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longing, imaginary one, then pressed forward, my fingertip upon the doorbell, standing on William’s front porch, waiting.

Chapter 4
    My childhood suitcase was a rude, bulky thing, its surface marred by chipping decals—Kennedy Space Center, South of the Border, Sunken Gardens—which recalled family travels too heartbreaking to ponder. The packing proved harder than I’d imagined: what to take, what to leave behind. Forever? Was that the way it was going to be? My stomach simmered and groaned. I wanted to get it over with before they knew I was leaving.
    Down the hall my mother was cooking pot roast. I thought about the signifying implications of pot roast: convention, structure, clean right living.
    “Get ready for dinner,” my father said.
    He’d been standing at my door the entire time. I looked to the open window, thinking to toss the suitcase onto the hedge. Don’t let him get to you. I turned my back to him, pitching in some socks and shirts. He still had the power to scare me sometimes, and he knew it; it incensed him. Was he going to hit me again?
    “Beautiful night,” he said, stepping into the room. He picked up a tiny statue of Grover Cleveland from my Hall of Presidents—something he’d given me for my tenth birthday. He’d stared at its bloated gaze as if he’d never seen it before.
    “You’re right,” I replied.
    “Front’s sweeping down from the Plains tomorrow.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Highs in the eighties with a light north breeze.”
    Tears burned in my eyes. Outside a Good Humor truck careened down the street. Don’t you understand what’s happening? I wanted to yell.
    A complex expression drifted across his face: defiance, jealousy, regret, fatigue. He left for the kitchen. Seconds later liquid plashed inside a glass. “On the rocks,” I said, toasting my wall.
    An ice cube popped, cracked. I waited until they were safely ensconced in their meal before I left through the mud room. Bye, Mom, I whispered. Bye, Dad. I loved you once. I hurried back to my room and shoved Grover Cleveland deep inside my pocket.
    ***
    Traffic roared past me on the street. Palms thrashed in the wind. I felt criminal and delicious, imagining a stocking cap pulled down over my face. I half expected the police to pull up, to ask me questions, to search through my belongings before taking me back home. Dogs barked as I passed. Lights flipped on in the windows. I pictured myself through someone else’s eyes: a hushed, hungry boy, feet flying in the dark, switching his leaden suitcase from hand to hand.
    I knocked twice on William’s door. I watched him through the sidelight, his gestures frantic and distorted through the gold bubbled glass. He hurried from table to table, glancing under papers, feeling behind furniture. To my right, a white wicker chair rotted behind the bushes.
    “Can I help you?” A lady in a paisley dressing gown hosed off a lavender Mercedes beneath the floodlights next door. She stepped toward me. Somewhere a bird—parakeet?—shrieked.
    “No, I’m just—”
    “Run along now,” she gestured. “He hates solicitors.”
    William’s door flew open, almost knocking me off balance. “Evan,” he said.
    “I’m taking you up on your offer.”
    He glanced down at my suitcase, a swab of shaving cream beneath his left ear. What offer? he might have said. He stood there in a pink polo shirt and tight, tight 501s. A splash too much cologne.
    “I know this seems hasty,” I laughed.
    “Yes, but—”
    “Didn’t you say I always had a place?”
    “I wish you’d called,” he said, his eyes vaguely stricken.
    My scalp felt tight. I kissed him. Awkwardly, I missed his mouth, pecking his warm whiskered neck. I tried again, inhaling his shirt this time: crushed plants, limes, beer foam. I turned my cheek against his chest.
    “Listen,” he said. “I have to find my keys. I’ve been looking for a half hour.”
    We stepped through the front door. “You’ll find them,” I murmured. I