Other People's Pets

by R. L. Maizes

  Clouds gather, layered and gray, their edges dissolving into mist. They touch down in the mountains, where it’s raining. A pair of squirrels dart around the trunk of an ash tree, chirping friendly taunts. Stopping, they groom each other. La La looks away.

  She moves the car to a spot around the corner. Making sure no one has stayed home, she rings the bell, then walks to the back of the house, where she assesses her options. The windows rise high off the ground, and there isn’t a patio table or ladder to climb on. Pulling a crowbar from her bag, she jams it a few inches above the back door lock and pushes. When the frame shatters, the door opens to a recreation room. A stair-stepper and treadmill face a TV. A signed Avalanche jersey hangs above a water dispenser. Hockey sticks, pads, and other gear tumble over one another in a corner of the room. At the sight of skates, La La flashes back to icy water pulling her down and covering her. She bends over, struggling to breathe.

  A Great Dane lopes toward her, pushes his head under her hand. The smoothness of his coat—that and his concern—relax her. She sucks in air as he rubs his fawn-colored flank against her.

  When she’s recovered, the dog lies on the floor and licks his front leg, and the tickle in La La’s arm returns. She’ll examine him quickly, she tells herself, then hesitates. The police are already aware of an animal-loving burglar. She should rob the place and get out. But fate seems to have put her there to help.

  From his tag she learns his name is Riley. Running her hand over his front leg, she feels it before she sees it: a small, irregular bump. The red-and-gray mass resembles the ones in her textbooks. She hates to leave a note, which could give her away. And there’s hardly time. If someone heard her jimmy the door, the police could be on their way. She imagines them taking positions in front and back, aiming pistols at the doors. The law is on their side. Her love for her father, a common criminal, no match for it.

  Yet if his owners get him to a vet soon, Riley might have a chance. She pulls a drug company pad from her veterinary bag but realizes it won’t do. Upstairs, she enters a library. Surrounded by leather-bound and hard- and soft-cover books, she doesn’t see anything to write on. In a child’s bedroom, the pop star P!nk stares from a poster. La La picks up a spiral notebook and a purple pen from a desk. She flips to the first blank sheet and tears it out. Riley has a lump on his right front leg, she writes. It’s likely a mast cell tumor, but she doesn’t include that. Get him to a vet right away. In the living room, she sets the note on the coffee table.

  Eight minutes have passed since she entered the house. Crystals dangle from a chandelier above a long mahogany table in the dining room. La La grabs a candelabra displayed in a walnut cabinet and silver flatware from a drawer. As she drops them into her canvas bag, the doorbell rings, then rings again. She pictures Jehovah’s Witnesses, a Boy Scout troop raising money, or a housekeeper who uses her key only when the family isn’t home. Returning downstairs, she waits by the back door and listens. A motorcycle roars past. Next to her, the Great Dane reaches well above her waist. She caresses his ears, her hand trembling, until quiet falls over the house.

  In the master bedroom, a nightstand that smells of orange oil gives up a diamond tennis bracelet and gold earrings. In a medicine cabinet, drugs line up like infantry in her fight to save her father. She touches Ativan, Ritalin, and a generic statin drug, sweat popping out on her neck. But she can’t bring herself to take them. Back in the library, she sees a book protruding farther than the rest and free of dust. She snatches it, confirms her instinct that it’s a safe, and picks it in under a minute, recovering a roll of hundreds. A photograph in an ebony cabinet has captured a girl in a hockey uniform lying on the couch next to Riley, the dog filling most of the furniture. In another picture, the family hikes with Riley on a mountain trail. She hopes they won’t be the last photos the family takes with the dog.

  * * *

  At the kitchen table that night, La La examines the Elizabeth Golds listed on the people-finder website. She excludes women too old or too young to have given birth to her, leaving fifteen possibilities. Zev would know Elissa’s exact age, but La La’s afraid to ask, since he made it clear he didn’t want Elissa’s help.

  She calls the women whose phone numbers are listed, leaving voice mails from a script she prepared. “Hi, my name is La La. I’m looking for my mother, Elissa Gold. She left a long time ago, and I have no idea where to find her. Maybe you’re my mother. Or maybe you’re related to her. It’s urgent.” None of the voices on the recordings are familiar, but so much time has passed La La doesn’t know if she would recognize her mother’s voice.

  The first time someone answers the phone, La La is so surprised she forgets to speak.

  “HEL-lo,” the woman says.

  La La panics, but whether she’s afraid of finding her mother or of being disappointed, she doesn’t know.

  “Hel-LO?” the woman barks. In the background, Rachel Maddow gives her spin on the news. “Is this a prank?” the woman says.

  Remembering her script, La La reads it, stumbling over the word “mother” each time it appears.

  “Sorry, hun, no relation. Zippo, zed, nada. My kids don’t speak to me. I’m sure you wouldn’t cut your mother off just because of a little political disagreement or some things I posted on Facebook. I won’t be around forever. Maybe you could call my kids and tell them they should be grateful just to have a mother. You’d be doing us all a favor. Can you do that? Can you call them?” After a pause, the woman begins to read names and numbers. “Are you getting this?”

  La La hangs up, crossing the woman’s name off the list.

  Monday morning, La La has an e-mail from an Elizabeth Gold. She’s so excited, she squeals. Black’s ears shoot up. But then La La reads the message. You seem like a lovely young woman, but I’m not your mother. I hope you find her.

  It’s disappointing, but there are still thirteen more names on her list. Surely one will turn out to be her mother.

  La La robs a home and gives O’Bannon part of what she makes, a total of $5,500 now. The more she earns, the more it seems she owes the lawyer, who’s working steadily, running up billable hours. Zev’s personal needs aren’t small, either, and since Clem left she’s responsible for all of her own expenses, too.

  More e-mails come in from Elizabeth Golds. All from strangers. La La blackens their names on the list, using far more ink than necessary and with enough force to press valleys in the paper.

  On Tuesday, Clem texts. La La hesitates before reading the message. I rented a place. I’d like to get the rest of my stuff, okay?

  Not okay, she thinks. She doesn’t reply, thwarting his efforts to be finished with her.

  He tries again the next morning.

  When do you want to come over? she responds.

  Tonight? I worked out a schedule for the dogs, he texts.

  Great. I’m going to lose them, too, La La texts back.

  You’re not the only one who cares about them, Clem responds.

  La La doesn’t argue. Clem’s devotion to the dogs is one of the things she loves about him.

  That night, while La La waits for Clem, Zev phones. “Claude Thomas had a second brain bleed. A bigger one. O’Bannon sounded worried.”

  She shuts her eyes. “He could recover.”

  “Or he could die, and they’ll charge me with murder.”

  “You tried to save him.”

  “Big mistake.”

  Through the phone, she hears the train circling the track and then a crash.

  “Fuck,” Zev says.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ll be over tomorrow,” La La says. “I’d come over now, but I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Someone more important than your father.”

  She could call Clem and cancel, but she’s looking forward to seeing him, despite the reason for his visit. Maybe if she tells him about the developments in her father’s case, he’ll feel sorry for her, though she do
ubts it. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Clem arrives carrying a pile of supermarket boxes, another dozen in his SUV. The boxes save them from an awkward embrace or the equally uncomfortable absence of one. His beard looks scraggly, as if he’s forgotten to trim it. Black and Blue attack him with their tongues, their frenzied joy irritating La La, until thankfully they move on to sniffing the cardboard.

  Setting the packing materials on the kitchen floor, Clem goes through cupboards and drawers, pulling out dishes, flatware, glasses, and mugs that were his before they moved in together. He might as well erase all the meals they lingered over, the glasses of wine that eased their way into the bedroom. He fills a box and sets it to one side. La La could help, but she doesn’t, sitting at the table, staring at the words RIGATONI, HONEY NUT CHEERIOS, and RICE-A-RONI emblazoned across cardboard.

  Clem packs an eggbeater and tools for grilling. On the counter, he lines up things they bought together. “Why don’t you keep the blender?” he says. “You’ll use it more.” La La nods, and he returns it to the cabinet. “And the food processor, too,” he says.

  She fantasizes running him through the blades.

  “How about you keep them all?” he says.

  She doesn’t need additional reminders of their life together. “Whatever. What should we do about the furniture?”

  “I’ve ordered new stuff.”

  He doesn’t seem to care about all the time they spent combing through neighborhoods to scavenge pieces. Or maybe he knows she can’t afford replacements.

  There’s the matter of the engagement ring, which she’s wearing. Clem’s too polite to ask for it back, or he forgets to, and she doesn’t offer.

  From his shirt pocket he takes a paper, unfolds it, and hands it to La La. It’s the custody schedule for the dogs. Twenty-six weeks with La La, twenty-six with Clem. La La grabs the paper and it tears across the holidays, splitting La La’s turn with them on Christmas, and Clem’s next Easter.

  His new address is written above the schedule. It’s in a town similar to Longview, about a fifteen-minute drive away. “Does your place have a yard?” she asks.

  “A small one.” He lifts an empty box and examines the inside, removing the outer peel of an onion and dropping it into the sink.

  “Stairs?” she says. “You know they can be hard on Blue.”

  “Only a few.” He presses on the bottom of the box and then presses again, making sure it’s solid. He seems like he’d rather be anywhere other than with her. “There’s a park nearby,” he says, as he scratches his beard.

  Going from room to room, he fills boxes with country CDs, chiropractic textbooks, cotton T-shirts whose softness La La can still feel against her skin, jackets and boots she helped him pick out for Colorado winters. There’s more, but she stops watching, ignoring Clem’s questions about who owned this album or that book, until eventually he quits asking.

  * * *

  “They’ll lock me up forever if he dies,” Zev says. A coffee stain the size of a hand blots his sweatpants, but he doesn’t have the energy to change.

  La La gives him a puzzle book she must have picked up at the supermarket. “No one said he’s going to die.”

  He tosses the book on the table without opening it, then pours La La a mocha latte. Looking at the ceiling, he says, “If you’re listening, God, don’t punish me for saving a guy’s life.”

  La La wraps her hands around the mug. “Maybe you should pray for Claude Thomas.”

  “Don’t you think I already have?” Just last night, he unearthed the prayer book he bought for La La’s bat mitzvah and recited the section for healing.

  “Think about something else. Try one of these puzzles.” She opens the book.

  “I can’t concentrate.” He wishes she didn’t spend the money. They need every penny for O’Bannon. He’s hoping the lawyer, concerned about his ability to pay, doesn’t drop him, especially since it’s looking like the whole case will soon get more complicated.

  “Watch Sopranos reruns.”

  “I don’t like the way it ends.” Why they had to ruin a perfectly good crime series, he’ll never understand. They seemed to foreclose any comeback for Tony or a sequel for the network. Mo rubs against his leg.

  “She knows you’re upset,” La La says.

  “For once let’s not talk about Mo, okay?” If he goes to jail, he’ll never see Mo again. By the time he gets out, she’ll be dead.

  “Sure.” When La La stretches out a hand, Mo rubs against her finger. “Her back legs are pretty stiff.”

  “What did I say?”

  “Okay.”

  The cat purrs, and Zev tries to imagine life without that sound, one of the few constants in his life over the last decade. There will be other, harsher sounds in prison.

  La La sips her coffee. “I can’t stay long.”

  “You never stay long.” He holds up a hand to silence her objection. “I’m not complaining. With all you’re doing for me, how could I complain? I just miss you.” There’s a chill in the house, or maybe it’s inside him, what the beginning of the end feels like. What Tony must have felt in that last fucking scene.

  * * *

  Three weeks pass, and with them the holidays. Zev didn’t feel like celebrating, so La La spent Christmas Eve with Nat and Tank, feeling like an orphan. Tank pulled her aside at one point to ask if she’d thought more about his idea. He looked thinner than he had at the bowling alley, and she supposed he must not be working out as much. “I can’t do it,” she said, but she wondered how much the drugs might bring.

  Claude Thomas is still alive, but the doctors are pessimistic about his chances for improvement. Thomas is unresponsive to stimulation, voices, or pain. Only a ventilator keeps him breathing.

  Looking at O’Bannon’s latest bill, La La doesn’t see how he has time for any other clients. But since Thomas’s condition has worsened, the stakes have grown higher. She can’t risk O’Bannon resigning. She starts looking for someone to sublet the house and for a cheaper place to rent.

  She’s just about given up on hearing from her mother when she gets an e-mail from ElissaOnMyOwn one night. You found me. What’s so urgent?

  La La reads it, so excited she nearly drops the phone. It’s just like Elissa to be so short with her. The people-finder record shows an address of Dallas, Texas, for the woman with that e-mail. How did her mother wind up there? She’ll know more after they talk. But the record doesn’t include a phone number.

  I can’t believe it’s you, La La replies. I’m including my phone number. Please call. She waits up, glancing at the phone every three minutes. Watches the news, then the National Geographic Channel. To pass the time, she looks up the One of a Kind blog and is pleased to see very few new posts and all for the sorts of small acts of kindness that drive Clem crazy: a child sharing her lunch with a classmate, a man holding open a door for a woman. (What had that taken—ten seconds? she can hear Clem complaining.)

  At three in the morning, realizing her mother must have gone to bed, she pulls on an old T-shirt and washes up. Getting beneath the covers, she closes her eyes, but Elissa’s e-mail lights up like an elaborate Christmas display behind her eyelids. She thinks of all the things she’ll tell her mother—how she’s almost a veterinarian and back in Colorado with two rescued dogs. She imagines flying to Texas. Elissa probably won’t meet her at the airport or invite her to stay at her house, but they could have dinner somewhere. Then Elissa could give her the money for attorney fees. La La would promise to pay her back once she’s a vet.

  The next morning, Friday, there’s nothing more from Elissa. La La e-mails her mother again. Perhaps the first e-mail went into Elissa’s spam folder.

  She gets a text from Tank. For the past three days, he’s been texting over and over. Vague messages only she would understand that she ignores. He has too much time on his hands. But maybe he’s right that his customers require the medications as much as the people whose names are on the bottles. The cash t
hey’d bring could only help.

  Driving to a job, La La hums “Mama Rock Me,” the ringtone she’ll use for Elissa’s phone number. She doesn’t even mind that when she’s in the house and cuts a cat’s nails, grown so long they curl into his flesh, the animal spooks, and she has to chase him down to finish.

  She opens a medicine cabinet in the master bathroom and fingers orange plastic bottles of Wellbutrin, Oxycodone, Percocet, Valium. Childproof containers that raise your blood pressure when you try to open them.

  When Sunday arrives, and La La still hasn’t heard from Elissa, she leaves herself a voice mail to make sure her phone is working: “Hi, La La. You found your mother. Isn’t that wonderful?” She receives the message right away.

  What are another few days after she’s waited so many years? But now that they’re about to be reunited, every hour that goes by without Elissa pricks La La as painfully as a thorn from the untended rosebushes.

  On Monday, La La e-mails a selfie she takes with Black to Elissa.

  Pretty dog, Elissa replies. La La can’t remember anyone complimenting Black’s looks before. Her mother always loved animals. She sprinkled seeds for squirrels, tossed bread for birds, and didn’t care when raccoons knocked over the trash, telling La La, “They have to eat, too,” and, “Why should food go to a landfill when animals are hungry?” It was her mother, La La is pretty sure, who left Mo. La La prints the e-mail and ponders the address ElissaOnMyOwn. It has to be her mother.

  The next day, she gets another e-mail from Elissa with a picture of a cat and the word “Buster.”

  Your cat is beautiful, La La writes. How old is he?

  La La waits but nothing arrives from Elissa.

  Please call me, please, La La writes. You owe me at least that.

  I don’t owe anyone anything, Elissa replies. Anyway, my phone is broken.

  Can’t you get it fixed? Or get a prepaid phone? La La writes.