chapter six #2
Peter has run ahead. He’s scrambling over the junk in the yard and then over the roof. He climbs to the peak and scans the
view. I am surprised more of the stray kids aren’t here, but there’s no hint of movement around any of the nearby houses.
The kids must still be in town, or playing on other heaps of rust and broken glass elsewhere. I wonder how long we have until
they return, if they’ll return. Perhaps the place has already been picked over. I wonder if they’ve left anything we can eat
or use.
He swings down from the porch roof and lands on the railing. It creaks beneath his weight, but it doesn’t collapse. Claire and I wade through the weeds in the front yard as he disappears into the house.
“I wanted to see it first,” she pouts.
“Let him scare away the rats, snakes, and whatever other wildlife is in there.”
“You didn’t need him to scare away the dogs.” She mimics my charge at the dogs. Her mouth is open in a mock scream.
“I don’t like dogs,” I say.
“Why not?”
“It’s the drool. And the teeth. And when I was in kindergarten, one of the kids brought in their pet dog for show-and-tell.
It peed all over the R in the alphabet carpet. I used to always sit on the R.”
“I don’t like them because they bite,” she says.
“Your reason is better.”
We reach the porch. Some of the slats in the floor are broken, but overall it seems solid enough. Stacks of old moldy letters,
catalogs, and magazines lean against the wall of the house, and cobwebs encase two rocking chairs. I can clean them easily,
ditch the old mail, sweep the floor, make it livable.
The front door swings in the breeze, slapping against the wall. It looks to have a lock and dead bolt, though they won’t do
much good since the window in the door is missing. Also, there are other broken windows around the house. We could board them up, I think. Prevent unwanted visitors.
Claire skips inside as if this place is already home.
I wonder what on earth I’m thinking, playing house with a little girl, thinking of home improvements as if I mean to stay for longer than a day.
But it might be longer, and the motel won’t take me, the car is uncomfortable, and there are houses to spare.
Besides, Claire is happy. I tell myself that it’s okay to be practical, that I’m not running away by staying, that I do want to go home as soon as I can, that Mom is most likely perfectly fine and her stomachaches aren’t part of a relapse, or worse. I don’t need to hide from the truth.
I follow Claire inside. The entryway has peeling wallpaper with roses so tiny and dirty that they look like bugs. A grimy
mirror hangs on one wall. Coat hooks are beside it, and one raincoat hangs on a hook. To the left off the hallway is the kitchen.
Claire has disappeared into another room, but in the kitchen, Peter is investigating its cabinets. “Pasta!” He picks up a
box of spaghetti and shakes it. Moths fly out the top of the box. He puts it back. “Never mind.”
“Is there electricity?” I ask, crossing to the refrigerator. I open it, and a blast of sour milk and the reek of rotted vegetables
washes over me, but so does cool air. I shut it. “Running water?”
He tests the sink. It gurgles at first, and then a gush of rust-colored water sprays out. The pipes haven’t been used for
a while, but I bet it will run clear soon.
“How’s this possible?” I ask. “I don’t remember any power lines. All the houses look just plopped in the desert. And besides,
no one is here to pay the bills.”
“People lose power all the time,” Peter says. “And water is wasted every day.”
“Huh,” I say. “Convenient.”
Peter smiles a knowing smile.
I study him for a moment, the Finder, Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf, Sisyphus, whoever he is. “You led us to this house on
purpose. You knew it had this.” I wave my hands at the sink with running water and the functional fridge.
He bows, sweeping his trench coat behind him. It’s an elegant, archaic, and practiced bow. “I am your guardian angel, your
fairy godfather, and your knight in shining armor.”
“Kind of,” I say. And he kind of is. He’s my angel in a trench coat, first saving me from the dust storm and now this.
It helps that he’s drop-dead gorgeous, exactly the type I would have picked out of a crowd from the wild-boy smile to the artist-quality tattoos—exactly the type I swore never to date again.
Luckily, I’m not looking to date anyone.
He holds out his hand. “Come see the rest of the house. You’ll like it.”
I take his hand and let him guide me into the living room. A picture window (sadly broken, a quarter of the glass gone) with
a window seat opens onto a view of the desert. Two once-white couches lie under a sheet of dust. Books and cobwebs fill the
shelves. The fireplace is full of ash. It’s as if the old occupants simply left. It’s extraordinary that the place hasn’t
been found by any scavengers or occupied by wildlife, especially with the broken windows.
He leads me into a dining room with a wide table and a cobweb-covered chandelier. A tiny pink bathroom is off the side of
the front hall, and a second full bathroom with stenciled birds on the wall is between two bedrooms. One bedroom, the master,
has a queen-size bed and a wide dresser. The second bedroom has a twin bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. Claire is in the second
bedroom. She has a look on her face that is pure wonder, and she is turning in a slow circle to see every inch of the room.
“Mine?” she asks.
“Yours,” I say.
She beams at me.
“Come upstairs,” Peter says. His hand feels warm and soft and real in mine, even though all of this is impossible, including
him. He tugs me gently out of the bedrooms and toward the stairs. The stairs creak as we climb them, and I notice pictures
on the wall. Dust and grime have obscured the faces of the people, but I think it’s a family. Babies. Grandparents. Brides
and grooms. I wonder where they are now, who they were, why they lost this house.
Upstairs . . . it’s perfect.
A few birds startle in the peak of the cathedral roof.
They dart out the open window. Sunlight streams inside and over the hardwood floors and white walls.
It’s a single open room, a studio. There are no easels or paints or pottery wheel, but there could be and should be.
It’s exactly what I’d described I wanted.
In the center of the attic room, there’s a stuffed bunny. It’s a ragged bunny with one eye. Its ear is matted from a toddler
dragging it everywhere. I recognize it instantly. Mr. Rabbit, my favorite stuffie from preschool. I’d lost it years ago.
I let go of Peter’s hand as if it’s burned me. “Tell me how you knew,” I say. “You had no time to find this house between
when Claire brought me to you and now. You didn’t know I’d come to you or that I’d need a place to stay. I only just now told
you about the studio. And I never mentioned Mr. Rabbit.”
He’s wearing an enigmatic smile again, and I want to slap it off his face.
“You set me up,” I say. “This was all . . . a trap. Somehow. I don’t know how. You sent Claire to find me, to bring me to
you. You led me here . . . Why?”
“I didn’t.” His voice is serious. He’s dropped the playful veneer that he wears with Claire. I shiver. “But I like that you’re
suspicious. It will serve you well here.”
“Then explain.” I want to believe it’s a coincidence, that he’s my savior, that I’ll be safe here, that I can trust him and
Claire, that it will be okay, that I will find whatever I lost and find my way home. But this . . .
“I can’t.” His dark eyes bore into mine—beautiful, dangerous.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.” He walks to the wide-open window, the one the birds swooped out of. “Besides, you don’t really want to know how the
magician does his tricks. It will ruin the show.” He grins, and then he leaps out the window.
I race to the window and lean out.
The desert is empty, and the Finder is gone.