You Could Be Home by Now (10 page)

“Taking off my editor's hat, I'd say her priorities seem a bit out of whack.” The child had a concussion. A bruise rippling over his brain.

Lobel nodded. He leaned on Seth's desk and drummed his fingers. Seth should've gotten there first, sat, staked his territory. The way Ali said it worked with the Homestead Act. Garner Chalk at the dusty Claims Office, a blistering lifetime of ranch work before him, marking an
X
for the name he couldn't write, two slashes that spelled out
I am here and, therefore, this is mine
. Seth dodged Lobel to reach the chair. It was the wrong move. The other man towered now. Lobel said, “Thing is, it's bad buzz. The whole world knowing Mona's place won't sell. And it's a nice model. One of the original Rancheros.”

Seth nodded.

“And that stunt she pulled on the news. Did you see Channel Twelve? I sent Groundskeeping right over to axe that sign. You can't leave a thing like that to mess with the neighbors' heads.”

Seth nodded, though he'd been avoiding the local news. He wouldn't be able to get through the Rosko coverage without throwing something. No one saw the story that mattered. Even without the concussion, that poor child, boxed away for months. How pale he must be, how thin. Not that he said a word to Alison. Seth had only managed a B in Psych 101, but even he could recognize projecting. Their still, sweet boy. The nurses cleaned him and wrapped him in a blanket. Bless them for their kindness and bless that blanket, the blanket that meant Seth could see him bit by bit. His veins the boldest part of him, green beneath thin skin. The rest an assemblage of curls: his hair and lashes, the arch of his foot, the curve of his fingers, that failed twist of cord. He kissed Timothy goodbye but couldn't bring himself to look at his boy all at once. It shifted, always, which was worse. His cowardice or how cold his son would've seemed unblanketed.

Lobel crossed to the window and looked out at the grounds. His back was to Seth. “I want it put out there that there was a mistake in our central listing database. A typo by a data entry temp. Realtors could find Mona's place if they dug, but something stopped her property from popping to the forefront.”

“Something?”

“A technical thing. A computer thing. I'm not entirely sure I understand it myself. Near as I can follow, folks couldn't see Mona's place was up for sale so folks didn't know they could buy it. It'll move now. The Ranchero's got a prime layout.”

“I'll get a quote from IT.”

Lobel shook his head. “Sure. If you like, but I don't think most of the
Crier
's readers can make heads or tails of that kind of thing. Besides, you wouldn't exactly say that's the heart of the issue.” Lobel shut the office door. In the second before it closed, Seth saw that Nicky had arrived. The kid settled down at his desk. Of course. That was why whenever Ali stopped by, the pair wound up chatting. Nicky's desk was by the entryway and it was as simple as that. The principles of real estate: location, location, location.

“You're telling me it was just a glitch.”

“I'm saying I want you to put it out there.”

Two weeks into each school year, Seth's students could recite his lecture on fact checking verbatim. He'd flunked a girl once for falsifying quotes; he'd stood firm with a student whom Shipley pressed to reveal sources. Lobel made a satisfied sound. Seth choked down an
unsatisfied
sound of his own. “You might be better served with a press release from your office.”

“Nah,” Lobel clapped Seth's shoulder. “Let's keep it in the family. They're all reading you anyhow. As far as I can tell, that's how the jackals got the story in the first place.”

“Am I supposed to feel bad about that?” A child's
life
was at stake. For all anyone knew that Rosko woman was senile.

“Not at all, son.” Lobel had to be gracious, considering that he was asking what he was asking. “You do your job.”

“Of course I will,” said Seth.

Lobel beamed as if he'd heard a promise. Seth walked him out. Nicky tried for his attention. “I'll have your editor back in two shakes,” Lobel said, and something ugly bloomed in Seth's gut hearing the title. They waited for the elevator. No one ever took the stairs in The Commons. Lobel asked, “You kids settling in all right?”

“We're renting a place about ten miles south.”

“Rockpoint Townhomes?”

“Parklands.” Seth fumbled a little for the development's name, though he passed it twice a day, spelled out at its entrance in an ornate font. So many places here were like that. Grandly labeled and fenced in, as if the gate itself made what lay beyond worthy of taxonomy and display.

Lobel nodded. “Nice area. My pool guy put theirs in, too. Though between you and me, it's a buyer's market. You and Alison should look into something permanent. Especially if you want children.”

Seth could rip out that tongue like a fat, wet root.

“No rush, though. You kids enjoy each other a while first. You'll miss it after, being just the two of you.” The elevator door opened and Seth wanted it to swallow his boss. Hoagland Lobel stepped on. He held a hand out to stop the sliding doors. “I see Alison now and again. Thought she couldn't top that old Hollywood stuff she dug up, but this Adah Chalk—I've half a mind to rename Centerville Commons Adahstown, seeing as it's her hundred fiftieth birthday next month. That'll distract from all this fuss. A little rebranding goes a long way.”

Adah Chalk came West as a mail-order bride.

Adah Chalk saved the herd from a flash flood.

Adah Chalk ran the telegraph office, cured rattler bites with a secret poultice, taught English to migrants, drove the first automobile for a hundred miles, corresponded with Susan B. Anthony, won blue ribbons with her slices of lemon pie. Dear God, was he ever sick of Adah Constance Ragsdale Chalk.

The elevator door strained against Lobel's hand. “Adahstown. Or maybe Adahstowne with an
E
. One or the other. No tofu, now. Which do you think is best?” Lobel was all unweighted affability. Evidently, it had not occurred to him that Seth might have a conscience.

“I'd say check with Ali,” Seth said. “She'll know what's in keeping with the period.”

“Will do, partner, and thanks for the talk.”

Partner.
The doors closed.

Yes. Because Sierra cared so very much about
Lipstick.
You'd think her best friend would have dedicated five minutes to posting a general notice. No, Lily hasn't gone Amish; no, Lily hasn't gone to military school. She's been falsely accused and misses you all like moisturizer. She'll be back as soon as she can. In the meantime, remember: Even with the Most Delicate of Dusting Brushes, Thou Shalt Not Apply Multiple Tints above the Crease. But no. Sierra was busy. Apparently slurping on Rocky's fat stupid tongue took an inordinate amount of time.

The laptop weighed thirty pounds and was burning up her legs, which was biologically unjust. Guys didn't have to deal with that. Guys got a lucky protective mat of leg hair. She Googled
Benjamin Thales the commons Arizona news interview.
Pages loaded in slow mo and yielded only permutations of the whole Rosko story. That and a YouTube tour of The Commons where some fake cowboy they'd hired to play the CEO steered a golf cart around, heehawing his way through The Full Life Community You've Been Working Toward. Outside, Nicky Tullbeck was long gone. In the kitchen, Gran waited for Ben, her sneakers laced and double knotted. Lily tried
creepy old man knows way too much about missing girls
.

No way was she going to search for
cunt
on her grandmother's computer. Even if she cleared the history, therein lay the road to traumatic pop-ups. She heard the sound of it though, in the clattering of her fingers across keys. Cunt, cunt, vinegary old cunt. C U next Tuesday was the closest she'd come to hearing anyone actually say it, and that was just Sierra on the subject of a girl who'd had the audacity to sit beside Rocky in study hall, sharing her flashcards of irregular German verbs.

Lily typed out
cunt
but didn't hit return.

Here was a violation of all the laws, of cheese, of logic, of basic linguistics. To refer to something so objectively excellent as if it was nothing.

Worse. As if it was vile.

Lily deleted the word with four stabbing keystrokes. She tried
crazy old man says c*nt on the news
. The asterisk looked wrong, like it was trying to turn the nastiness into
Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star
.

Lily wondered if anyone had ever called Sierra a cunt. If anyone had called
her
one without her knowing it. Or those vanished girls Ben Thales had been rabid about. Lily's back ached. She'd read somewhere that a woman with presence never let her spine rest against the back of a chair. It had seemed like good advice to internalize, particularly since she was shorter than she'd liked. Still. It turned slouching into something only boys could get away with. Sad but true: hunching girls look like they're embarrassed to have breasts.

Boys.

She bet Nicky was off somewhere watching the Thales clip again. She bet he was smirking.

She bet Rocky would be watching it within the week. Ditto the smirk.

It didn't have the same effect.
Dick cock balls
. The words were brassy and arrogant and only anatomically related to cunt.

“Well.” Gran was in the doorway. “It looks like we've been stood up.” She said it twelve times calmer than Sierra would've if Rocky (a) deigned to agree to a standing date and (b) broke it. She brushed her hands like a gymnast chalking up. She rocked up on tiptoe. Lily clamped the laptop shut. Mom and Dad would have a fit at that. House rules: all Internet business is to be conducted in communal areas. Gran shot her a look. Gran had probably heard the whole Safe Cyber Choices lecture in excruciating detail. Poor Gran. She must've made the parentals' shit list for letting Lily within fifty feet of a functioning computer. She hadn't said a word though. Every cell that comprised Lily hoped her grandmother had never been called cunt.

“Good,” Lily said. “I'm glad.”

“What?” Gran frowned.

“I said, good. I don't like him.”

“Ben?”

“He's sketch city.”

“I hope that's slang for generous neighbor.”

A pause. A sigh. Gran sunk back on her heels and it was amazing the height that she lost.

“No. I didn't suppose it was. Lily, I'm—”

“He's always
around
and I saw a—”

“I'm sorry.” Gran shook her head, all highlights and shine. Maybe Mona Rosko wasn't the brave one, letting her color leach away like autumn in reverse. Maybe Gran was, holding on to brightness while it lasted. “I've left you on your own too much. I should've—”