Dan by Joanna Ruocco Page A

one bit. But if it was what Randal Hans wanted most …
    “I’ll do it,” said Melba, but Randal Hans was pointing past her, at a gray spot on the edge of Dan, and didn’t pay her any mind.
    “Look there,” said Randal Hans. “Did those kids just dig up a body in the gravel pit?” Melba looked and shrugged.
    “Are they kids?” she asked. “Or could they be badgers? They’re so far away who could tell? But something about the way they dig, their determination … It’s obvious they know what they’re doing and that nobody’s whining about it.”
    “You must be right,” said Randal Hans. He held up his empty hands and smiled at Melba. “No more cheese! Let’s get out of here.”
    Then he and Melba had pushed the bike over the summit of Jake Hill. There was no street on the other side, just weeds interspersed with morasses and trash. They hopped across a stinking rivulet to a place Randal Hans remembered where people dumped batteries.
    Now, lying on Don Pond’s floor, in that narrow space between the chair and the carpet and the table, molded to Don Pond’s legs and feet, Melba felt that she understood Randal Hans, his craving, not for bears or mud in particular, but for an all-encompassing proximity. She felt that she belonged where she lay, with Don Pond and the chair and carpet and the table close around her. Her relationship with Don Pon was different now that they weren’t in the bakery. Now that she knew how she fit into his house, nothing could be like it was before.
    “I know what you’re doing,” said Don Pond. “You’re making a cave, aren’t you? I’ve done the same thing. I’ve even written up proclamations for my cave, seceding from Dan.”
    “Don’t talk,” begged Melba, her voice muffled. “You’re spoiling it.”
    “Well, I can’t see how I’m spoiling anything,” said Don Pond, stiffly. “I know you’re using me as part of your cave. Dr. Buck warned me about letting you do exactly this, about letting you use me in this way. He said you have a kind of bleak power over people, that you turn men into stalagmites, but you don’t stay with them for long. You break into a stream of bats and rush away.”
    “Is that what he said?” whispered Melba.
    “Not exactly,” said Don Pond. “How could I say what Dr. Buck said? I’m not a doctor. It’s an approximation, Melba.” Don Pond’s toes jabbed between Melba’s ribs as he struggled up. Melba heard him stumbling through the house and fiddling with knobs and all at once the fluttering music died away. Melba crawled out from her slot. She felt dizzy and stumbled around the coffee table, climbing back onto the couch. Don Pond was standing at one end of the couch, looking at her.
    “I’m not a doctor,” he said. “I’m not even a patient. I was the first customer at the bakery, but I gave that up for you.”
    “How’s that?” asked Melba.
    “Where are you, Melba?” said Don Pond, throwing out his arms. “You can’t claim that this is the bakery.”
    “It’s your house, I know,” said Melba Zuzzo. “But really, it could be somewhere inside the bakery. The bakery is enormous and I never go past the first mixer or deep into the freezer. For all I know, your house might be inside the freezer. It’s warm enough in here, but who knows what it’s like once you open the door? No, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were still in the bakery. I always thought you had an arrangement with Leslie Duck.”
    “He’s my landlord,” said Don Pond. “But that doesn’t mean my house is inside the bakery. Landlords own multiple properties, often non-contiguous. And if my house is in fact separate from the bakery, which it is, and you are in my house, which you are, then you are not in the bakery. The bakery, Melba, is effectively closed for business.”
    Melba saw what he was getting at and tried to wave him off but he would not be silenced.
    “How can I be the first customer, Melba, if there are no subsequent customers?”