Something’s wrong—I know it before I fit my key in the lock. The front door sticks. Everything sticks during the monsoon.

“Chloe? Claud? It’s mom! Where’s my greeting committee?” I listen in the dark to the swamp cooler’s whine. I always turn all the lights out when I leave. A moonlit figure streaks up the bookcase and takes cover in a gap between books and wall.

            “What is it, Lo-lo? Why you acting like a scaredy-cat? And where’s your brother?”

            Chloe’s face shines like a flashlight over a listing book. She mews as though to say, “Something’s wrong, Mom.” The last time she acted this way, the house had caught fire. My neighbor Phyllis heard the smoke detector, forced a window, leaned in and removed a pan of pinto beans from the stove. I only meant to soak them. I had been on automatic when I turned on the gas and left. 

            A blade of light draws me down the hallway to a back room where broken glass, ceramic shards, leaves, potting soil, and one orange paver litter the linoleum. The Zuni fetish I purchased at a flea market has vanished from the sill. Carved in shell with turquoise eyes, the dolphin was supposed to protect me. The vendor said it was blessed by a medicine man, but I doubt it, given the price. Even so, the carving made me feel safe, set there near the coleus.

I know without looking that my flute, a Gemeinhardt, is gone. The towel I used to sop up spillage after overwatering the coleus hangs over the sheet music stand, bloodied. Good, I think. I hope he cut himself good, mounting the jagged hole.

I text Miguel: I WAS BURGLARIZED! When he doesn’t immediately reply, I think he may be lost in the parking lot behind the FourSquare Bakery where we met tonight for pie. I always order the Chocolate Rhapsody, and he the Titanic Triple Berry. As we ate we googled venues—coffee houses, bars, clubs and pubs—where folk rock with a pop of Latin might go over. Miguel delivers the vocals and keyboard. We’ve talked about how the addition of strings would give us some swag.

Still no Claud. He’s not under the futon or behind the curtains or inside the toppled hamper. Did he slip out when I came in? No way did he shinny up the spiny, pleated trunk of the saguaro cactus. I’m not fond of the behemoth succulent. Forty feet tall, it looks like the hand of God flipping the bird. I’d take it out if doing so weren’t a felony. No waiting it out, either. A saguaro can live a couple hundred years.

            “Hallie, that you?” Across the street Brett is raising a racket pouring cans into a recycling bin. Phyllis loiters in the open doorway wearing a ruffled cotton nightie, the type I wore when I was eight. They moved here from Pocatello just last April, and I don’t really know them. Every weekend vehicles pack the curb. I’ve lived here nearly two years, and I wonder how they made so many friends so fast.

“A burglar busted a window and dropped in to say hey,” I call out. “Did you see anything?” I think I sound calm enough.

“Well, that explains that,” Phyllis says. “Half an hour ago Rowdy was yapping and carrying on. I looked out but—” She shakes her head and shrugs.

When is that Yorkie not yapping? He pokes his head out now and woofs.

            “Did you call the police?” Brett asks.

“Not yet,” I admit. I have a recurring dream in which I’m frantically trying to phone them—pressing the keys of my flute. “I have to find my guy.” 

“The white one that comes over here sometimes?” Phyllis crosses her arms and hugs her bare shoulders. “Such a cutie. I can put on my shoes and help look.”

“No, the yellow tabby. No worries, he’ll show up.”

Cats are sketchy. Until I taped over the doorbell, every ring sent Chloe into hiding. The only person mine trust besides me is Miguel. He brings them lunch meat, and Claud lays dead birds at his feet. It’s happened.

  “Want me to come over?” Brett offers. “You sound spooked.”

I pretend I didn’t hear and hurry back inside.

Gone: Big, blue exercise ball, 3-speed bike, jewelry box, toolbox, not-so big-screen TV, Hi-Fi record player and albums. The burglar passed on my antiquated boombox with AM/FM radio, CD player, and (broken) tape deck. He overlooked the sixty dollars cash tucked in plain sight between salt and pepper shakers, but filched the bag of m&m’s leaning against the cereal box.

When the glass broke, Chloe would have taken cover. But my fierce boy would shred an intruder’s hide the same way he did the leather armchair, my one good piece of furniture. Remembering something I’d once heard, I fling open the microwave oven and find, to my relief, only spattered tomato sauce.  

Maybe he’s out back? “Time to come in, Claud!” A crouched figure in the chinaberry tree turns out to be a bent, jettisoned window screen. I duck the laundry line and shake the few scraggly bushes. “Where is he? Go find your brother, Lo-lo.” She butts my outstretched hand.

            Chloe and Claud aren’t really siblings. After moving to Tucson, I adopted Chloe, a six-week-old spark, from a no-kill shelter near the reservation. One day she answered my call with him in tow. I was used to her bringing home found objects—reading glasses, golf tees, empty prescription bottles, a withered carrot—but when I saw Claud’s matted yellow fur and his ears caked with mites, I threatened to put him on a bus to Beirut. Chloe nuzzled him, mewing, “Can he stay, Mom?” After that I strung the wood fence in back with flimsy netting, which foils Claud but not my girl. She finds a way over, I block it, she finds another way.

This time I leave a voicemail. Miguel and I met last fall when he accused me of theft—an offense I still dispute. We’ve worked many late nights together, and he’s probably still up. Plus I have no one else.  

            Another hour passes, then two. I phone 911 again, and the dispatcher tells me not to move, help is on the way—which makes me wonder if she understands my emergency. I think a beer will steady me but discover the six-pack I bought just yesterday was lifted, too. What shocks me, though, when I open the fridge, is the sight of my bargain jewelry stuck in the bologna.

            It’s past two when a squad car pulls up. During his inspection Sgt. Lutz finds a pack of Zig-Zags on the counter. “For cleaning sticky flute keys,” I hastily explain. After the kitchen fire I painted the smoke-blackened wall behind the stove, but I haven’t gotten around to replacing the singed curtain. Dishes have piled up and clothes lie helter-skelter. Who cares what a crook thinks, but I hope Lutz doesn’t judge me by the overflowing litter box. As he tries to decipher lipstick squiggles on the bathroom mirror, I flush. “Not my shit,” I assert.

The laundry room feeds into a dirt alley that leads to the street. A trail of m&m’s, bike tire tracks, and two sets of small shoeprints bring us to my gold silk shawl puddling around my TV where it crash-landed. Lutz and I speak at the same time.

“Women,” I say.

“Kids,” he says.

Could be. Aside from the TV and bike, everything stolen could fit in a big red wagon.

Back inside I keep glancing at the coffee table. Something’s not right. It’s dusty but for one shiny rectangle. I feel the old grief all over again.

            “Sgt. Lutz? Can you add one more thing to your report?”

            He already tore out my copy. “What’s that? A secret diary? Naughty toys? Counterfeit designer handbags? Maybe a key to a lockbox hiding scammed gift cards? I’ve heard it all.”

             “We used to have this dachshund—my husband and I—see, and he died, our dog I mean, after slipping his leash and getting hit by a car and, well, I didn’t want to bury Dundee in the yard—after all, it’s against the law, at least where I come from—”

            Lutz fingers the TV remote like a wind instrument.

            “They took my dog’s ashes.” I kept the off-white powder, Dundee’s cremated remains, in a baggy inside a Kleenex box. I intended to buy a nice wooden one and paint it with quarter notes and half rests. “Why would anybody want my dog’s ashes?” I know the moment I ask.

            “Cocaine,” Sgt. Lutz and I say in unison.

            After he leaves I call Claud again. This time I spot him near the shed lurking behind a loose pile of dusty pavers. “What are you doing? Did you chase off the bad guys? Are you my brave boy?” His pupils are large and shiny. I pat him down head to tail, checking for broken pieces. Chloe is glad to see him, too. She sniffs his behind and rolls over, exposing her belly. Claud hisses and swipes at her, something he’s never done before.

            Dreams stalk me. In the morning I don’t want to get out of the shower. I feel dirty, knowing a stranger fouled my toilet and bloodied one of my towels. The thought nags me I’m missing something: Something is missing I haven’t yet noticed.

Miguel’s voicemail is full. The first time we met I was struck by his true tenor. I had just scored when he confronted me outside Clive’s Groovy Vibes. “Where you going with that? That’s mine!”

“This?” I held up the paper sack with my record. “No it’s not.”

“Did you find it on an empty rack with a Sheeran CD? I set them down while I was still looking.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have done that.” I shouldered past, shaken out of my design to bake brownies while crooning along with Ritchie Valens.

Miguel matched my stride. “I’ll pay you for it. How much do you want?”

I tried to stare him down, refusing to be put off by his mirrored sunglasses. His chin is as clean as a bar of soap, and his coffee-colored, shoulder-length hair resembles mine. Even though I’m bigger, I gave in first. “If it means that much to you, I guess it is yours.” I retrieved the receipt from my fannypack.

He thanked me with a lopsided, boyish grin. His two front teeth overlap slightly. “I can Venmo you, or if you’ll wait, I’ll get some cash.” Sugary suggestions wafted from a bakery neighboring the ATM. Wearing a fleece vest, tee-shirt, and Serpientes baseball cap, he looked harmless enough.

“You’ll do better than that. You’re going to feed me.”

Once seated Miguel removed his sunglasses to reveal Hershey eyes undamaged by sun or age. He had just turned twenty, he told me, and music is his whole life. “Folk, indie, rock, rhythm—you name it, I hit it all.” I learned he’s a homegrown Tucsonan and his girlfriend Evie thinks he’s scatterbrained. “It’s not like I’m all over the place.” He couldn’t explain to her where his head is—mainly because she’s always interrupting. “We fight a lot,” he admitted.

As we ate pie and talked, the fourteen years between us vaporized. I gave Miguel the lowdown on myself. I had fled Denver with little more than what I could stuff in my Kia. My husband had sneaked off while I was rehearsing for a church recital. I heard later Gary had gone to Montana where as a boy he’d spent a single summer on a ranch. He took his power tools, guns, guitar and the musical scores he was forever trying to write. I only discovered he’d taken his CDs when I myself was packing to move. His collection spanned a century and ranged from Jimmy Rodgers to Tim McGraw, and Gary had generously left me the empty jewel cases, a thousand or so that I had to carry up from the basement and haul out to the trash.

Miguel paid our bill and texted me so I’d have his number. “We should get together and jam some time. Wait a sec!” He returned to our table for the paper sack. Then he had to return a second time for his sunglasses. I was amused. What a scatterbrain.

FourSquare Bakery became our favorite go-to and is where we decided to duo up. Tacked to the walls are skis, ski poles and knit caps that recall snow-laden fir trees and the Rocky Mountains. I came to the desert for a new start and found it blooming with palm and orange trees. I still don’t know what to make of the scavenging, tusked javelina and creepy-crawly scorpions, centipedes and tarantulas. The unrelenting heat and oppressive loneliness are another matter.

Why haven’t I heard from Miguel?

I notify my insurance agency. Of course, Dundee’s ashes aren’t covered. How would I set a price on him, anyway? Droopy-eared and stubby-legged, he was our spoiled child. Poor Dundee. I wonder how much his remains will fetch.

            I feel at loose ends when I set out on foot. A mauve awning shades the entrance to a family restaurant. Four picket signs stick out of the grass in a row, each with one word. FREE KIDS EAT HERE. Around the corner Clive’s is the only place in town that trades both vinyl and CDs. He practically pounces on me, singing, “Hol-ly, Ho-ly, Hal-lie!” He greets me every time with this maligned clip of the Neil Diamond number.

            “Hi, Clive. ¿Qué pasa?”

            “Dig this! Like new, not a single scratch.” He flashes an album cover. When I don’t react, he continues. “You don’t know Bird? Only the greatest saxophonist ever! Listen!” Blue notes flit overhead. “So, what’s in your wallet today?”

            “Just browsing,” I reply with a measured yawn. “My records and turntable were stolen. My flute, too.”

            As Clive’s eyebrows rise, his half-rimmed glasses slip down his nose. “I’m very sorry that happened to you, mi querida.” His tone is so genuine, so caring, for a moment I think I’m going to lose it. I steer to the back of the store.

            After skimming through a rack of CDs, I select two family-size bags of m&m’s from the shelf under the register. I throw in a plastic recorder hanging on a hook with some harmonicas and bagged cherry licorice. I tell myself the toy will keep my fingers limber.

            “Don’t wait so long to come back. Even just to shoot the breeze. You don’t have to buy anything.” Yeah, yeah, I think. Clive is a relic who just says things. I notice then how worn the carpet is. The dimly lit store has no neon signs. Last week I passed a store that practically bounced. A sign in its window read, “The more CDs you have, the cooler you are.”

Back on the street I see the restaurant signs have been rearranged. EAT FREE KIDS HERE.

            The following morning the florist calls on me to make three runs—a jade plant to an office, a Twelve Shades of Rose box to a condo, and white calla lilies to a chapel. Delivering flowers now and then pays next to nothing and the tips smack. In way of compensation, I read the notes. Occasionally there’s a zinger:

“I’m a ditty. You’re an aria. Let’s fugue.”

One I liked but didn’t know why read:

            “It’s all new.”

            Birthday, wedding, retirement? House or baby? Friend? The note accompanied a bowl of yellow tulip buds in water.

Backing the van into a narrow slot, I nick the coffin on rollers that was off-loaded and left straddling two parking spaces. It slams into the hearse’s fender. I see no one around so I complete the delivery in record time and floor it.

When I pull in my driveway, Phyllis and her daughter Becca cross the street holding hands, looking as though they stepped off a Simplicity pattern, halter top and sunsuit sewn from the same polka-dot fabric.

“Did they catch him yet?” Phyllis demands.

I shake my head. “Could be kids or maybe even grown women.”

Phyllis purses her lips. “Imagine that.”

            So I do: lipsticked bandits with beer, brads and ball on bikes. They took my flute! Did they watch me leave? Do they know my routine? What am I thinking, I don’t have a routine.

            Becca squats, singing, “Mo-om.” She draws on the sidewalk with chalk.

            “Don’t you feel violated? I’d be madder than heck. They entered your home!”

            “Mom?” A bird is taking shape under Becca’s hand. At least it might be a bird. It might be a dinosaur.

            “Not now, Becca. I’m talking.” A bead of sweat slides down Phyllis’s neck and disappears in her generous cleavage. “What you need is a dog.”

            I had a dog—and he got snuffed.

            Becca scuttles over knock-kneed, holding her crotch. “Phyllis!”

            “What is it?”

             The sunsuit springs a leak. Becca plops down on the pavement and immediately jumps up, shrieking. Steam rises. It’s that hot.

            “Why didn’t you speak up!” At the curb Phyllis glances back. “You need anything? Anything at all? Anything I can do?”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “What about your window? Did you get it fixed? It’s going to rain.”

            The air is so thick, breathing takes effort. Clouds drift in, they drift out. Nothing happens. If only it would rain. Just get it over with—oh, but not yet, not until my window is replaced.

“Someone’s coming tomorrow. No worries.”

            A purple stick of chalk rests on a wet spot that looks like a pelvic x-ray. Once again I get the feeling something is missing, unaccounted for.

I switch the motion detector to test mode and walk away, then back, then away again. I adjust the electronic eye. The red test light remains lidded. Maybe I missed a connection or a wire came loose. The claims adjuster said there’s no such thing as burglar-proofing your home. All you can do is make it harder to break in. The crooks might return, she warned. They wait for the homeowner to replace the stolen goods with the insurance payout, then loot the place again.

Claud mopes by the shed as I puzzle over the installation diagram. He’s been brooding, refusing to snuggle or tussle with Chloe. My phone jingles. He skitters inside and I drop the Phillips—I had to make a return trip to Ace for it—and stumble over a stray paver, upsetting the stepladder. I don’t check the number before answering.

“Say, Hallie. Remember Beads? We played them last spring? They had a cancellation and want us Saturday. Can I say yes?” I hear drawers opening and closing as Miguel distractedly searches for . . . what?

            “If only. Didn’t you get my messages? Have you been ghosting me? My house was burglarized! They took my flute!” Bars usually pay right after the performance. Until that insurance check arrives, I don’t have a song.

            “Wow, really? That sucks. Do you need—what’s that?” I hear Evie in the background. He says, “It’s Hallie and no, you can’t talk to her.” We first met at a wedding reception where Miguel and I were the entertainment. Afterwards while I stuffed myself with the groom’s lava cake, she prattled on until my ears chimed.

To me he says, “I take it that’s a no.” The background noise continues and he sounds irritated—with me or her? “Not now. We’re leaving as soon as I find my—sorry, Hallie, I’ve got to go.”

Days slog by. Glen’s Keys and Glazing didn’t show, so I slice up a cardboard box and tape it over the broken window. Then there is nothing for me to do but stare at empty spaces. What is it that’s missing I can’t put my finger on?

Sunday afternoon I’m toying with my plastic recorder when lightning strikes. Seconds later, thunder erupts. The temperature plummets and a pellet of water smashes against the window pane. Then another. Rain pummels the street, floods my driveway, seeps under the door, and licks my carpet. The cardboard taped over the broken window grows fat, and when it can absorb no more, it peels away in layers like an onion.

I don’t need a TV to know what’s on the local news. Every monsoon, intersections flood and some imbecile tries to gun through, inevitably stalling and having to be extricated from atop his pickup. That’s how I felt when Gary cut and run two years ago: stuck, helpless, unable to move on. But I had to, of course. No one was coming to my rescue.

He had left a Post-it Note on my music stand: “You wouldn’t open up. So I shut down.” At the time I didn’t understand. I saw him as a wannabe cowboy songwriter who lived in the fabled past. But he was right about us. After six years of marriage, we had stopped talking, stopped caring, stopped trying. I picture Gary in white earbuds, huddled over his scores, while I went rounds with a riff, both totally tuned out to the other.

Wind drums the roof and lobs rain against the walls. A thunderclap briefly illuminates the room. The boombox skips off the FM channel and the air crackles. What Phyllis said about being mad—I feel it now. I feel rage, dissonant chords furious in tempo hammering my spine. With trembling hand I reach for the new box of Kleenex in place where Dundee had rested, and I hurl it at the bookcase.

             An agonizing wail draws me to the door. The saguaro’s girth has expanded and its pleats split. Its sizeable limbs flail as it reels. When the giant hits the gravel, it explodes. Water gushes from the seams. An arm busts off and rolls, bashing a fire hydrant. The colossal trunk spans the street. The yard is torn up where shallow roots once held.

I flop down on the futon and bury my head in a pillow, my fury reduced to a sob.

            A commotion shakes me out of my gloom. The rain and wind have died out and the street swarms. I recognize neighbors, people I typically only see driving past. Now they wear gloves and wield rakes and blowers and power tools. Torn branches, spilled trash cans, an aluminum lounge chair, a basketball hoop—debris mounds on the curbs as the neighborhood cleanup gathers momentum. A crowd buzzes around my downed saguaro. Some people are scratching their heads, others taking photos, still others measuring off footsteps.

Sporting goggles, Phyllis notices me and gestures at the saguaro with her chainsaw. “I called the City and the earliest they can come is Tuesday or maybe even Wednesday. The storm was a real booger—downed power lines everywhere.”

Two teenage boys with long-handled tools are jabbing a severed, hemorrhaging saguaro limb, trying to maneuver it onto a tarp to take . . . where?

            “Wait! Don’t I need a permit to move it?”

“Only if it’s standing. If it’s on your property and falls on its own—” someone explains.

“Which is pretty common—” interjects another.

            “A shame,” says someone else. “They’re disappearing fast, a lot due to cactus rustling.”

“Like I was saying, wind knocks it down, you’re in the clear.”

            Legally or not, it has to go. The trunk is blocking the road.

The eco advocate has the final word. “Listen, it’s heavier than a drowned whale, and cut into sections it’ll take twenty trucks to haul to the dump. Tomorrow I can borrow a Jekko crane and trailer. For now, let’s just make some log-size cuts and roll them to the curb.”

            While Phyllis, Brett and others set to dismembering the corpse, I join a crew three doors down lifting a heavy branch that put a dent in a carport roof. The sound of a bow drawn expertly over strings turns my head. The music in A major is lively. A group of kids dance around a barefoot woman playing a violin on a patch of grass. In her mid-twenties, she wears a rainbow headband and a peasant skirt. I like what I hear. I’ve seen her many times walking a Bassett Hound but we’ve never spoken.

The rain fizzles and laughter charges the air. Stories about past monsoons compete. Clive appears in his beat-up Jeep Cherokee with enough pizza to feed a philharmonic orchestra. He sets up speakers on his roof rack and broadcasts both English and Spanish pop hits. Even though everyone is tired and dirty, the mood is festive. Neighbors bring out Gatorade and Pepsi and watermelon wedges and donuts and brownies and tortilla chips and salsa, and I contribute my m&m’s. A woman in a checkered apron who lives four houses down provides three trays of tamales.

Clive sits on the Jeep’s tailgate where he turns knobs, balancing sound. He wears socks with his flip-flops. “Say, Hallie! Know how to use a register? I could use some part-time help at the store.” And I could use a regular paycheck. But then I picture the dingy chamber with its used merchandise, and I recognize what the offer is, an act of kindness. “Thanks but I’d be just awful with the customers. Hallie the Horrible, they’d call me.” I bite into a brownie. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask—I want to bone up on jazz but don’t know where to start.” Clive’s eyes brighten at the mention of his favorite genre. “I can help with that. We’ll start with Jelly Roll Martin—no, for you, Herbie Mann.”

When the block party has wound down and the street is passable, Phyllis waves me over. “Did you get your window fixed?”

Just ask, I tell myself. She’s all right. Today she worked harder than anybody. “Do you think you could help me with it?”

“Tomorrow, first thing. I might even have some putty. Let’s get it done before you get slammed again.”

It takes me a moment to realize she’s alluding to the weather.

            The sun’s rays unfold, draping the craggy peaks of the Tucson Mountains in royal shades. “Lo-lo, Claud,” I call. “Show yourselves.” Claud takes the initiative and springs off the back porch. He high-steps it across the soggy grass. Chloe falls in and they explore the perimeter of the yard as though for the first time, tentative, alert, pausing to sniff every living thing. The air smells earthy and new. Bushes sparkle. Chloe buries her head in a cluster of yarrow revived by the rain. She chuffs. Tail twitching, Claud shifts his hind legs, spraying the brittlebush.

            “Anybody home?” Miguel leans over the padlocked side gate. While I fumble with keys, he searches wallet and pockets and eventually lands on the stash under his baseball cap.

“I’ll take that.” I help myself to the Rolos I spotted in a vest pocket.

“The storm beat the crap out of your neighborhood. It wasn’t so bad in the barrio.” He lights up and offers me a hit. When I pass, he asks, “Are you mad at me or something?”

I take a hard look into his Milk Dud eyes. Clueless. “I was burglarized.”

“I know. You said. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

 “Bingo! How about asking, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ How about ‘What happened?’ You don’t even know what happened.”

            “I didn’t ask? Are you sure?” Miguel looks confused. He slumps down on the step beside me, clasps his knees, and tucks his chin in the neck of his tee-shirt. His overlapping teeth play up his pout. “You know, if you needed something, you could have asked me. Not that you should have to spell it out, but next time I’m being an asshole, just tell me, okay? And by the way. You didn’t ask why I didn’t return your messages. See this?” He brandishes a tracfone.

            Of course. That’s it. He loses or misplaces everything. Not only his cell phone but his lighter, sunglasses, keys, sheet music, drinks, and once a pair of diamond stud earrings for Evie. I take the doobie from him, inhale deeply and hold. The taste of weed and chocolate candy blend in my mouth. “And not in my hand,” I chuckle. Miguel snuffs out the roach on the stray paver, where he’ll forget it.

            “Hey, I may have found somebody for us. Violinist or hound, take your pick.”

            “Oh, yeah?”

Just then Chloe dives out of the chinaberry tree. She races the entire length of the yard. The lizard isn’t fast enough. For a moment, my girl looks like the grinning Cheshire cat, the reptile wriggling between her teeth. Claud eagerly advances and the lizard drops. But Chloe isn’t going to let it get away. She traps it between front paws and then sits on it. She poses as smug as a hen. “I caught it, I’m sitting on the proof, and it’s mine.” No telling what will hatch.

Miguel and I sit quietly on the step, each lost in our own thoughts. Our breath punctuates the song of tires slapping wet streets and crickets chirping. A helicopter warbles overhead. Claud nestles in a pile of twigs a few feet from Chloe, pretending sleep but awake to possibilities. Miguel fidgets and shifts, and the motion detector flickers then steadies. He bumps my shoulder and I respond in kind. Stars come out of hiding and we sway shoulder-to-shoulder as though to music.