Californium
Authors: R. Dean Johnson
A PLUME BOOK
CALIFORNIUM
© Doug Brewer
R. DEAN JOHNSON
grew up in Anaheim, California, and now lives in Kentucky with his wife, the writer Julie Hensley, and their two children. An Associate Professor at Eastern Kentucky University, he is Director of the Bluegrass Writers Studio Low-Residency MFA in Creative Writing program. His essays and stories have appeared in
Ascent
,
Hawai`i Pacific Review,
New Orleans Review
,
Santa Clara Review
,
Slice
,
The Southern Review
, and elsewhere. This is his first
novel.
LS
O
BY
R. D
EAN
J
OHNSON
Delicate Men:
Stories
PLUME
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Robert Dean Johnson
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
REGISTERED TRA
DEMARKâMARCA REGISTR
ADA
L
IBRARY OF
C
ONGR
ESS
C
ATALOGING-IN-
P
U
BLICATION
D
ATA
Names: Johnson, R. Dean, 1968â author.
Title: Californium / Robert Dean Johnson.
Description: New York : Plume, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015042415 (print) | LCCN 2016000773 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143128779 (paperback) | ISBN 9780143128786 (eBook)
Subjects: LCSH: Teenage boysâFiction. | Family secretsâFiction. | CaliforniaâHistoryâ20th centuryâFiction. | Domestic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Coming of Age. | FICTION / Family Life. | FICTION / Literary. | GSAFD: Bildungsromans.
Classification: LCC PS3610.O3725 C35 2016 (print) | LCC PS3610.O3725 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6âdc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015042415
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Portions of some chapters of this book previously appeared, in different form, in the following publications: “Matter” as “Catching Atoms” in
Ruminate
, “Native Customs” in
Paradigm Vol.1,
and “Two-Car Studio” in
Tribute to Orpheus
.
Version_1
For Julie, Boyd, and Maeve.
For more things than I could ever say, and more than I could ever
hope.
I
n the dark, my popcorn ceiling looked like one of those old black-and-white pictures of the moonâall shadowy and imperfect and so real it seemed fake. It didn't make sense to suddenly be awake in the quiet of the house, and I knew my clock must be in single digits, later than late but still too early to be early. Then the voices came back. They'd hiss like waves at the beach and fade into the dark before I could make out what they were saying. That's what woke me up. That's how it all started.
For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming. But if it was all a dream, the voices would have faces or bodies; something would be chasing me through quicksand or across a field of wet grass and I'd have no shoes on, just soda bread strapped to my feet and a backpack full of bricks. Nobody dreams boring stuff. That's why the sheets were up to my chin while I stared at the dark side of the moon, waiting for I don't know what. The voices to come back, I guess.
Then it hit me: If it was half past infinity, why would there be any light at all on my ceiling? So I followed the glow across the room, down the wall, and to my door, which was mostly closed except for a crack just big enough to let in the light that was sneaking down the hallway.
I was ready when the voices came back, staring at my door, the hiss louder this time. “Go,” a voice said. “You have to go.”
Then, a different voice, softer, like air leaking out of a pipe: “Where can I go, Packy? Tell me.”
“Home,” the first voice said. My dad's voice.
“You know the trouble that'll bring.”
“So you bring the trouble to me?” my dad said, louder, almost like he was in the room with me and not just on the other side of my door. “You can't be here in the morning. You know that.”
“It's the last time, Packy. I promise.”
“No, Ryan. The last time was the last time.”
“Please,” Uncle Ryan said. “I'll sleep in the garage. The kids won't see me.”
Dad sighed the way he does when we're running late for church and I still don't have my shoes on and he's about to explode but knows he shouldn't. “Jesus, Ryan. Why do you do this to me?” It made me feel sorry for Uncle Ryan, the way his voice sounded like mine begging for just five more minutes of catch and my dad saying no.
I went to the door thinking maybe I'd tell Uncle Ryan he could sleep in my room. He could get up early and make one of his big breakfasts, like he always did when we'd wake up and somehow he was just there, in the kitchen, scones in the oven, coffee
and tea and juice on the table, and him saying, “Happy Wednesday, Reece. How do you want your eggs?”
When I opened the door no one was there. At least, not where I expected. My dad and Uncle Ryan were farther down the hallway by the bathroom.
“Reece?” my dad whispered. “Go back to bed.”
Uncle Ryan looked the other way, like something really interesting was happening just over there, by my parents' bedroom door.
“What time is it?” I said.
Dad stepped over to meâput a hand on my shoulder. “Doesn't matter. We're all done.”
“Can I get some water?”
He thought for a second. “Okay. Fast.”
The living room and dining room were dark, but light and the smell of coffee were seeping from the kitchen. My mom was there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed with a green cup in one hand. She had on her morning robe, all pilled and older than me and my brother and sister combined.
“Why are you up?” she said, and I told her about the water.
She filled a big, plastic New York Jets cup for me, said I could take it back to my room, and sent me out of the kitchen. Uncle Ryan's beat-up army jacket was slung across the back of a dining room chair. His keys were in the front pocket like always, so I fished them out and dropped them into my cup. A little water spilled over and I took a sip before stepping back into the dark hallway.
My dad and Uncle Ryan were by my door now, like maybe they were ready to come out of the hallway. “Good night,” Dad whispered.
“Good night,” I said to Uncle Ryan. He patted me on top of the head without looking at me, then nudged me into the bedroom.
.
I was up before my alarm, out of bed and through the house. I walked to the kitchen, and my mom was there in the same spot, wearing the robe, holding the same green cup. Like she hadn't moved.
“Get dressed,” she said.
Uncle Ryan's jacket wasn't in the dining room and suddenly nothing about the night before seemed real. Maybe the voices were a dream. Maybe Uncle Ryan hadn't been in the hallway.
It wasn't until I was dressed and looking for my shoes that I saw the Jets cup on my nightstand. And there at the bottom, like a sunken ship, were Uncle Ryan's keys.
I slipped on my shoes and grabbed my backpack fast so I could go out to the garage, or wherever, and wake up Uncle Ryan before school. Maybe get him to teach me a new limerick my mom wouldn't want me to repeat.
The thing is, he wasn't in the garage. He wasn't in the basement, or on the spare sofa, or anywhere.
I ran to the living room window to see if his car was at the curb. It was.
“What are you doing?” my mom said. She was standing across the room by the chair where Uncle Ryan's jacket was supposed to be.
“Where's Uncle Ryan?” I said.
“He's gone.”
I looked back out the window, made sure the car out front was a dark blue Oldsmobile, that it had the new license plates with the shape of New Jersey where the dash used to be, and that it had the dent by the front tire. “But his carâ”
“He's gone,” Mom said, louder this time. And that's when I noticed what was missing: Dad's truck.
I turned and my mom was still standing there. Her nose freckles weren't hidden beneath powder. Her hair, which should've been braided or swirled up neat like she was balancing a red Danish on her head, was down and splashing around her face and shoulders like hot lava. She wasn't rushing around, yelling at Brendan to wake up, telling me to go get Colleen, stepping around my dad while he made breakfast and she packed lunches and asking if he wanted leftovers or a sandwich and he'd better decide right now because she still had to get dressed and if he didn't want to drop the kids off at school on
his
way to work, everyone needed to get it in gear right now.
“Where's Dad?” I said. “Did he take Uncle Ryan home?”
She shook her head and walked into the kitchen. She sat down at the table, wrapped both hands around her teacup, and stared at the tablecloth.
I sat down across from her. “Mom?” I said, and you'd think it was the first time she'd seen me all morning the way she looked up at me. “Where's Dad?”
She slid one hand across the table. Without thinking, my hand slid out to meet hers halfway, suddenly wrapped inside and squeezed snug. “He's looking for Uncle Ryan.”
