Eric Puchner - Model Home

He was learning things from her. For example, on average twelve newborns are given to the wrong parents every day. Also, India is the only country with a bill of rights for cows. It was a relief to fill his head with useless knowledge. Melody’s body was completely different from Camille’s: brown as an Eskimo’s, with a cozy plumpness that made him think of colder climes. He liked to nestle into her soft skin and imagine they were in Alaska, where the sun didn’t buckle the roads. She always let him lie on the left side of the bed. In fact, she insisted upon it. She couldn’t hear out of her right ear, one of the effects of the tumor, so it was the only way they could talk.

“Here,” she said now, taking Warren’s hand. “You can feel where they left the window in my skull. For brain swelling. There’s a little soft spot.”

She showed him where they’d made the hole, running his fingers over the tender, dime-sized divot above her ear. He imagined there was still a window. Sitting up a bit, he made a little spyglass with his hand and cupped it to her head, pretending he was peering into her brain.

“What do you see?” Melody asked.

“Filing cabinets. Filled with trivia.”

She laughed. “Is there one marked Warren Ziller?”

“Actually, a whole special wing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said.

Twinkle stood up suddenly and wandered over to the other side of its pen, making Warren feel guilty. He didn’t like it when the ugly creature seemed more industrious than he was. Camille and the kids believed he was spending his afternoons looking for work, something more dependable than selling knives, going to interviews and temp agencies all over the valley. He was choked with guilt as soon as he got home, but here the world seemed to have pardoned him in advance. Melody wanted him to do nothing. Even Melody’s father, who spent most of his time copying phone numbers from the TV, had never asked him why he didn’t have a job, or what he was doing lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon. It was as though he’d stumbled across a refuge in the maze, some secret corner where the shifty-eyed monsters couldn’t find him.

The TV murmured from the next room; as usual, Melody’s father had left it on before making his daily trip to Denny’s. Warren touched the shard of skull hanging from Melody’s neck; he liked that she refused to take it off, even during sex. It didn’t seem to bother her to lie in bed all day, either. She was still living off the disability from her old job, as the receptionist in a dental office. Playfully, she rolled her fingers into a spyglass and stuck them against Warren’s head, as though she could spy into his brain as well. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I see?”

“No,” Warren said.

“No interest at all?”

He turned away, staring at the blinds. He was suddenly frightened. “What do you see?”

“Miserable things. Now you don’t have to talk about them.” She smiled. “My ex-husband needs to talk about everything. People think that’s what all women want, Phil Donahue, but it isn’t true. Getting your brain opened up helps you appreciate the right to remain silent.”

Warren was deeply grateful. He did not want to ruin these afternoons with intimacy. Melody got out of bed, slipping on the pink robe that hung from the doorknob.

“Anyway, I have a theory about Phil Donahue,” she said from the bathroom. “I think he’s a reincarnated sheepdog. I mean, he’s so big and shaggy. Also, he runs around inside. Dogs do that. Personally, I don’t think people should run around inside, it’s unseemly.”

“Why do you do this?” Warren asked.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. Let me come over like this.”

She stepped out of the bathroom, suddenly serious. Her bushy eyebrows looked stranger from across the room, less native to her face. “When you’re sick, you’re everyone else’s problem. It’s like you’ve turned into a helpless baby. I guess I’m attracted to being the solution for a change.”

While she showered, Warren put on his khakis and slipped out of the trailer, squinting in the ridiculous heat. Clouds littered the sky like shreds of Kleenex. It was only when he was alone that he felt truly disgraceful. The miniature pig watched him from the edge of its pen, oblivious to the sky’s presence. Perhaps it didn’t even know it existed. Warren walked up to the pig and clapped directly over its head, several times, but the miserable creature didn’t look up.

That night at home, watching Lyle and Jonas gather around the table, their hungry faces sinking at the sight of the chili he’d reheated for the third night in a row, Warren found he could not look them in the eye. The kitchen smelled bad, like rotten onions. Probably no one had bothered to take out the garbage.

“Did you find any jobs today?” Lyle asked, worrying a kidney bean with her spoon.

Warren felt sick to his stomach. “We’ll see. Maybe. I had an interview with a company.”

“Where? In Lancaster?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of company was it?”

He thought of an ad he’d seen in the classifieds. “Actually it was a mortuary. Administrative assistant.”

Jonas looked up from his chili. “Do you get unlimited free coffins?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Warren stared into his bowl. “Anyway, it didn’t sound promising. I think they’re looking for someone with more experience.”

“You’re looking, Dad,” Lyle said. “That’s the important thing.”

Warren excused himself before the kids were done and went to the bathroom. He missed the old Lyle, her bratty insolence; this new version was impossible to look at. He heard the TV going in Dustin’s room and forced himself to knock on the door. At least he knew he wouldn’t be met by kindness. The room smelled considerably worse than the kitchen. In the corner, collecting dust, was the basket of exercise equipment; Warren had long ago stopped trying to get Dustin to follow his rehab plan.

On TV, a man — Henry Fonda, it looked like — was holding someone hostage in a prison yard, sticking a gun into his back. “What are you watching now?” Warren asked.

“ You Only Live Once.”

“Sounds like a soap opera.”

“It’s a film noir,” Dustin said irritably. He was balancing a beer on his stomach. “By Fritz Lang.”

Warren nodded. “You really love Henry Fonda.”

“That’s right. I want to do him up the ass.”

On-screen, a man in a clerical collar grabbed a telegram from somebody and rushed into the prison yard, pleading through the fog to Henry Fonda, who fired his gun at him. Dustin burst out laughing. Warren realized that he was drunk. Camille was right: he’d turned their son into an alcoholic. He felt suddenly like he might throw up.

“Atta boy,” Dustin said, toasting the TV. “Picking off a priest.”

“Dust.”

His son looked at him, but Warren didn’t know what to say. At one point, he’d been brave enough to hold up a mirror and show him his face. Dustin turned back to the TV. “Close the door when you leave,” he said.

Later that evening, hearing Camille pull up the driveway after her grueling twelve-hour day and stagger into the kitchen, too exhausted to heat up her chili before eating it, Warren vowed he would not go back to Melody’s trailer. He was not a religious man but promised this with the soul-nursed conviction of the saved. Despite this moment of clarity, he returned the next day, and the next. Just the sight of the RV park from the road, a Christmasy sparkle of antenna, flooded him with gratitude and relief. On Thursday, napping in the swamp-cooled haven of Melody’s room, he woke up alone with the covers at his feet, the odd tang of salt in his nose. He’d been dreaming about Dustin, a favorite nightmare. This time, though, when he’d unrolled Dustin from the blanket, braving the awful stink of his flesh, his son had become twelve years old, gawky and beautiful and unscathed, his smile as big as a harmonica. Jonas’s age. You only live once, the boy said. Warren sat up in bed, the salt in his nose leaking down his throat. It wasn’t until he touched his face, feeling the dampness there, that he realized he’d been crying in his sleep.