Eyes closed, Taylor leaned back against the porch railing. Late sunlight slid across her face, made fire-patterns on the backs of her eyelids. She set her bouquet down beside her, rubbed one foot along the cool stair. Felt the splinters scratch and break against its thick sole. A cricket near the juniper bush began a lonely chirping, and Taylor sat up.

In front of the house the road was empty. Impatiently, she bit her lower lip, pushed limp hair out of her face. Over there, the farthest arch of sky was already turning the color of new apples. Taylor inspected her feet, dusted red from the yard's dry earth.

Ten, she thought, I am ten today, and from inside the house drifted a smell of chocolate. Double digits. Inhaled deeply, picked at a hangnail. Little fickle trails of sap across her palms from her wildflower bouquet.

The breeze, a little cooler now, covered her legs with little sandpapery bumps. She tried to tug the hem of her dress down to cover her scabby knees. Too short-- the old cotton too thin anyway. She tucked her heels up on the top step and hugged her knees to her, instead. Rocked back and forth, watching the road. Thought of June blackberries. Betty Crocker chocolate cakes. Candle wax.

More crickets, now, from the juniper bush. From the honeysuckle too, over there in the other corner, but no stars hung yet above the porch.

Behind her, the screen door whining. Her mother's footsteps, softly sighing on the creaking wood. No sound for a moment. Taylor picked up the bunch of wildflowers, wilted beside her, turned around. In the stained light, her mother's face lined, older than usual. A smear of chocolate batter on her chin. The dishtowel she held ragged and limp. Her eyes scanned the road. Slid then, tired, to where Taylor sat.

-Not here yet.

Taylor, shaking her head so her fine hair swung past the corners of her eyes, bit her lower lip. The dishtowel knotted, wound tight and uncurled between her mother's hands. A pause.

-Come inside. 'S getting cold. You're filthy. Barefoot. He'll be here. Come on.

Inside, the kitchen smelled thickly golden, and the cake sat cooling on the counter. A frying pan on the stove, filled with hissing oil, and three raw eggs in a blue bowl nearby.

Taylor slid her feet across the smooth linoleum to hear the swish of sound. Like a bird's wing, she thought, and then In the double digits now. Could imagine her father, picking her up, tossing her shrieking-laughing in the air, calling her Old Lady.

She found and filled an empty mayonnaise jar and put the flowers in, centered it on the little table, folded herself into a chair. Abruptly, then, the phone rattling in its wall hook, its shrill, fervent voice through the kitchen silence.

Her mother's voice, impatient, hopeful: -Hello?

Taylor knelt on the red plastic seat and bent over the shiny tabletop, close to see the flecks of gold under the plastic cover. So much gold, this table must be worth a fortune. Thought about digging out the gold with a toothpick, stringing it on a necklace. Putting it around her mother's neck while she slept, hearing her surprise--

-You're not. What--

Taylor leaned closer, cupped her hands around her mouth, breathed. Sat back to watch her little cloud of breath melt away. Wondered if souls looked like that. Knew her father wasn't coming home tonight.

Her mother's voice, tighter than usual: -It's her birthday. For Christ's sake-- Breathed in, deep, hard. Taylor turned around to face her mother, the balls of her bare feet just brushing the floor.

-No. Okay. All right.

The phone, clattering back in its place. For a moment, one hand quivered pale against her mother's forehead. The other, tensed around the dishtowel, hanging by her side. -Your dad. Taylor. He's busy. Don't worry. We'll have fun.

Moved slowly to stand in front of the stove. Broke an egg into the frying pan, reached for another. Her hand, blind as a moth, almost tipped the blue bowl over-- the two remaining eggs rolled and chattered inside until the bowl righted itself.

Taylor pushed hair off her forehead, chewed at her lower lip. Across the room her mother's back was tense, the line of her shoulders hard.

Oil, vicious in the frying pan, and a hot searing egg smell. The window, now mirror-dark with night. Between her mother's hands, even the snap of eggshells cracking sounded angry.

Swallowing hard--

-Ma.- Her voice, begging, filled the room too quickly, too loudly. -'S all right. We'll have fun.

Her mother's head dropped lower over the frying pan, silent. She breathed in once, shuddering-- the air felt thick in Taylor's throat, and she swallowed again.

She saw herself getting up. Wanted to run across the room, throw her arms around that waist, melt those tight, furious shoulders--

Slowly, one knee pulled itself up underneath her chin. Her stomach tight inside her, she bit her lower lip again, tasted the salt on it. Listened to the angry hiss of the eggs frying, the crickets mourning outside.