Eric Puchner - Model Home

“Why does he do that?” Hector asked, flinching.

“Weren’t you listening?” Dustin said. “Comanches can’t enter the spirit world without eyes. Now he has to wander between the winds.”

“Wow. That’s pretty harsh.”

Dustin looked to see if Hector was joking. He was not used to this sort of sincerity, especially when it came to John Wayne movies. Lyle would have made some snide remark: Between the winds? Isn’t it warmer that way anyway? It was one of the reasons he could stand being around Hector. The other was that he didn’t try to sugarcoat Dustin’s life; when Dustin described how miserable his arm was, how he just wanted to chop it off, Hector never did anything to suggest he was exaggerating but in fact looked as stricken as if it were his own arm being discussed. Unlike everyone else, he never acted as though Dustin was wrong to feel sorry for himself.

Hector was still wearing his Jungle of Pets uniform — green khakis and matching polo — which meant that he’d driven here straight from work. His devotion boggled Dustin: he’d never had a friend like Hector before. In fact, he’d never had a friend whose parents were Mexican, or who had to work in a pet store to pay his way through night school. If any boy at PV High had said he wanted to be a vet someday, he would have been jeered at in the halls. As Hector bent down to pick a tray of half-eaten breakfast off the floor, Dustin noticed something in his shirt pocket, a wad of fur. It looked alive. Dustin sat up in bed.

“What do you have in your pocket?”

“Ginger,” Hector said. “She’s a sugar glider.”

“It’s real?”

“Sort of like a flying squirrel.” He continued to clear things from the floor, as if carrying animals in your shirt were perfectly normal. “They’re marsupials.”

Hector dumped some beer cans in the trash and pulled the tiny wad of fur out of his pocket with two fingers, like a dirty Kleenex. The wad of fur blinked. It seemed vaguely chipmunky at first, until you appreciated its striped head and gigantic eyes and uncannily human little fingers clutching Hector’s thumb like a branch. It looked like what would happen if a bat and a possum could mate.

“They’re nocturnal,” Hector explained.

“Uh-huh,” Dustin said. “Don’t tell me you carry it around all day.”

“I had one before, a male, but I didn’t spend enough time with him. If they’re too depressed, their hind legs get paralyzed. They can’t move and they die.” Hector stroked the thing’s head. “They’re illegal in California; this guy at Jungle of Pets — big-time gambler — got them for me in Vegas.”

Dustin didn’t ask him why he felt obliged to own an illegal animal in the first place. He seemed to like to make his life difficult. For some reason, the bug-eyed creature made Dustin thirsty. “How about a Budweiser,” he said.

Hector slipped Ginger back into his pocket and went to get him a beer from the kitchen. In general, he did whatever was asked of him. Dustin had an image of himself as an exotic animal, his room a giant vivarium, Hector coming by to feed him and attend to his needs. He liked this fantasy and could find no problem with it.

Hector came back holding two beers poured into glasses. He didn’t usually drink with Dustin before it was dark, but there was a first for everything. Maybe Dustin had driven him to it. “What’s the occasion, Reverend?”

“My dad passed away today,” Hector said, handing him a glass. “Four years ago, I mean.”

Dustin stared at him. “You mean ‘died’?”

Hector nodded.

“Say that then. I hate ‘passed away.’ It’s like saying you have to ‘go powder your nose.’”

Dustin found the remote and muted the TV. Sometimes his own callousness made him sick. Hector grabbed some Tabasco sauce from the tray of old food sitting on the desk and shook some into his beer, as if it were a steak.

“What are you doing?”

“My dad drank his beers this way. Ever heard of a michelada ?”

“Your dad was crazy,” Dustin said. He reached for his eye drops, making the movement seem more painful than it actually was. On cue, Hector rushed to do it himself, grabbing the little bottle from the bedside table and leaning over Dustin’s face to squeeze a few drops into his eye before dabbing the tears with a Kleenex. “Dr. Akashi said three months. The lid’s supposed to be shrinking back to normal. Does it look any better to you?”

Hector shook his head. “Not really. No.”

“You’re the only person I know who doesn’t tell me how great I look,” Dustin said gratefully.

Hector turned away, as though in pain. Any gratitude on Dustin’s part seemed to make him miserable. Dustin had never met anyone with this particular quirk. He remembered the first time he’d seen Hector outside the house, parked by the curb in his pickup, his hands gripping the wheel as if he were stuck in traffic. He’d stayed there for nearly an hour. Dustin had enjoyed the spectacle at first, then finally took pity on him and went out to tell him that Lyle wasn’t living with them anymore. He’d have to go stalk her in Palos Verdes. Hector had taken one look at Dustin and flinched, touching his own face without meaning to, as though he were looking into a mirror.

Dustin stared at the ceiling, where a bare lightbulb hung above his head. His father hadn’t bothered to put the fitting back on; there was something wrong with the wiring and bulbs kept burning out after a week. “Taz called this morning.”

“Your girlfriend’s little sister?”

“Girlfriend, right. Who visited me exactly once in the hospital.” Dustin took a swig of beer. “Anyway, Taz told me she has a new boyfriend. Some lacrosse player from Brentwood. Maybe her dad will finally have someone to talk sports with.”

“Did he know Taz called you?”

“You kidding? He’d have driven out here personally to skin me alive.” Dustin frowned. “She drives now, her parents’ old Beemer. Can you believe that? She used to be all punk, and now she dresses like a Popsicle.”

Hector, who was dressed like an asparagus, sat down. “People don’t change that much underneath. I mean, maybe it doesn’t matter that much what she looks like.”

Dustin had to laugh. The idea that what was underneath mattered most, even to those who loved you, seemed hopelessly quaint. He’d read somewhere that ugly babies got yelled at ten times more than cute ones.

“Anyway,” Hector said, “she seems interested in you.”

“Right. As charity work.”

“You think that’s why she called?”

Dustin shrugged. “Honestly, I wish she’d fuck off and leave me alone.”

More than anything, he did not want to become anyone’s good deed. He put on his sunglasses, remembering how Taz could barely bring herself to look at him. On TV, Ethan and his adopted nephew were gathered around a campfire. Sometimes Dustin imagined their little heads bursting into flame, Technicolor faces melting like wax.

“How’s everyone else?” Hector asked, changing the subject.

“Everyone else?”

“Your family, I guess.”

“Who cares?” Dustin said. He suspected Hector wanted to ask about Lyle but was too embarrassed. “I wish you could trade in your family, like a used car. I’d start with Jonas. Shouldn’t be too hard to trade up. ‘Excuse me, do you have any kids who won’t blow up your house?’”

“Maybe it wasn’t his fault,” Hector said quietly.

“Houses don’t fucking explode for no reason.”

“I’m just thinking of how… you know. Awful he must feel.”

“Why shouldn’t he feel awful? He ruined my life.” Dustin drained the rest of his beer. “Besides, anyway, he’s too much of a freak to care. We could all turn into brain-eating zombies and he wouldn’t notice.”