Was

Manhattan, Kansas-September 1989

"Oz Ev"

"Real Home"-a motto on many trucks in Turkey, usually accompanied by a painting of a white house in green fields by a river

In the morning Jonathan wasn't in his room.

Bill walked out into the parking lot. There was a low, golden light pouring across Highway 24, the trucks tirelessly rumbling past. On the other side of the road there was a warehouse made of aluminum sheeting with an orange sign-REX'S TIRE C. Above that there was a rise of large trees, like clouds, up a slope to a deliberate clearing. MANHATTAN, said giant white letters. On the top of the hill there was a water tower, like a white upside-down test tube. There was an apple painted on it. MANHATTEN, said the water tower, the little apple.

Bill saw Jonathan walking out of the shrubbery. Jonathan was walking backward. A newspaper was curled up and held firmly under his arm.

"There you are," said Bill. "I was getting worried."

Jonathan answered with his back toward Bill. "The river moved. I was trying to find it."

"By walking backward? Come on, Jonathan." Bill tugged Jonathan around to face him. Jonathan was gri

"Jonathan, turn around, please."

"I could walk into the river backward," he said.

"We're going to have breakfast. Are you up for breakfast?"

"Oh, yeah, I could eat a horse."

"Good, then let me look at you." He pulled Jonathan back around. Jonathan was still gri

"What color is your pee?" Bill asked.

"Bet you say that to all the girls."

"Come on, just tell me what color it is."

"How should I know? I'm color-blind!" Jonathan replied.

"Open wide." Jonathan stared back at him like Groucho Marx. "Your mouth, not your eyes."

Begi

"Can you hold anything down?"

"Not even a job." Released, Jonathan spun around again. "If I walk backward, I'll go backward. Maybe I'll disappear."

"Jonathan," said Bill, to his back. "Do you want to find Dorothy?"

Silence.

"If you keep acting up, I'll have to take you straight to the nearest hospital. So turn around. You can turn around."

"Nope. Can't," said Jonathan, and turned around to face him.

"You're jaundiced, Jonathan. You may have something wrong with your liver. And you've got something very nasty down your gullet. You should be in the hospital. Now. I can give you today, Jonathan, but by evening, I want you in the hospital."

"Sure, Ira," said Jonathan.

There was a steakhouse next door to the Best Western, next door being about a fifth of a mile away. They walked across dirt to a breeze-block bungalow. The floor was made of tiles designed to look like blocks of wood. The Formica tables looked like wood. The food looked like wood. The hash browns looked like sawdust, the egg like putty. Breaded mushrooms steamed in tin basins like wooden knobs. Caterers had finally found a way to bottom-line breakfast.

Jonathan stared at the buffet, looking ill.

"You could try some bacon," said Bill. It looked purple and soggy. Jonathan very firmly shook his head, no.

"Jonathan, you've got to take something. How about some coffee? Tea?" Jonathan just kept shaking his head.

Bill's heart sank. The physical symptoms were bad enough, but it was the presenting behavior that was really worrying him. "Okay, let's sit down. Do you think you could swallow some soup?"

Jonathan's eyes moved sideways, terrorized by the prospect of food. He nodded yes. Bill took him by the arm and led him to a table.

A waitress came up to their table. "Coffee?" she asked. She had brown circles under her eyes and slightly hunched shoulders, but she seemed cheerful.

Bill said yes, and she poured coffee, not from the spout, but from the side, over the edge of the black-rimmed glass container.

"Did you catch my awesome backhand?" she asked.

Jonathan was staring up at the lights overhead. They were imitation oil lamps, with pink roses printed on them. Bill could see the dots.

"Are those old?" Jonathan asked the waitress.

"I don't know, we just got them in last week." The waitress giggled. "I'll come back for your order in just a sec." She waddled up to the next table and gave a gladsome cry. "Hi, Horace, how are you?"

An officer of the law in a brown uniform placed his cowboy hat on the table. "Well how you doing, boss lady?" he boomed.

"How was Ira?" Jonathan asked.

At last, a sensible question. Bill almost sighed with relief.

"He's hysterical," said Bill. "He blames himself, he's full of worry. He thinks you can't cope on your own. I told him how you'd used the credit cards to buy a ticket and rent a car and said it didn't sound exactly helpless to me. I-um-told him it would probably be better if he didn't come along."

"He told me to go away."

"He may not have meant that."

"I don't want to go back."

"Okay. But do you think you could write him a card or something?"

Without looking at him, without saying anything, Jonathan took the newspaper out from under his arm and gave it to Bill. It was a local newspaper, and the edge was ringed around and around with Jonathan's handwriting. It was a letter to Ira.

The waitress was back with them, breathing good cheer, perfume and sweat. "Right, gentlemen, what will it be?"

"Do you cook any breakfast fresh?" Bill asked.

They found the car. Jonathan had the keys, and they had a plastic tab that said the license number, model, color.

They drove it to the Registry Office. Jonathan's knees jiggled with nerves, and he hummed to himself. In the office, Sally greeted them.

"Sally, Sally," he said, bobbing up and down. "I found the school!"

"Great!" she said. "Which one is it?"

"Sunflower School?" he asked.