Eric Puchner - Model Home

“She was deaf? How did you communicate?”

“She taught me sign language.”

“Are those her daughter’s jeans?” Lyle asked.

Jonas nodded. “She was murdered last year. Griselda gave me all her clothes to wear. She brushed my hair and taught me magic tricks and made me eggs Benedict every morning, because that was her daughter’s favorite.”

Camille turned toward the window. Warren wanted this implausible story to be true: the idea of Jonas making it up on purpose was too much to bear. Perhaps they’d never know what happened. It would remain a mystery, like the gum tangled in his hair.

As darkness fell, the brake lights in front of them began to pulse more brightly in the stop-and-go traffic. Warren turned on the radio. Some pundits were talking about the USSR and the threat of global annihilation. Strangely, it didn’t darken his mood. If anything, the dire forecast of the world’s future consoled him. Everyone was in the same boat, their hopes equally benighted. What difference did it make if he pretended, too?

He took Camille’s hand, which was resting on her seat. She didn’t respond, but didn’t remove her hand either. Given the state of things, it seemed like a blessing.

By the time they got home, past ten, Jonas was asleep. Warren carried him into the house, cradling his head on one shoulder as he had when Jonas was a baby. The boy was filthy, his nails black with dirt. In bed, arms flopped out and motionless, he looked even more babylike. Warren grabbed some scissors from Jonas’s desk and cut the gum out of his hair. He put the hairy piece of gum in the trash. Then he had second thoughts and dug it out again, slipping it — why, he couldn’t say — into the pocket of his sweats.

In the kitchen, Camille and Lyle and Dustin were sitting on the linoleum beside Mr. Leonard’s bed. The old dog whimpered softly, his breathing swift and shallow. Warren knelt down to touch him, but he didn’t lift his head or open his eyes.

“He’s dying,” Camille said.

“There’s an animal hospital in Lancaster,” Lyle said.

“No,” Camille said, almost angrily. “We should let him die in peace.”

She put her hand on Mr. Leonard’s ribs. Her fingers moved up and down, bobbing with his breath.

“You three should go to bed,” she said.

Lyle shook her head. “I want to stay up.”

“Me too,” Dustin said.

Camille looked at them, her eyes damp.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Warren said.

He spooned some Chock Full o’Nuts into a filter and filled the coffeemaker with water. Turning from the sink, he bumped a glass off the counter and it shattered on the floor. Mr. Leonard didn’t flinch. As Warren was sweeping up, Lyle went out through the sliding glass door and reappeared with something in her hands. A rock. It was the size of the garden stones they used to have in Herradura Estates. She laid it by Mr. Leonard’s head, where he could see it if he opened his eyes.

His breathing grew shallower, more and more labored. It was like watching a fish on a dock. Warren joined his wife and children on the floor. They sat there silently, drinking their coffee, waiting for Mr. Leonard to open his eyes and notice the rock.

“If he’d only eat something,” Lyle said.

“What’s his favorite food?” Dustin said.

“Steak.”

“Has he ever had it?”

“Don’t you remember on the Fourth of July, when he ate the steaks off the grill? He kept going back there every night, like to pray.”

“There’s some London broil in the fridge,” Warren said. “I was going to cook it tonight.”

He’d picked the steaks up yesterday, perhaps as a way of atoning for his sins. Warren got up now and placed one of them in a pan, turning the stove on high. Before long the kitchen filled with a dinery smell, as unfamiliar as the joy he’d felt earlier. Mr. Leonard didn’t stir or look up. Warren cut the steak into little pieces and put them in his bowl, moving the rock away so he could place it under the dog’s nose.

Mr. Leonard opened his eyes for a second, a dreamy, indifferent glance. His entire life he’d been trying to eat the meat off their plates. Camille got up suddenly, grabbed the pan from the stove, and brought it over to where Mr. Leonard was lying. She dipped her finger in the grease at the bottom of the pan and painted Mr. Leonard’s lips with it, making sure to cover every inch, as if smearing them with ChapStick.

Mr. Leonard opened his eyes again, licking the grease from his lips. He roused himself enough to sniff the bowl. Shyly, he managed to lift his head and take a bite, gulping down several pieces of London broil.

“He’s okay,” Lyle said, laughing.

“He’s going to expect this from now on,” Dustin said. “Filet mignon.”

Eventually he began to wheeze. It was a horrible sound, undoglike and mechanical, as though his insides were being sucked out by a machine. It was too awful to acknowledge. They sat there for a long time, unable to look at one another. Finally Lyle got up and left, and then Dustin, and then Warren stood up slowly, leaving Camille on the floor by herself. He knew better than to ask her to leave her post. Alone, he took off his clothes without brushing his teeth and climbed into bed, the stars swarming outside his window. The wheezing was loud enough to travel down the hall. He couldn’t remember feeling this tired since Dustin was in the hospital: the bed like something you’d forgotten about, a long-lost embrace. Stars pulsed at the window. His wife began to sing from the kitchen. It was the lullaby from Mary Poppins, the one she used to sing to the children when they were little.

Stay awake, don’t rest your head

Don’t lie down upon your bed

While the moon drifts in the skies

Stay awake, don’t close your eyes

Perhaps Warren drifted off himself, because the next thing he knew the house was silent. There was no light from the hallway. He moved over to touch Camille, to comfort her, but of course she wasn’t there.

In the land of underwater birds, everything is reverse. For example: Fish fly through the sky and make their homes in trees. Skunks smell like flowers. When they’re getting married, people say I hate you . The minister says, You may now punch the bride. Girls go to the bathroom standing up. Also, in the land of underwater birds, you win the Olympics by running slowest. Childhood is the worst time; you get happy when you’re older. Also, people go to heaven before they’re born. They hand out cigars when someone dies. In the land of underwater birds, they say There are a million places like home.

Lyle’s dad fiddled with his tie, hiding the skinny end by tucking it into his shirt. Ever since Lyle’s parents had separated, her father had begun dressing up for visits. Lyle found the whole thing depressing, all the more because Jonas and her mother were wearing sweatpants.

“Enjoying the beach?” her dad asked. As usual, he and Lyle’s mother were sitting on opposite ends of the couch. Jonas lounged near her mom’s feet, playing a video game. The demonic music bleating from the TV set made the room seem even smaller than it was.

“It’s the middle of winter,” Lyle said. “Anyway, I hate the beach. Thank God we’re nowhere near it.”

Her dad smiled politely, glancing toward the kitchen. “Well, it must be nice to see the harbor at least.”

“The balcony faces the freeway. All you can see are cars.”

He seemed disappointed. Why he wanted to romanticize their life — their small, dark, brown-carpeted apartment — was a mystery to Lyle. The three of them had moved out in August. It seemed like Dustin and her dad had vanished overnight, left behind in Auburn Fields. Seeing as how she’d been dying to return to civilization, Lyle was surprised by the fact that she missed them so much. She’d be waiting for the phone to ring, or watching TV with Jonas, and an emptiness would fill her like a breath.