Lone Star. Paullina Simons

      “What’s the currency here?” she bleated.

      “Latu,” the cabbie said. “One latu, almost two dollar. One, two. Easy.” He laughed, opening a big-lipped, inadequately dentured mouth.

      Chloe spun around, eyes big. Blake, sitting in the middle, stared at the meter—55 now—and laughed.

      “Next time, take train,” the cabbie said. “Without bags, easy. One latu to Riga. One latu.”

      59. 60. 61. Yeah. Maybe next time they would take the train.

      The trees got taller, pinier, the countryside flatter, the yards more florid. There were farms and peat bog, and swamps. There was a dusky mauve color to the long-limbed conifers. The rural roads were poorly marked. It took the cabbie a while to find the address. For a few miles he drove down a long potholed avenue lined with birches. The small houses, mostly made of stone, were set deep inside the verdant foliage. They were neatly kept, had flowers and greenhouses. The landscape was nearly indistinguishable from Maine. Except for the shadow of the rangy White Mountains and the abundance of lakes, Carnikava and Fryeburg seemed more closely related than Moody and Varda. Chloe hoped no one else would realize that. That they traveled five thousand miles only to see their own backyards.

      Chloe made some ironic remark about the beaten down nature of the landscape, and Blake said, “Beaten down?” He sounded prickled for some reason, as if she’d offended his very own Latvia. “May I point out that the road here, while narrow, is paved? Can you say the same for the dirt path you live on?”

      Did he say this to be funny or to make her ashamed?

      “Why choose?” said Blake. “And please note the trash cans put out onto the road. Are you familiar with this custom? A garbage truck comes to your house and picks up your trash, so you don’t have to haul your week-old garbage in your mother’s Subaru to the landfill fifteen miles away.”

      “All right, all right,” Chloe said.

      She wasn’t sure they were at the right house because there wasn’t a number on the small stucco cottage painted in sky blue. But out on the road there was an onyx-haired woman, her arm around a skinny adolescent girl, both standing at attention near a peach tree and a wooden gate. The girl waved madly before the cab stopped. They climbed out of the narrow car onto the narrow road, grateful to stretch out and careful not to disturb the droopy branches of an apple tree draping over the hedge and fence. Mason and Blake retrieved their suitcases from the trunk and Chloe paid the fare (77 latu! Nearly $140. She tried not to think about it).

      Cautiously they approached the old woman and her young charge, who were still waving but also eyeing the Americans’ abundant luggage with skeptical wonder. Chloe thought that it couldn’t be the right house. The strong, serious woman couldn’t be Moody’s aunt, couldn’t be twenty years older than Moody, who was in her mid-eighties. This woman didn’t look seventy.

      “Es esmu Varda,” the woman said. “Es esmu Varda.” She hugged Chloe, muttering incomprehensible things. She banged Chloe’s chest and said “Jūsu vārds ir Chloya.” The young girl next to Varda, demure rather than desperate, despite her name—Carmen—didn’t stop hugging either, except she was hugging Blake and Mason, two young men not remotely related to her. Perhaps she was more like a Carmen than Chloya had first allowed.

      “I speak English,” the girl said with an accent. “I learn in school. I translate. Grandmother says she very happy you come. She waited for you long time. She want to know your friend names. And why you bring so much suitcase?”

      “It’s not so much,” said Chloe. “One suitcase each. We are traveling for three weeks.”

      “Grandmother says too much suitcase,” the girl repeated.

      Varda had hair blacker than any hair Chloe had ever seen. It was without a strand of gray. She had black eyes, a weathered, saddle-colored face. Her hands were gnarled claws, tanned, strong, veined, scarred with old injuries. Some of the fingers were crooked, as if they had been broken and then healed poorly. She wore a plain gray dress and old brown suede shoes that she obviously had just scrubbed, for they looked damp. She had dressed up to meet the Americans. The tween by her side, too. Carmen had put on a peasant dress, scraped half the mud off her moccasins, and braided back her long sandy hair. She stood enveloped in a sickly cloud of cheap cologne.

      Varda said something to the girl, emphatic and loud.

      “She says to tell you she not Mudita’s aunt,” the young Carmen said. “She says you confused.”

      The old woman pounded herself in the chest, and said what sounded like “Septic dank.”