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He was learning things from her. For example, on average twelve newborns are given to the wrong parents every day. Also, India is the only country with a bill of rights for cows. It was a relief to fill his head with useless knowledge. Melody's body was completely different from Camille's: brown as an Eskimo's, with a cozy plumpness that made him think of colder climes. He liked to nestle into her soft skin and imagine they were in Alaska, where the sun didn't buckle the roads. She always let him lie on the left side of the bed. In fact, she insisted upon it. She couldn't hear out of her right ear, one of the effects of the tumor, so it was the only way they could talk.

“Here,” she said now, taking Warren's hand. “You can feel
where they left the window in my skull. For brain swelling. There's a little soft spot.”

She showed him where they'd made the hole, running his fingers over the tender, dime-sized divot above her ear. He imagined there was still a window. Sitting up a bit, he made a little spyglass with his hand and cupped it to her head, pretending he was peering into her brain.

“What do you see?” Melody asked.

“Filing cabinets. Filled with trivia.”

She laughed. “Is there one marked Warren Ziller?”

“Actually, a whole special wing.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” she said.

Twinkle stood up suddenly and wandered over to the other side of its pen, making Warren feel guilty. He didn't like it when the ugly creature seemed more industrious than he was. Camille and the kids believed he was spending his afternoons looking for work, something more dependable than selling knives, going to interviews and temp agencies all over the valley. He was choked with guilt as soon as he got home, but here the world seemed to have pardoned him in advance. Melody
wanted
him to do nothing. Even Melody's father, who spent most of his time copying phone numbers from the TV, had never asked him why he didn't have a job, or what he was doing lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon. It was as though he'd stumbled across a refuge in the maze, some secret corner where the shifty-eyed monsters couldn't find him.

The TV murmured from the next room; as usual, Melody's father had left it on before making his daily trip to Denny's. Warren touched the shard of skull hanging from Melody's neck; he liked that she refused to take it off, even during sex. It didn't seem to bother her to lie in bed all day, either. She was still living off the disability from her old job, as the receptionist in a dental office. Playfully, she rolled her fingers into a spyglass and stuck them against Warren's head, as though she could spy into his brain as well. “Aren't you going to ask me what I see?”

“No,” Warren said.

“No interest at all?”

He turned away, staring at the blinds. He was suddenly frightened. “What do you see?”

“Miserable things. Now you don't have to talk about them.”
She smiled. “My ex-husband needs to talk about everything. People think that's what all women want, Phil Donahue, but it isn't true. Getting your brain opened up helps you appreciate the right to remain silent.”

Warren was deeply grateful. He did not want to ruin these afternoons with intimacy. Melody got out of bed, slipping on the pink robe that hung from the doorknob.

“Anyway, I have a theory about Phil Donahue,” she said from the bathroom. “I think he's a reincarnated sheepdog. I mean, he's so big and shaggy. Also, he runs around inside. Dogs do that. Personally, I don't think people should run around inside, it's unseemly.”

“Why do you do this?” Warren asked.

“Do what?”

“I don't know. Let me come over like this.”

She stepped out of the bathroom, suddenly serious. Her bushy eyebrows looked stranger from across the room, less native to her face. “When you're sick, you're everyone else's problem. It's like you've turned into a helpless baby. I guess I'm attracted to being the solution for a change.”

While she showered, Warren put on his khakis and slipped out of the trailer, squinting in the ridiculous heat. Clouds littered the sky like shreds of Kleenex. It was only when he was alone that he felt truly disgraceful. The miniature pig watched him from the edge of its pen, oblivious to the sky's presence. Perhaps it didn't even know it existed. Warren walked up to the pig and clapped directly over its head, several times, but the miserable creature didn't look up.

That night at home, watching Lyle and Jonas gather around the table, their hungry faces sinking at the sight of the chili he'd reheated for the third night in a row, Warren found he could not look them in the eye. The kitchen smelled bad, like rotten onions. Probably no one had bothered to take out the garbage.

“Did you find any jobs today?” Lyle asked, worrying a kidney bean with her spoon.

Warren felt sick to his stomach. “We'll see. Maybe. I had an interview with a company.”

“Where? In Lancaster?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of company was it?”

He thought of an ad he'd seen in the classifieds. “Actually it was a mortuary. Administrative assistant.”

Jonas looked up from his chili. “Do you get unlimited free coffins?”

“No. I don't think so.” Warren stared into his bowl. “Anyway, it didn't sound promising. I think they're looking for someone with more experience.”

“You're looking, Dad,” Lyle said. “That's the important thing.”

Warren excused himself before the kids were done and went to the bathroom. He missed the old Lyle, her bratty insolence; this new version was impossible to look at. He heard the TV going in Dustin's room and forced himself to knock on the door. At least he knew he wouldn't be met by kindness. The room smelled considerably worse than the kitchen. In the corner, collecting dust, was the basket of exercise equipment; Warren had long ago stopped trying to get Dustin to follow his rehab plan.

On TV, a man—Henry Fonda, it looked like—was holding someone hostage in a prison yard, sticking a gun into his back. “What are you watching now?” Warren asked.

“
You Only Live Once.”

“Sounds like a soap opera.”

“It's a film noir,” Dustin said irritably. He was balancing a beer on his stomach. “By Fritz Lang.”

Warren nodded. “You really love Henry Fonda.”

“That's right. I want to do him up the ass.”

On-screen, a man in a clerical collar grabbed a telegram from somebody and rushed into the prison yard, pleading through the fog to Henry Fonda, who fired his gun at him. Dustin burst out laughing. Warren realized that he was drunk. Camille was right: he'd turned their son into an alcoholic. He felt suddenly like he might throw up.

“Atta boy,” Dustin said, toasting the TV. “Picking off a priest.”

“Dust.”

His son looked at him, but Warren didn't know what to say. At one point, he'd been brave enough to hold up a mirror and show him his face. Dustin turned back to the TV. “Close the door when you leave,” he said.

Later that evening, hearing Camille pull up the driveway after her grueling twelve-hour day and stagger into the kitchen, too
exhausted to heat up her chili before eating it, Warren vowed he would not go back to Melody's trailer. He was not a religious man but promised this with the soul-nursed conviction of the saved. Despite this moment of clarity, he returned the next day, and the next. Just the sight of the RV park from the road, a Christmasy sparkle of antenna, flooded him with gratitude and relief. On Thursday, napping in the swamp-cooled haven of Melody's room, he woke up alone with the covers at his feet, the odd tang of salt in his nose. He'd been dreaming about Dustin, a favorite nightmare. This time, though, when he'd unrolled Dustin from the blanket, braving the awful stink of his flesh, his son had become twelve years old, gawky and beautiful and unscathed, his smile as big as a harmonica. Jonas's age.
You only live once,
the boy said. Warren sat up in bed, the salt in his nose leaking down his throat. It wasn't until he touched his face, feeling the dampness there, that he realized he'd been crying in his sleep.

Naked, Warren parted the blinds and saw someone besides the pig, a shirtless man who was the spitting image of Jesus Christ, sitting in the gravel that bordered the neighbor's lot. He had long blond hair and a beard and a luminous, underfed look. Warren thought maybe he was deranged. The man lay back in the gravel with his hands on his hips, holding his legs in the air and scissoring them back and forth.

Warren slipped into his clothes and roamed the trailer in search of Melody, who'd disappeared. He went outside, where pig and man were still lying on the ground.

“You must be Warren,” the man said, standing up. He offered Warren a gravelly hand and introduced himself as Melody's little brother. His name was Kenny. “Melody told me about you.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“She and Pop went to buy an antenna. End of the free world, he can't get his channel anymore. She told me to tell you she'd be back.” He looked at his dirty palms and then wiped them on his shorts. “Sorry, long drive. Got to keep my abs in shape. Do you want a beer?”

Dustin had the night shift at the video store; another hour or so and Warren wouldn't have to face him. He followed Melody's brother into the kitchen, wondering if a Jesus impersonator would dread returning to his own house so much he'd start an affair. Kenny handed him a Bud Light from the fridge and then chugged
his own in what seemed like several gulps. Warren asked him how his trip was, remembering the video shoot in Salt Lake City.

“Those Momos are real slave drivers. Had me up on a cross for two hours. I mean, they wanted some Method acting up there. The bad part is your neck. They're all like, ‘Your head isn't sagging!' Do you know what that does to your splenius muscle?” Kenny shook his head. “Kirk used to be Mormon, Melody's husband, and even he thinks they're greedy.”

“You mean ex-husband.”

He seemed embarrassed. “Well, I guess technically they're still married. I don't know about the terminology.”

Later, Warren helped Kenny put the new antenna on the roof, which meant crouching on the marshmallowy tar and handing him screws when he needed them. He felt uncharacteristically useful. Melody and her father watched from below, the antenna box discarded at their feet. She looked different in her sunglasses, younger and almost beautiful. The shard of skull dangling from her neck glimmered in the sun. Her dad squinted at the long-haired man fiddling with an antenna, his half-naked son, telling him how to install it. What an odd thing a family was, Warren thought. The permutations, like the patterns of a chess game, seemed endless.

The installation was harder than it looked. Kenny began to curse under his breath, his bare back glazed with sweat.

“Put it where it won't get hit by lightning,” the old man said.

“Don't give me any ideas,” Kenny muttered.

“That's what happened to the old one. It got hit by lightning. It messed up the signal.”

“That's
not
what happened,” Kenny said. “Lightning wouldn't mess up the signal.”

“I don't know,” Melody said thoughtfully. “Animals in Africa won't attack another creature that's been hit by a lightning strike.”

“Excellent point,” Kenny said.

A boy in jungle-print sneakers began to antagonize the miniature pig next door. Warren could see him from the roof. The boy had a slingshot and was zinging gravel through the fence at the pig, which squealed when it was hit and gimped around its pen. Kenny stood up on the roof and raised an arm theatrically over his head, as if he were giving the Sermon on the Mount.

“How many days will it take the devil's minions to tear off your flesh?”

The boy stared up at him, startled. “Huh?”

“Wrong! You can't measure it in days!”

The boy ran off, spraying gravel. Kenny knelt down again and finished with the antenna. Following him down the ladder again, Warren slipped off the last rung and turned his foot on the ground, his ankle flaring with pain. It swelled up immediately. Melody jogged into the trailer to get some ice, her necklace clinking against the buttons of her shirt. Warren wondered if it was true what she'd said about animals being struck by lightning. Perhaps it was the smell that warned other creatures away. How lonely you would be, tottering around the Serengeti, smelling like bad luck. But you'd be safe as well—an accidental blessing. He started to get up but Melody had already come back with a bag of ice, tender with concern, pressing it to his ankle to numb the pain.

Taz climbed out of the water in the moonlight, naked except for her high-tops. She'd taken her clothes off first before climbing over. Scaling the top of the fence, wet hair dangling in her face, she looked like a little girl. Dustin turned away, studying the rabbit enshrined in its tree. Its skeleton had been picked clean, a ghoulish Christmas ornament.

“What are we down to now?” Taz asked, catching her breath. Her wet hair, pasted to her head, made her seem even nakeder. This was the second time she'd visited since the day they'd found the rabbit; as before, she'd asked to go down to the dump, insisting on an “after-dinner swim.”

“Sixty-five,” he said. “You've got, like, forty more years to shave off.”

“I don't feel any different. I hope it's working.”

She plucked her bra from the Joshua tree and slipped it on, reaching behind her back with two hands to clip it together. There were two types of girls: those who waited to dry off before putting on their clothes, and those who didn't. Dustin had forgotten which kind he preferred. He took a swig from his beer, unable to taste a thing over the smell of the dump.

“I watched a video at the store today,” he said. “
Faces of Death.
”