On the other side, one, two, three dead bolts slam, and the door squeals open with the smell of old paper and overcooked sausage.
“Shit,” Brian wheezes through three inches of opening, like he’s afraid that if he swings the door wide, the desert will get its claws over the threshold. “Anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like him?”
“No.” People only ever cooed over the similarities between me and my mom.You could be sisters, they’d say. My mom loved that one. “But thanks.”
Brian pulls the door open just enough for me to slip through. He’s a big guy, thick neck and red forearms striped with dark hair. Tan T-shirt with an American-flag-like pattern on the front, ball cap pulled low even inside. Two broken-backed couches crowd his living room, one dark leather with cracks in the cushions, the other draped in gold tassels and spinsterly floral with a skirt hanging to the floor. Gas station figurines of dragons and fairies watch in neat rows from the mantel. One at the end wears a long, black plastic cloak with a sword held to its forehead, part grim reaper, part evil wizard. The coffee table sags under the weight of stacked paperbacks:Scats and Tracks of the Rocky Mountains,God Emperor of Dune,The Art of Keeping Your Ass Alive.
“Water?” Brian calls over his shoulder as we move from the living room into the kitchen. “Might have a beer in the fridge too, if you’re a beer gal.”
There’s a fan plugged in on the counter. I don’t think he has air-conditioning.
“Water would be nice.” My folding cooler flails like a limp rag under my arm. “If you don’t mind. Do you have ice?”
He turns around as I struggle to snap the cooler into something vaguely rectangular. His eyes are a very pale blue.
“Have a drink first,” he says.
His fridge hums with the same muted menace as the pitchfork-wielding crowd in a monster movie. He brandishes a glass, and in response, the fridge door spits a stream of faintly orange water.
“Got my own well out back,” Brian explains as he sets the glass on the table in front of where he wants me to sit, then pulls a can of 7UP out from under the sink for himself.
“Neat.” The table is plastic and sunwarped. The water smells like minerals and horse shit. Tastes like it too.
“I’ve got three acres. All the neighbors moved to Reno or Salt Lake. Couldn’t handle the isolation. Me, I like it.” His grin reveals very straight teeth. A twist, a crack, and the 7UP can hisses weakly. “Your uncle ever teach you to handle a gun?”
“Um.” Would it be worse to say yes, or no? “No?”
Brian shakes his head and takes a long drag at the can. “He should have. Vegas is fucked up these days. Junkies everywhere, homeless begging on every corner, real fucked-up sex trafficking shit.”
Now I remember what it was like talking to Uncle Bill. Biting my tongue to keep him comfortable. Or at least trying to. I think of the desperation of the meth-jittered couples who come through the ED, arms scratched up and voices hoarse, and of the patients who come in an ambulance because they’re too poor to get to the doctor before their bodies give out on them. I think of my mom’s failing mind and our dusty apartment building, and I wonder when the last time was that Brian even left his property, much less drove all the way to Vegas.
“Everywhere’s fucked up.”
“True.” His pale eyes drift toward the kitchen window and stay there, cast colorless by the equally colorless desert light. “I can teach you to shoot, if you want. Go out back, shoot some empty cans.”
He tips the rest of the soda into his mouth and flicks the can onto its side. It rolls disconsolately across the table.
“Maybe next time.”
Brian laughs, sort of, and taps his forehead. “Sure, I get you. Stranger danger.”
I should probably protest, but I don’t quite have it in me. “How do you know Uncle Bill?”
He itches one of his thick red arms. “Found him through the map. Just like everyone else.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean. After a second of silence, he slaps his hands on his thighs and clears his throat with a snap like a pocketknife unfolding. “Right. Never mind. Your mom is Bill’s crazy sister.”
I can’t help rising to the bait. “Did Uncle Bill say that?”
“No. Nobody said anything.” He frowns like he’s probably lying, and mutters something that sounds like “Crazy behavior is crazy behavior.”
“Nobody’s crazy.” My eyes catch on my reflection in his toaster, my face stretched long and formless like taffy on a pull. “She’s sick. Did Uncle Bill tell you that?”
His eyes gleam. “Sick? Sick how?”
I shift in my chair. In the toaster, my face scrunches into a copper-colored tomato as my neck warps and narrows. So easy to get your jaws around. I don’t have to tell Brian anything if I don’t want to.
“Brain stuff. She doesn’t always know what she’s doing. It’s fine.”
