwards, my mother and father go horseback riding into the basalt canyons to distract themselves from each other, to enjoy a few moments without carnal rawness. I remember—I hate horses today, the heaving, the lather.

The large bay my father rides knows right away he needs to flee from this new indifferent wife and races straight for the rocks. My mother screams, and her horse takes off into the opposite canyon. Their guide thoughtfully turns his horse after my mother instead of my father and finds her weeping at a spring not far away, her dark hair not unattractively framing her wet face, and the horse pawing and shuffling, reins down, not even really wanting the water.

Senorita , he says because he calls all women that, it is hotel policy, and then he says a lot of other things in Spanish.

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It is I who makes her dismount and throw herself into his arms. Her characters are self-absorbed buffoons at times but totally believable.

Reconsidering Happiness A Novel Flyover Fiction

This funny romp is very highly recommended for public libraries. A sense of urgency pervades all of her work, giving the words a pulse, making her language race with insistence.

Terese Svoboda brings a light hand, a pinch of humor and a lot of irreverence to this weighty task with her new novel, Tin God. Table of Contents [no TOC].


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