That was the extent of Maya’s objections. Gratitude was still a big part of her feeling toward Paul. Her first husband had left her when Sammy was nine months old and she was pregnant with Max. It had seemed like a miracle when Paul came along and loved Sammy and Max as well as her. She was determined to have a good marriage, to be a good wife. Still only nineteen, she had no idea what being a good wife meant. She did things like hold the hot part of the cup when she passed him coffee, offering him the handle.

In August the thunderstorms came. It was wonderful, the sound of the rain on the tin roof, the lightning and thunder. There were tomatoes and squash and corn. Maya and the boys swam and fished in the clear ditch every day.

But the mice never did go away. The plumbing never got put in. Buzz came back often when Paul wasn’t home.

In the autumn Paul got a job in New York. He and Maya packed everything into the van and a U-Haul trailer. Pete and Frances and Romulo moved into the big house that same day. They stood waving and waving as the car and the U-Haul drove away. Maya waved too and she wept. The plants, the red-winged blackbirds, her friends. She knew she’d never be back. She knew this wasn’t a good marriage either. Frances died a few years later, but Pete and Romulo still live in the house. They are both old now. They sit under the trees and play dominoes and drink beer. You can see the place from Corrales Road. A fine old adobe, well over a hundred years old. It’s the house with the blazing red trumpet vine, the house with roses, everywhere.