Model Home (41 page)

“What's that?” the man asked, cutting short his explanation.

“Bologna.”

“I don't think I've had one of those since I was a kid.”

“My dad buys it,” Jonas said. “For dinner.”

The driver leaned over to get a better look. “Can I see that? I just want to smell it for a second.”

Jonas handed him the sandwich. The man held it to his nose and sniffed it like a flower. He asked for a nibble and then took a bite before Jonas could answer him, chewing with his eyes closed.

“Jesus Chrysler, that's good.”

“I only brought two,” Jonas explained.

“I shouldn't eat this. It gives me gastritis.”

Jonas watched the man finish his sandwich. It did not take long. By the way he started eyeing Jonas's backpack, failing to stay interested in the road, Jonas knew he would have to come up with a question or he would lose the other sandwich as well.

“Have you ever been in an accident?” he asked.

“No,” the man said proudly.

“You've never jackknifed on the freeway, killing an innocent family on their way to the beach?”

The truck driver glanced at him. “What's wrong with you?”

Jonas shrugged. He deeply resented this man for eating his sandwich and had decided to annoy him. “Is that how you'd want to die? Behind the wheel of your semi?”

“I don't intend to jackknife or crash or do anything that'll unperil my life in any way.”

“You could have a myocardial rupture. It's when your heart explodes out of the blue.”

“Hey now, little buddy. I've got half a mind to dump you at the
next exit.” The driver scowled, lips disappearing into his beard. “Anyway, I'm straight now. A clean liver.”

“What's that?”

“I used to be a swirl in the devil's fingerprint. I couldn't see it was the devil's, or even that I was a swirl to begin with.”

Jonas giggled.

“Think that's funny, huh? How old are you, anyway? Fifteen?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve!” He seemed suddenly nervous. “What the hell are you doing in my truck?”

“My family hates me.”

“No shit,” the driver said. “I can see why. They're probably drinking champagne right now.”

“They didn't used to hate me,” Jonas said defensively.

“Actually, I'm betting they always did.”

“My brother wrote a special song about me, for his band.”

“Probably he hated you just as much and you were too young to notice.”

The driver got off at the next exit and pulled beside a Wendy's and told Jonas to get out, staring antagonistically at the windshield. He did not offer to repay him for the sandwich. Jonas climbed out of the cab, slipping his backpack over both shoulders for fear of being mugged. The parking lot was nearly empty. The truck rumbled back into gear and drove away, smoke chugging out of its metal chimney as it climbed the on-ramp back to the freeway.

It was starting to get dark. As far as Jonas could tell, he was nowhere near Ventura. He went into the Wendy's and sat in a booth with bacon bits stuck to the table. In his wallet were exactly twelve dollars, which he'd stolen from his mother's purse. He wondered if he should save the money or buy a Classic Double with Cheese Combo. Outside the cars had begun to realize it was nighttime, switching on their lights as they nosed out of Carl's Jr. across the street. Jonas began to shiver. The reality of what he'd done—run away from home, forgetting even to bring a jacket—began to sink in. Something about the bacon bits boogered to the table filled him with homesickness. He was cold and alone and scared of using the bathroom, which had a yellow
CAUTION
sign in front of it with a person slipping on his back. He did not want to break his back, no matter how
remorseful it would make his family when they discovered what had happened.

He left Wendy's without buying dinner. After peeing in the hedges, he crossed the parking lot and walked through a smelly concrete place with Dumpsters and broken glass and found himself behind the Happy Trails Inn, in reality a row of sad-looking doors with numbers painted on them. There were cars pulled up to some of the doors, and he could see TVs flickering in the windows. Jonas knew he didn't have enough money for a room—the sign said $39.00/
NIGHT
—but didn't know where else to go and was too scared to hitchhike after dark. He decided to wait and see if anyone came out. If he kept his mouth shut and didn't make them mad, they might let him sleep in their room. He sat on the opposite curb beside a motor home, an old, beat-up truck with a white shell melting like marshmallow over its roof.

He ate the second bologna sandwich and immediately regretted it, wishing he'd saved it. It began to drizzle. He clutched his backpack to stay warm. After what seemed like an hour, a woman emerged from one of the rooms, barefoot despite the broken glass, her hair braided with beads so that you could see white lines of scalp. She walked up to the motor home and began to fumble with the door, dropping her keys twice on the pavement. Rings gleamed from her toes, like a practical joke. Jonas cleared his throat, loudly, but she failed to notice him. She got the door open finally but then seemed to forget something, blinking into the RV before heading back to the motel without bothering to close up.

Jonas yawned nervously, the taste of bologna burping into his mouth. He sneaked inside the RV. He did not have a plan but decided it would be a better place to spend the night than outside in the rain. Crouching in the half dark, he picked his way through stray clothes and beer cans and at least one hula hoop, almost tripping over some hiking boots stationed near the sink. The place stank of dirty laundry and wet towels. He climbed up the little ladder to the sleeping compartment over the front seats. The sheets were tangled into a wad at the foot of the bed, next to a stuffed gorilla with what looked like a firecracker sticking out of its nose.

Jonas took off his backpack and pulled the sheets over his body and lay there at the edge of the clammy mattress so he could spy on the door. Before long, the woman returned, the beads in
her hair clicking as she ducked inside. She flipped on a light and searched the mess at her feet before rooting impatiently around the RV, picking things up and tossing them around. Jonas worried she might climb up the ladder. Instead she pulled a glass from the sink, her face slackening with relief. The glass was tall and had a sticker of some bears on it kicking their legs like Rockettes. A bong, like the one Dustin used to hide in his closet. Collapsing in a chair, the woman took a plastic bag from her pocket, did something to the bottom of the bong, and then jammed her lips inside it as though trying to suck herself in like a genie. After a long time, she unsucked her face and raised it to the ceiling, blowing out a stupendous cloud of smoke.

She did this five or six times, the RV filling with a smoggy haze that seemed to hang from the roof. Jonas's throat began to itch. The itch grew into a ticklish burr, making his eyes water. He tried to keep it down but couldn't. He coughed. Once he'd started, he couldn't stop. Incredibly, the woman didn't seem to notice, staring at the clothes by her feet. Jonas clapped his hands. She didn't look up. He said, “I'm right up here, you stupid idiot.” Nothing. After a while the woman's hands began to move around, not slowly but quickly, spastic as birds, touching her face and filling the space in front of her with nimble, twittery forms. It was only when a strange sound came out of her, like someone yelling from the inside of a coffin, that he realized she was deaf. The signs began to repeat themselves, whole strings of them, and he understood that she was singing some kind of song. Jonas watched in amazement. His brain felt gooey and undercooked. He closed his eyes but could still see the woman's hands in front of him, dancing their silent dance, singing him to sleep.

He roamed the house, calling for his father. It was their old house, but this didn't impress him any more than the fact that he was wearing a backpack indoors. His voice echoed through the empty rooms. Finally he opened the kitchen cabinet: his dad's face was trapped inside a glass, staring at him from the middle shelf. Jonas opened the other door of the cabinet. His whole family peered back at him, sucked into glasses. They looked scared and unhappy. What power he had over them! He knew the secret genie words to release them. When he said them, they'd bloom forth from their tragic prisons, grateful as flowers.

When Jonas woke up, the RV was moving. Driving. There was real music playing, a fidgety song about someone's uncle and their band. The roof bounced above his face, pinging up and down. He could see the deaf woman from last night: she was swiveling her seat like a girl, sucking on a Tootsie Roll pop. A man's voice, gleefully off-key, rose from the driver's seat below him. Jonas rolled over quietly and looked out the long, skinny window facing the road, hoping to tell which direction they were going, but he didn't recognize the signs.

Camille followed Warren in the breathtaking heat, trying to keep up with him. His steps were long and aimless, turning abruptly for no reason, beelining through scraggly pieces of brush. The lack of direction infuriated her. She wanted to tackle him, make him walk in a straight line. They'd been over the same area last night, all four of them, combing the desert with flashlights and calling Jonas's name until they'd lost their voices. Back home again they could only whisper, their house as solemn as a library. Camille hadn't slept a wink. Every creak, every snort and rustle from Mr. Leonard's bed, was Jonas at the door. This morning, she'd agreed to come with Warren only because she couldn't stand to sit around and wait.

The police were conducting their own search, supposedly, but God knows how long it would take them. Jonas knew no one nearby; they lived in the middle of nowhere; there was no place for him to go.

“Have you contacted the neighbors?” the policeman had said, filling out a missing persons report. It was a myth that you had to wait seventy-two hours. Just say “runaway kid” on the phone, 105-degree heat, and they zipped right over.

“We don't have any neighbors,” Warren had said absently. Jonas's disappearance seemed to have sunk him into a deeper trance. The policeman had glanced out the window at the darkening saltbush, as if to confirm this.

“Any trouble at home? Marital problems?”

Warren and Camille looked at each other. For a second, she wondered if they'd admit the truth about their marriage. It would
be like coming up for air. Instead, Warren got the note from the kitchen counter and showed it to the cop, explaining everything that had happened. As he read the note, the cop's eyes widened a bit.

“Has he ever exhibited suicidal behavior?”

“He's not suicidal!” Camille said.

“The note raises some concerns.”

“Jonas is perfectly normal,” Warren said.

“I see,” the policeman said, returning to his checklist. “Right now I'm doing a risk assessment. Standard procedure.”

The cop asked for a recent photograph. Camille got their albums from the bookshelf in the living room and began hunting through them. It occurred to her that, since the accident, neither of them had taken a single picture. The most recent one she could find was from last year, a picture of Jonas at fencing practice. He was posing in the en garde position, pointing the twiggy sword at the camera, his arm raised in a right angle behind him. The expression on his face was comically fierce. Camille remembered that day last summer, when she'd forgotten to pick him up from practice and he'd walked home in his gear, two miles uphill. She had to sit down by herself for a second, the wind knocked out of her like a blow, before handing the picture to the policeman.

She followed the zigzag of Warren's footprints, the sun scorching her bare arms enough to give her goose bumps. She glanced back at the house now and then for signs of life; Lyle and Dustin had driven to Lancaster, combing the streets in search of their brother. Camille stopped and fished the crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Only two left.

“Do you have to smoke at a time like this?” Warren asked, stopping to wait for her. His new beard glistened with sweat.

“What difference does it make?”

“Our son has disappeared.”

“So I shouldn't smoke,” she said, scowling.

“Jesus, Camille. Our fucking house burned down. What do you think it does to Dustin, to see you lighting up all the time?” Warren closed his eyes suddenly and clapped his hand to his chest. His face seemed to go still and careful, focused on the air right in front of it, as though he were walking through a cobweb.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said, wincing. “Just heartburn.”

Camille had a moment's fantasy that he'd drop dead. That she'd wished this, even for a second, shocked her deeply. She sat down in the dirt. They had not brought water or even hats. Her throat was so parched she couldn't swallow. Warren dropped his hand from his chest, slowly, and came over and sat beside her. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his T-shirt splotched with grease. His breath reeked of coffee. She remembered the times they used to go camping in Wisconsin when they were first married, how she would use Warren's long underwear top as a pillow, dizzy with the miracle of his scent.

“It's my fault,” he said finally.

“No, it isn't. I blamed him, too.” Camille started to cry.

“Everything will be fine. He'll come back by tomorrow.”

She could not tell whether he actually believed this. If he wasn't as hope-dead as he seemed, there might be some way to love him. A tiny feather was stuck in his beard; it touched her strangely. She picked it out, her stomach growling loud enough to hear. Warren reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of string cheese still wrapped in plastic. He peeled open the plastic and tore the cheese down the middle, offering a droopy white stalk to Camille.