Model Home by Eric Puchner Page B

Spanish billboards and Mexican taquerias and stores called Pepe’s Pants and Car Aroma Supply and Food 4 Less Carniceria. There was some graffiti on the side of a Laundromat that said CHRIST JESUS IS YOUR ONLY HOPE. Lyle wondered if it was a mistake but was too embarrassed to ask Hector.
    Eventually they turned onto a smaller street lined with stucco houses, nestled behind fences and painted bright as Easter eggs. Even though it was the middle of summer, Christmas lights hung in squiggly vines from many of the houses. There were wet clothes draped over the fences and dogs sleeping on the sidewalk and signs on the telephone poles that said CASH FOR YOUR HOUSE or SUPER BAILAZO. Hector kept his eyes glued to the street, driving on the wrong side because everyone’s trash cans were pulled mysteriously into the road. As they turned north, he pointed at the nearby hill with its Mediterranean haze of red-tiled roofs.
    â€œWe’re neighbors, basically. You can almost see your house from here.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œIf it wasn’t for the smog.” He turned down the music. “Did you know Wilmington was this close?”
    â€œNo.”
    Actually, she hadn’t even known it existed. At Hector’s house, they pulled into the driveway and parked next to a weight bench covered in clear plastic and surrounded by neatly stacked disks. The blinds were drawn in all the windows, like a serial killer’s. Lyle’s palms were sweating. For the first time, she wondered if his poem wasn’t intended as metaphor: perhaps he really wanted to eat her. He’d kill her first, then dine on her flesh. She thought of Mandy Rogers, her oblivious gnomish grin. Lyle’s throat felt dry. She glanced behind her at a trash-strewn alley, wondering if she could make a dash for it in her Doc Martens.
    Hector cut the engine, which guttered to a stop. Surprising herself, Lyle grabbed his uniform and pulled his thistley mustache toward her mouth. They kissed like blind people, knocking teeth. He pulled back, glancing at the house.
    â€œMy mother’s here,” he said apologetically. He blushed. “I’m going to get my own apartment. Soon as she sells the house.”
    Hector’s mother met them at the door, impossibly old, brown scalp visible through a scorch of hair. She was holding a bouquet of wilted sunflowers. She grinned rapturously and yelled something in Spanish: “Estoy casi muerta!” I’m almost dead. Lyle stepped backward.
    â€œHola, Abuela,” Hector said calmly. He turned to Lyle, tapping his head. “She’s not totally in charge.”
    The old woman handed Lyle the flowers and ducked into the kitchen, where she began pulling things out of the refrigerator and sniffing them theatrically. Hector ushered Lyle inside and then went to answer the phone. The living room was small and dark. Hanging on the walls, like an exhibit, were pieces of religious memorabilia: a sculpture of the pietà, a naked saint calling for help from a sea of fire, a framed picture of John Paul II waving Miss America–style from the Popemobile. A man’s photo stood on the fireplace behind a wall of prayer candles, their glass containers Brailled with wax. The place gave Lyle a sludgy, unreal feeling, as though she were watching soap operas on a beautiful day.
    Another woman appeared—Hector’s mother, she realizedwith relief—and Lyle introduced herself. The woman was much stouter than Hector and surprisingly beautiful, her arms clinking with bracelets. She had Hector’s same dainty-looking hands. She squinted suspiciously at the sunflowers in Lyle’s fist, which were gray and droopy, their petals crinkled into little flames.
    â€œThank you. You don’t need to bring flowers.”
    â€œThese aren’t . . . I didn’t buy them,” Lyle said.
    â€œWe have some just like.”
    Hector’s mom took the dead flowers and stuck them