The house got held up in traffic, she said, which is why she and the goats had made camp in the little park across the street from our houses. She unrolled a patchwork blanket by the playground our children had outgrown.

Of course, there was no house. There was no doubt in our minds of that. Only a lunatic would travel with goats as her companions. Only the homeless would take up residence on a playground.

But such a pretty lunatic, we couldn't help watch her through slats of shutters, at the thick edges of curtains while our husbands were away at work. Watch her stroke those goats' coarse heads with her slender hands. Watch how she laughed when the goats nibbled at the hem of her dress.

Only the shiny metal slide on that playground was functional. It must have been coated in something to have lasted that long in our tropical climate. The monkey bars had long since rusted. The wooden seesaw had grown mossy and slippery. The slide, though, it was grand. The goats loved it.

They loved her, too.

Who wouldn't? That sweet, vanilla smile. Those dark curls and quaint white cap. That buttery skin. Red pumps not leaving her feet even when she lay down on that blanket to take a nap beneath the tree with the brittle tire swing. She could make even a swamp place like this seem homey.

We took to calling her Snow White.

Our husbands, who didn't notice anything, noticed her, too. They said, it's so hot out. They said, if she says her house is being delivered, maybe it is. They said, maybe we should invite her over for dinner? Is there enough for three?

There is not enough for three, we said.

But by the fourth day, the mercury had risen above one hundred, the air was syrup, and she and the goats drooped like wet laundry from a line. Should we call an authority? we wondered. Gilda, who lived in the egg yolk-colored house with the irises that sprung up every April, pointed out that the park was public property. Technically, the young woman was in her rights to be there. The goats: maybe not so much. But they weren't hurting anyone, and they trimmed the weeds, so we let them be. We offered bottles of water, umbrellas for shade.

We didn't offer our spare bedrooms to her, though, when she eyed our houses as we handed over that water. She probably wouldn't have accepted such an invitation anyway if it didn't extend to the goats, we reasoned. Also, she was a stranger. Also, she was a lunatic. Also, and most importantly, she was too beautiful. We understood why the queen/stepmother in that story wouldn't want that girl too close, why she wouldn't want Snow White in her home.

We didn't think we understood the murder part, the order the queen gave to the huntsman to bring her Snow White's heart; or the spell part, bewitching the girl to an eternal sleep. But by the fifth afternoon, when the young woman hadn't risen all day, hadn't moved as far as we could tell, we shuddered momentarily at our relief.

We did what any good neighbor would do—put out water for the goats, let them mow our lawns.

Then, on the evening of the seventh day, would you believe it? A house did arrive. Two massive flatbed trucks unloaded the wooden structure next to the slide. Nobody ever did unboard the windows.

Michelle Ross is the author of THERE'S SO MUCH THEY HAVEN'T TOLD YOU, a collection of stories. She lives in Tucson.

Read her postcard.

Detail of tinted etching on main page by Robert Indiana (American Dream II, 1996).





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