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each other. That’s why I’m named Sistine.”
    “I like your name,” said Rob shyly.
    “I’ve seen the Sistine ceiling, too,” she said. “They took me last year. Before Bridgette. When they were still in love.”
    “Does it look like the pictures?” Rob asked.
    “Better,” said Sistine. “It’s like — I don’t know — it’s like looking at fireworks, kind of.”
    “Oh,” said Rob.
    “Maybe we could go to Italy sometime. And I could show you.”
    “That would be all right,” said Rob. He smiled into the darkness.
    “That tiger can’t look up at the stars,” said Sistine, her voice getting hard. “He’s got that piece of wood over his head. He can’t look up at all. We’ve got to let him go.”
    Rob was silent. He was hoping that if he didn’t answer her, she might go back to talking about the Sistine ceiling.
    “How did your mother die?” she asked suddenly.
    Rob sighed. He knew there was no point in trying not to answer. “Cancer,” he said.
    “What was her name?”
    “I ain’t supposed to talk about her,” said Rob, closing his eyes to the stars and concentrating instead on his suitcase, working to keep it closed.
    “Why not?” asked Sistine.
    “Because. My dad says it don’t do no good to talk about it. He says she’s gone and she ain’t coming back. That’s why we moved here from Jacksonville. Because everybody always wanted to talk about her. We moved down here to get on with things.”
    There was the crunch of gravel. Rob opened his eyes in time to see the headlights of a car sweep over them.
    “That’s my mother,” said Sistine. She stood up. “Quick,” she said. “Tell me your mother’s name.”
    Rob shook his head.
    “Say it,” she demanded.
    “Caroline,” Rob said softly, cracking his suitcase open and letting the word slip out.
    Sistine gave him another businesslike nod of her head. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And we’ll make our plans for letting the tiger go.”
    “Sissy?” called a voice. “Baby, what in the world? What in the world are you doing out here?”
    Sistine’s mother got out of the car and came walking toward them. She had on high heels, and she wobbled as she walked in the gravel parking lot of the Kentucky Star. Her hair was a lighter shade of yellow than Sistine’s and piled up high. When she turned her head, Rob recognized Sistine’s profile, her sharp chin and pointed nose, but the mouth was different, tighter.
    “Good lord,” said Mrs. Bailey to Sistine. “What have you got on?”
    “Clothes,” said Sistine.
    “Sissy, you look like a hobo. Get in the car.” She tapped her high-heeled foot on the gravel.
    Sistine didn’t move. She stood beside Rob.
    “Well,” said her mother when Sistine didn’t move, “you must be Rob. What’s your last name, Rob?”
    “Horton,” said Rob.
    “Horton,” said Mrs. Bailey. “Horton. Are you related to Seldon Horton, the congressman?”
    “No, ma’am,” said Rob. “I don’t think so.”
    Mrs. Bailey’s eyes flicked away from him and back to Sistine. “Baby,” said Mrs. Bailey, “please get in the car.”
    When Sistine still didn’t move, Mrs. Bailey sighed and looked back at Rob again. “She won’t listen to a word I say,” Mrs. Bailey told him. “Her father is the only one she’ll listen to.” And then under her breath she muttered, “Her father, the liar.”
    Sistine growled somewhere deep in her throat and stalked to the car and got in and slammed the door. “You’re the liar!” she shouted from the back seat of the car. “You’re the one who lies!”
    “Jesus,” said Mrs. Bailey. She shook her head and turned and walked back to the car without saying anything else to Rob.
    Rob watched them pull away. He could see Sistine sitting in the back seat. Her shoulders were slumped.
    A motel room door slammed. Somebody laughed. A dog barked once, short and high, and then stopped. And then there was silence.
    “Caroline,” Rob whispered into