'I don't like the idea. What if some of that Agent X is floating around? I think we should stay put, like the radio says.'
'Mum, if Agent X is as bad as they say, we'd have it by now. That is, if there was anyone to catch it from. I bet this whole area's deserted-all you have to do is look out the window.' I flipped up the curtain. The view was like an overexposed photo of bleak suburbia. 'We're like people in the Middle Ages who went to the countryside to escape the Black Death. Maybe we lucked out, but we can't just sit here forever. There may be help out there.' I wasn't sure if I believed that myself.
But my mother thought about it, bit her lip, and nodded.
Bringing her chrome handcuffs and diecast toy Luger made Mum feel less vulnerable, so I didn't say anything. We drove to the cabin of my 'father' first, a private little place tucked in its own cul-de-sac. He had a reinforced steel mailbox to ward off bat-wielding joyriders, and it was made quaint with an old lobster trap, buoys, and a jigsawed wooden sign that read, COWPER'S REST.
The cottage looked all shut up, but his big utility vehicle was parked in the driveway. I wondered if it might be possible to siphon gas out of it.
'Let's just sit in the car for a few minutes,' I said. 'Give him a chance to look us over.'
'Okay,' Mum said, turning off the motor.
We sat watching the house for any sign of activity, but no one peeked back at us through the blinds.
After a few minutes, my mother said, 'I don't think there's anybody there.'
'I know.'
'I feel funny lurking out here.'
'Well, let's go knock.'
'You think so?'
'Sure, why not?' As we got out, I added, 'But I think you should leave the gun in the car.'
'I'll put it in my purse.'
We cautiously climbed the porch and rang the bell, listening to the faint chimes within.
'Hello?' my mother called hopefully.
There was nothing. It was kind of a relief. I'd been tricked into meeting Mr. Cowper during one of my mother's confrontations, and to his credit, he was cordial, but chilly. What was odd was how desperately coquettish she had been, flattering him and making her painstaking pursuit seem like a casual visit. It was pathetic. He went along with the small talk, humoring her like a doctor in an asylum, and I could feel his sympathy for me like a chintzy gift from a rich relative. When he started asking me how I was doing in school, and Mum began to boast about what a genius I was, I felt physically ill-it was the sensation that he and I were watching her with the same pity.
In the distance I could see the bulbous water tower by the highway. It made me wonder how long we'd have water pressure… and electricity, for that matter. A lump rose in my throat. My anxiety was interrupted by Mum's plopping down on the steps.
'I can't take this,' she said. 'I just can't take it.'
Trying to sound reassuring, I said, 'It'll be okay. I'm sure there are other people like us around.' I could tell she was on the verge of one of her meltdowns. It was something I didn't think I could handle just then, as I was barely keeping it together myself. Give her a few minutes to cool down, I thought. 'Listen, you take it easy for a little while,' I said. 'I'm just going to run over to the stoner house and take a look. I'll come right back.'
'No! By yourself? No way, buster, we'll drive.'
'Mum, it's twice as long to drive. From here I can just cut across the field, and I'll be back in five minutes. You know how careful I am.'
She was wavering, not sure what to do. With her graying hair and her housecoat, she suddenly looked very old and sad.
Trying to clinch it, I said, 'You know nobody's even going to be there. I mean, look around!' I waved at the ranks of empty cottages. 'I'll be right back, I promise.'
With a worn-out nod, she said, 'Okay, but don't scare me.'
'I won't.' I bolted from the porch.
Cutting across backyards and sparse woods, I felt exhilarated, free. At times my mother was a planet unto herself, with a dense, claustrophobic atmosphere and heavy gravity. She needed company, and it was my lot to provide it. Being alone never bothered me; I often thought I would do well in solitary confinement, as long as I had access to books. Of course, being cooped up in that cabin with her for more than a month didn't help. As my head cleared I even began to wonder if the whole Agent X business wasn't pure delirium. Not that I could believe that, but it was so unreal.
I stopped to pee beside a vine-covered stone wall, listening to the trickle in the silence. It was so damn peaceful-yes, maybe there was nothing to be afraid of.
Crossing the meadow under the power lines, I found Hull Street. It was a narrow dirt lane with more summer houses on either side. My feet crunched on the gravel, and I found myself treading lightly without quite knowing why. If there was no one around, why did I care? And if there was someone, shouldn't I make myself heard?
Stoner Central lay at the end of the street, a double-wide trailer strung with Christmas lights. I had seen it at night, all lit up and booming vapid technomusic to a throng of future tin nitus cases. Now the place was quiet, and nearly invisible, set far back under the trees and surrounded by a low chain-link fence. Drifts of unraked pine needles covered the property. Whitewashed tires that might have been taken off the stripped car in the driveway served as planters. Around back, a decrepit patio set was visible under the pines, where there was a lingering icy crust from the last time it snowed.
Worried about dogs, I made a racket opening the gate and waited. Just as before, there was zero response. I looked back down the road to see if anyone was watching, but nothing stirred except the trees. Standing still was the worst thing to do-it makes you imagine all kinds of things. Never being one to let my imagination get the best of me, I mentally slapped myself and went up the walk.
A cold gust of wind swept through, slamming a screen door somewhere and making me turn my face away. It had been a very mild winter, but in the afternoons the wind always picked up. I entered the zone of shade around the house and climbed to the front door, kicking pinecones off the step. There were cigarette butts everywhere. We're all friends here-that was what I tried to communicate with my spritely knock.
Once more there was nothing. The sunlit street looked a long way off, and I was ready to call it quits. I turned to go but, while turning, absently gave the doorknob a twist. It opened.
Damn, I thought.
CHAPTER THREE
Feeling my skin crawl, I pushed the door in, and said, 'Hello?'
Rank, housebound air puffed out. It smelled like damp ash-trays and rancid milk. I felt for and flicked the light switch, but it was dead, so I leaned in to let my eyes adjust. For a second my heart seized up at what I thought was the shape of a person in the gloom-Oh God, oh God-until the shape resolved itself into a life-size cardboard cutout of Pamela Anderson. Getting a grip, I stepped inside.
Not much to see: mustard-colored shag carpeting, a bunch of baggy old furniture, TV, stereo-typical guy stuff. Pamela was the only decoration. These were the kind of men who could argue heatedly about which pro athlete should be president. I tried the TV and got nothing, but there were several remotes, and it's possible I didn't do it right.
So this was Stoner Central. I was a little disappointed. Except for a few cigarette burns the place was pretty clean. I'd always pictured something a little more exotically nasty. To tell the truth, I'd had a secret yearning to come in here since Mum and I first arrived, and had gone so far as to spy on their New Year's Eve party, skulking around under the trees as the place roared like a bonfire: sleazy-voluptuous tattooed women slithering against crude roughnecks, none of them much older than me, yet as confident in their skins as royalty, while music and
