A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Drinks?" the waiter asks.

"Cokes all around," the husband says.

"Just water," Cynthia says.

"Do you have any juices?" Richard asks.

"We have cranberry, orange, and grapefruit. None are fresh-squeezed, so you don't have to bother to ask."

"I think I'd like the chopped salad," Cynthia says.

"Get the steak," the husband says.

"I'm not that hungry."

"For God's sake, we're at a steak place. She'll have steak, medium, with baked potato and broccoli."

"Can I have French fries and a baked potato?" the boy asks.

"No," the husband says.

"I want a hamburger but no bun," the girl says.

"Change your order," Richard whispers in her ear.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"And you, sir?"

"Nothing for me; still full from lunch."

"For Christsakes, eat something."

"Vegetables," Richard says. "Any steamed vegetables?"

"It's a steak house, not a Chinese restaurant. I'll see what they can do." The waiter walks away.

They sit playing with the rolls and butter.

"Clifford's dad had an affair with Clifford's mom's best friend, then Clifford's mom got a boob job…," Cynthia's son says.

"We're just friends," Cynthia says, interrupting him.

Richard elbows her. "Change your order."

"Be right back," she says, getting up from the table.

Richard smiles at the boy. There is something about him that Richard doesn't like — he's fluffy, like a marshmallow, and talks in a constant whine.

"Where did you meet my mom?" the little girl asks.

"In the produce section," Richard says. "She was crying because you don't like her cooking."

They are silent.

Later, when Cynthia's chopped salad arrives, the husband is baffled.

"But I was going to have some of your steak."

"You're welcome to some salad."

"If I'd known you weren't having steak, I would have ordered something else."

"I said I wanted salad."

When they are done, they all pile back into the car and head up the hill. "We'll drop you off," Andy, the husband, says to Richard.

"Nice meeting you," Richard says as they pull up in front of his house. "Good luck."

"Nice seeing you," Cynthia says, unbuckling her seat belt as the car comes to a stop.

"Don't start this again," the husband says. "We had a nice dinner; didn't you think it was nice?"

Without warning, Cynthia throws the door open, jumps out, and runs across the yard. The husband takes off after her, leaving the car door open. The interior light illuminates the children's faces as they watch their parents chase each other around the front yard.

Richard hurries out after them.

"Open the front door," Cynthia shouts, and Richard runs up the stone walk, unlocks the front door, and pushes it open. She dodges the husband, who hurls himself across the lawn in the flying leap of an attempted tackle. The front door slams with a loud percussive pop, followed by the sound of breaking glass as the large windows crumble.

She opens the door. "Sorry," she says, and then closes it again, more carefully.

"It's enough for one night," Richard says to the husband.

"You're a freak," the husband says. "Fine, you want her, you keep her. I have no idea what you're going to use her for — can't imagine." He climbs back into the minivan. "She's not going to get away with this and neither are you — you little fairy shit." The husband drives off.

"He's not really so bad, is he?" Cynthia says, coming out of the house.

"Hard to know," Richard says.

"The minute they drove up, I knew I couldn't go back. I felt like I'd escaped, like I got lucky. I'd die if I went back. When he drove up I felt sick, and now I feel really good. Look how strong I was." She gestures towards the house. "I'll pay you for it as soon as I have some money. I'll take care of everything. I can't believe I broke your house."

"The house was already broken."

"Do you think he'll come back? Do you think he'll come and kill me?"

"We can't stay here anyway. Between your husband being on the loose and the house being broken, we should just go to Malibu. The real-estate guy left me the key."

"I just want you to know, I'm not going to mooch off you forever. I appreciate all you've done for me, but it's not like I'm moving in permanently. I will figure this out."

They go into the house and tape big green plastic bags over the broken windows. When they run out of plastic bags they use whatever shopping bags are in the cupboard — Hermes, Armani, Barneys, Bristol Farms. They piece together a consumer collage meant to protect the interior in case the weather turns, and to keep the wildlife out.

He leaves a message for his insurance agent. "OK, so now someone visiting me managed to break two of the large plate-glass windows — is that covered?"

He puts his dirty retreat clothes into the hamper and takes clean clothes for Malibu: hats, sunglasses, a bathing suit, white pants, pale-blue sweater, a jean jacket he hasn't worn in years. He packs like he's going on a vacation, a pleasure cruise.

"I only have this," she says, patting a small plastic bag. "Maybe at some point I can sneak home and get some stuff. It's not like I planned on leaving; I accidentally escaped."

Richard hurries, moving like he has to get someplace soon, like someone who's old and worries about his ability to see in the dark.

They drive all the way down Sunset, into what feels like the wilds of Los Angeles, Santa Monica, and then up the Pacific Coast Highway, stopping at the Malibu Country Store for supplies.

"Didn't we just eat?" she asks.

"When?"

"At the restaurant?"

"I didn't really eat anything, did you?" Richard asks.

"I really want to stay on my diet; I can't eat crap," she says, circling the potato chips.

"Neither can I." He picks up a package of donuts, reads the ingredients, and puts it down.

They get eggs, bread, butter, water.

"French toast," she says happily. "With fruit!"

"Do they have fruit?"

"There's a pile of bananas by the register."

Back in the car, Richard searches for the house number in the fading light. "I was only here once. It's a big white box." Pulling off the highway, he practically runs over a man in a bathrobe digging through the trash.

"Are you fucking trying to kill me?"

"Sorry, I didn't see you."

"Am I fucking invisible?"

"Sorry." Richard fumbles with the key, the lock, the alarm code. It's like checking into a hotel late at night — something he always hated, arriving when it's too late to see where you are, too late to change your mind.

He turns on lights.

"It's nice," she says. "Smells like fresh paint."

The odor dilates the inside of his brain, a cross between a high and a headache. There is a part of him that is so exhausted he could go right to sleep, some massive sense of being overwhelmed that causes a shutdown. Like squatters, they spread out their loot on the kitchen counter. He finds a pan; she cracks the eggs and dips the bread.

The smell of the French toast makes him feel better. It's nice to eat something warm, soft, sweet.

"I found some Splenda in my pocket and sprinkled it in. Good, right?"

"Fantastic."

"Do you think that guy was homeless?" Richard asks.

"I don't know. Most people don't rummage through the trash in the dark in a robe," she says. "It's so white in here…"

"Very white."

Is white the color of hope?

After dinner, she goes to take a bath and he takes his jean jacket outside, neatly folds it, and leaves it on top of the trash can — it's got to be better than a bathrobe.

Alone in his room, he sets up his computer and goes online, first checking to see how his accounts did while he was away. Fine, good, no better or worse than if he'd been on them every day. And then he checks his e-mail. His brother has been forwarding the daily entries from the boys. They are getting closer, wending their way across America. He is thrilled to be in on the story, but devastated that it's coming to him secondhand.