Whale Season by N. M. Kelby

Christmas Day. The American Dream gets about eight miles to the gallon; you can’t just fill up a bunch of those red cans and hope for a headwind. But, for just a brief moment, he’s willing to try.
    He sighs and turns off the computer. The satellites lose sight of the Dream once more.
    â€œBye. Bye,” he says. Takes off his socks. Doesn’t want to make the floors dirty. He walks carefully across the honey-colored marble. “Man. Oh, man.” The floor is cold, but it’s a rich cold, he thinks. A better grade of cold.
    The American Dream is like no other recreation vehicle he’s ever seen. Not up close, at least. Looks like it rolled off the pages of a magazine. Behind the driver’s seat there’s a leather couch. Ivory. Beyond that, a galley kitchen with a microwave, convection oven, and dishwasher. Leon opens up a kitchen cabinet. Inside are china cups with tiny strawberries painted on them. The strawberries are small and sweet, just like the ones he used to watch the migrant workers pick from the fields outside of town. The cups are delicate, tiny handles. Carefully, he picks one up, sticks out his pinky. This is living.
    But when Leon opens the door to the small refrigerator, he thinks again of Jesus. Imagines him alone, walking somewhere down the highway. The refrigerated air makes him feel even colder.
    How could a Jesus guy get a thing like this? And why would he want to get rid of it?
    Winning was just too easy. Leon suspects Jesus was counting cards, setting him up. But why? It doesn’t make sense. Most guys try to win a rig like this, not lose one. First thing on Monday, Leon knows he needs to run a check on the title through the DMV. That would be the smart thing to do, and that’s exactly why he’s not going to do it.
    â€œIgnorance is bliss.”
    That’s the one bit of advice Lucky gave him about the used RV business. It’s the only firm and fast rule, he told him. “It’s like our code of honor.”
    And Leon’s stuck by it. Plans to hold fast to a blissful state of ignorance as long as he owns the Round-Up. Everybody’s got to have a moral code, he thinks and pops a perfect ice cube into his mouth and feels exhausted, overwhelmed by good fortune. All he wants to do is close his eyes for a minute. Ten-minute nap, and then off to the 7-Eleven, then home.
    He walks past the tile steam shower with two massage heads, the matching pearl-tone toilet and bidet, and into the bedroom to the king-sized bed. The walls are real oak. On top of the silk bedspread there’s a dozen tiny pillows, lace-edged and mouse-sized.
    He brushes off his pants again and sinks into the soft bedspread. The mattress is a little lumpy, which surprises him, but the moment is silk and sleep. The sheets have a blue smell, like dry-cleaned flowers. Leon rolls back and forth in them.
    Better than love, he thinks. But I have to sell it. Maybe that’s the catch. I can have it because I can’t have it. But I’ll itch for it, like Dagmar.
    As sleep wraps around him, Leon thinks he hears the coo of his mama’s voice. He startles awake, coughing. Sees himself in the bathroom mirror. Mama Po’s been gone a long time, ten years, give or take a few days. And Cal, his son, only a year.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he says to his reflection. His eyes are red rimmed. “It’s okay, man.” Then he lies back down on the bed, covers each eye with a tiny lace pillow. The pillows smell like lavender. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s okay.
    But it isn’t.
    There’s a very good reason why the mattress is not as comfortable as one would expect a brand-new Posture-Perfect to be. Duct-taped along the bottom of the bed is a large plastic bag filled with $100s—$350,000 in $100s, to be exact. Ira and Rose Levi had grown up in the Depression and didn’t trust banks completely. No wire transfers for them. When it was time to move