Three days.
That's how long it takes us to drive from Beauville, Indiana to the middle of nowhere Southern California. Dusty Valley is about as far off the map as you can get-- seriously, when my mom tried asking for directions at a gas station in Arizona they thought it was one of those "Operation Teapot" ghost towns-- but that didn't stop my family from piling into our dented-up Winnebago and hitting the road. The first twenty-four hours weren't terrible, but after we crossed the Oklahoma state line things went downhill fast.
Long story short, Sarah and mom are no longer on speaking terms, the Twins set my last pair of clean underwear on fire with the cigarette lighter, and I hate British Henry. When he's not busy complaining about his sunburns, he's eating Marmite on toast, listening to the weather station for fun, or doing something equally disgusting. He's also the world's worst driver, and I don't think it's because he's used to driving on the opposite side of the road. British Henry is conspiring to kill my family and I'm ready to let him. There is nothing enjoyable about a three-day road trip. Nothing at all. Also, anybody who thinks car bingo is fun should be committed to a mental hospital.
Fifteen minutes away from the Super 8 we're staying at for the rest of the summer, the Winnebago exhales gently and dies a peaceful death. Mom sighs, crosses herself, and slams her palm against the horn. It lets out a feeble blep.
"Oh my gawd," Sarah says, rolling her eyes like she's trying out for the role of Linda Blair. (I assume this means she's speaking to us again. Although I wasn't opposed to the silent treatment.) "We're in the middle of the desert and it's a million degrees, and this is when the piece of crap RV decides to break down? Really?"
"Well, maybe you should've married an auto mechanic," says mom.
"I can't believe you're saying this is my fault. How is this my fault?"
"That's not what I said. I said you should've married an auto mechanic."
"Sorry, was a Rhodes scholar not good enough for you?"
This catches Henry's attention, but for the complete wrong reason. "My dad was an auto mechanic for a few years," he exclaims. "Want me to go check on the engine?"
"No," mom and Sarah say in unison.
Henry deflates like a sad party balloon. "Probably for the best," he mutters. "Dad always drank on the job. And packed the used transmissions with sawdust."
Sarah pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. "I know, sweetie."
Something about the way she says sweetie makes me want to barf. Before she left for Oxford, Sarah was the least romantic person I knew. She averted her eyes during kissing scenes. She hated Sixteen Candles. While the rest of her friends went boy-crazy, Sarah stayed happily single. Boys would ask her out. She would turn them down.
Now, she's married. And uses pet names. Unironically.
I guess I don't know my sister as well as I thought I did.
The Twins start singing "It's The End Of The World" by R.E.M., word for word, which would be impressive if it wasn't so annoying. "I'll run to town," I blurt out. "I can call Uncle Floyd from the payphone. He'll know what to do."
Mom purses her lips in concern. "Are you sure, honey? It's hot outside."
"It was cold in Alaska," I point out, which doesn't really make sense because a) it wasn't that cold in Alaska and b) running in the Yukon and running in the Mojave Desert aren't the same, like, at all. My mother, of course, is blissfully unaware of these things, and melts like a pat of butter in the sun.
"Oh. Of course..." She sounds so awkward that it makes me feel awkward. I swear, I don't usually try to guilt-trip her like this, but I can tell she still feels responsible for what happened at Lightlake, and sometimes I need to use her guilt to get away with stuff, like running off into the desert to escape my dysfunctional family. Finally, she relents. "Alright, alright, you'll be our rescue mission. But remember, if you start to feel dizzy or nauseous--"
"It's a thirty-minute jog, I'm not going to die from heat stroke." A cheesy grin spreads slowly across my face. "Although I could've died from frostbite in Alaska..."
Now mom is the one rolling her eyes like a victim in The Exorcist. "Okay, drama queen, that's enough. Don't forget your water bottle. And your quarters. Also, if you see a pack of wild dogs, don't make eye contact. Just play dead."
"What? There aren't packs of wild dogs in California."
"Yes, there are, I read about it in the Enquirer. Why would they lie?"
"The dogs? Or the magazine?"
"Well, if you see a pack of dogs, remember to play dead. They won't attack you if they think you're dead. Or diabetic."
"That's not helpful. Like, at all."
"Hey, Fish." Sarah chucks a plastic water bottle at my head. "Think quick."
The bottle clips me in the earlobe and rolls under the sofa.
"That wasn't very nice," Henry chides. "You should've thrown him one of the bottles in the fridge. Then his water would be chilled."
"Once again, not helpful."
One of the Twins-- Maureen, I think-- sidles up to me and asks, "Which pair of socks do you think you'll miss the least?"
It takes all my self-control not to hurl a water bottle at Maureen's gap-toothed grin. "If you one of you little miscreants set fire to my socks, I'll feed you to a pack of wild dogs."
Mom sighs. "Finn, don't threaten your sisters. Maureen, don't burn your brother's socks. I think, in a crisis like this, we need to stick together as a family--"
"What about his underwear?"
"No."
"His beanie? C'mon, it's ugly."
"Once again, no."
"My beanie is not ugly!" I shout. "Fifteen percent of proceeds go to the Sierra Club."
"Doesn't mean it's not ugly, moron."
I roll my eyes and stomp out the door. When I finally escape the confines of the Winnebago, I can't lose myself in the desert fast enough.
***
Imagine the town in an old Hollywood Western film. Now, imagine if that town had a drive-in theater, a PayLess drug store, and liquor stores on every block; then, add a few ominous billboards advertising the Second Coming of Jesus Christ and Roseanne, and boom, you've got Dusty Valley. It's dusty, it's shitty, and it's the closest thing I've got to a home.
I jog for about twenty minutes in the direction of the nearest payphone, a graffitied glass booth on the outskirts of town. When the wind blows, hot and coarse against my face, I can smell the creosote and car exhaust and barbecue smoke. God, I'd sell my soul for some Santa Maria-style BBQ after three long days on the road. (Vegetarian, of course.)
The windows of Main Street burn apricot-orange in the distance, reminding me that it's almost sundown, and I'm running on a road with no street lights. I pick up the pace, thinking of all the people heading home from work, the cashiers and the tour guides and the ranchers, and my old buddies, Andy and Oliver.
I wonder if they still live in Dusty Valley. Probably not...
There's a silk spider spinning its web across the front of the telephone booth. Carefully, I move the spider from the booth to the ground. It skulks away into a tangle of sage green shrubs. "Sorry," I mutter. I'd hate to get on the wrong side of a desert spider. Benjamin, a childhood friend of my dad and Floyd, got bit by a Mojave black widow and died a day later in the hospital. I was ten at the time. Dad went to the funeral alone.
I don't know if dad was close with Benjamin, or if he just used the funeral as an excuse to escape his fatherly duties. My father is the solitary type. He's kinda like the Lone Ranger, but instead of chasing down rustlers, he handles the cold case files nobody else wants. When I was a kid, I thought his job was the coolest thing ever. Now, it just seems lonely and sad. He sits at his desk all day with only the dead and missing for company.
My dad is driving to Dusty Valley a day behind us. Something about there not being enough room in the Winnebago. Whatever. If he wants to spend the entire summer hiding from his ex-wife and the son he sent to Alaska to get held at gun-point, that's fine.
I cram myself into the telephone booth and push my quarters through the slot. Why the hell am I thinking about my dad? I don't need him. I have someone a thousand times better: Uncle Floyd, the only family member who has ever treated me like an adult. I haven't seen him in years, but I know I can always count on him for help. He taught me how to bike, swim, and shoot. How to make Belgian waffles and the perfect root beer shake. The night of my freshman homecoming dance, I called to ask how to tie a Windsor knot. He explained it better than dad ever could. Now, I'm calling him to save our family vacation.
The phone rings seven times before Floyd picks up.
"Who's this?" he asks gruffly. "I already told you, Dolores, I'm not getting involved in this Clairvaux nonsense. If she makes an offer for my ranch, I'm selling."
"Uh... this isn't Dolores. It's Finn. Your nephew."
"Well, I've made a fool outside of myself already." Floyd chuckles to himself. I haven't spoken to him in years, but he sounded the same as I remembered-- like a tobacco smoking, bronc-riding version of Santa Clause. His Western twang is music to my ears. "Sorry, Finn, I didn't think your family was arriving until tomorrow. What's up? How was the drive?"
"Not great. The Winnebago is dead."
"Ah. My condolences. What can I do to help?"
"Could you give us a tow into town? We're staying at the Super 8 on Main Street."
"Sadly, no can do. My pick-up is as dead as your Winnebago. I can drive you in the Jeep, if you're okay with double-buckling. There are only four seats."
The image of Henry bouncing up and down on Sarah's lap flashes before my eyes, and I have to fight the urge to gag. "Um, sure. We'll make it work. Thanks, Uncle Floyd."
"No problem, boy-o. Where's the RV parked?"
"On the side of the highway, about fifteen miles away from Dusty Valley."
"Okay, tell your folks to sit tight and I'll be there in a jiffy."
"Actually... could I meet you guys in town? I'm at the payphone right now, so it's only a fifteen minute walk. I'll be there before sundown."
"Hell, do whatever you want. I'm not your mother. See you soon, kid."
He hangs up. I'm about to put the phone down when it rings again.
"Uh... Floyd?" I'm not sure why my uncle would be calling again. He's not the type of person to draw out a conversation. "Is everything okay? Do you need help finding the RV?"
Static crackles in the receiver. Then, someone who definitely isn't my uncle says, "Hello. I'm looking for Finn Murphy?"
"Speaking."
"Oh. Okay. I thought this was a payphone."
"It is."
"And this is Finn Murphy?"
"In the flesh. Who are you?"
There's a pause. Then, the line disconnects.
"Excuse me," I say.
Sweat collects in the dip below my nose. I lick my lips nervously, tasting salt.
"Excuse me," I say again, not really expecting an answer. "If this is one of those hidden camera game shows, I would really appreciate my big check."
The payphone rings for a second time, and I nearly jump out of my shoes. Scowling, I slam the phone against my ear and demand, "Hello? Is this some kind of sick prank?"
"No. Sorry. I didn't mean to hang up-- yes, I'm on the phone, Sabrina! God, this house is a fucking nightmare. No such thing as privacy. It's Ronan Lockwood, by the way. You weren't answering your home phone, so I've been calling every payphone in Dusty Valley. Why does such a small town have so many payphones? Anyways, I--"
He hangs up.
I stumble out of the telephone booth and sit down in the sand, breathing hard. "Oh, sweet Jesus." A tiny waterfall of sweat trickles down the bridge of my nose. "What the fuck was that. What the actual fuck was that."
The phone rings again.
I leap to my feet. The door slams open and the payphone is in my hand, and Ronan is talking a mile a minute--
"Anyways, as I was saying before Sabrina cut me off-- yes I'm still on the phone, use the one in the lobby-- I wanted to know if I'm still invited. To your vacation. Or retreat. I'm not sure what people like you call these things. Pioneer Homestead? Elderhostel? It turns out my summer is free, and my parents want me out of the house-- I'm not talking to you, Sabrina, why are you listening to my call-- so would it be okay if I meet you in California?"
"Uh... people like me?"
"Yeah."
"Who are people like me?"
"If I answer honestly, will I still be invited to your Pioneer Homestead?"
"Stop calling it that. Also, of course you're still invited. You have no idea how desperate I am to escape my own family..." I lean against the frame of the payphone box, resting my forehead on the grimy glass. "I didn't know who else to bring. It's not the same with my other friends. They don't understand what happened in Alaska, what happened to me. They didn't see the things we did..."
"I know what you mean," Ronan says. His voice hardens, and I can tell he's angry, but I don't think he's angry with me. "It's like everyone else is made of paper, and if you say the wrong thing, they fold up and disappear. I miss talking to real people. I miss talking to you."
"I'm sorry I didn't call you for all those months. I wanted to, but..."
"You're a jackass?"
"What?"
"Nothing."
I shake my head, ignoring the fact that I'm grinning like an idiot in the middle of the desert. It makes no sense. Sarah is secretly married, mom is on the verge of an aneurysm, and dad has gone AWOL. I should be sobbing and screaming, not grinning. But somehow, talking to Ronan on the phone makes me feel like everything might be okay. "You're right," I tell him. "About the paper people. I think, after a few weeks, I started to feel like I was made of paper, too. It was easier to forget Lightlake than remember all the shit that went down. Owen, the kraken, almost dying..."
"Was it easy to forget me?"
"No! That's not what I'm trying to say." I pinch the bridge of my nose, undoubtedly leaving behind dirt marks that Sarah will point out later. "Just... come to Dusty Valley. Spend the summer with me. We can ditch our families, make up for lost time. It'll be a blast."
"Okay. Count me in."
"Seriously?"
"When am I not serious? I'm buying a plane ticket now. Sabrina, buy me a plane ticket to California! I don't care about the price! Use my trust fund! Well, that was easy. She must really want me out of the house. Not Los Angeles! Dusty Valley! She says she's never heard of Dusty Valley before. Hold on, I should probably go help her before she decides to ship me back to Alaska..."
"No way."
"Are you kidding? Sabrina would send me to Lightlake in a heartbeat. She loves the Director, reads all her pamphlets. It's sickening. They should get married."
"I'm not worried about your mother's love life. Are you sure you can book a plane ticket so soon? If it's too expensive, I can wait--"
"I'm rich. It's fine. I love wasting money. No, Sabrina, I'm not going to San Francisco! Okay, I really gotta go. See you soon, Fish. I can't wait to see your Pioneer Homestead."
"That's what she said--"
The line disconnects. Still, I can't stop grinning.
Ronan is coming to Dusty Valley.
Ronan is coming to Dusty Valley.