by R. L. Maizes
Summoning them to the dining room table, Julia sets out a pot of steamed lobsters, individual bowls of garlic-ginger-basil sauce, homemade coleslaw. She opens the chardonnay. Zev has never eaten lobster in a shell but doesn’t ask for help. He already feels that he doesn’t belong. It’s like getting into a home, he figures. You just have to find the weak points. He copies the others, putting on a bib when they do. A beat behind, he twists off a claw, cracks the shell, and extracts the meat with the pick. All in all, a lot of work, though he has to admit the flesh is good, rich and sweet on its own and spicy with the sauce. But the entire process is too messy. Zev longs for something more than the moist towelettes piled in the center of the table. Something closer to a shower.
“What do you think?” Julia asks.
Zev looks up. “Me?”
“I thought you might not have had lobster this way before.”
He colors. The other guests wait for him to answer. “No, no. I’ve had this before. Yours is good, though.”
“I don’t know why I thought that,” Julia says. “Of course you’ve had it.” She busies herself refilling wineglasses. They’re on their second bottle.
Zev pokes around in a claw that’s empty. How soon can he leave without being impolite?
“You must get calls at all hours,” says Rick. He caresses his club soda in two large hands.
“I’m glad any time a call comes in.”
“I feel the same way,” Paige says. “And I’ve gotten my share in the middle of the night. Husband pulls up with a truck, thinking he’ll decide how the property gets divided, or enters the property in violation of a restraining order.”
“Men are so entitled,” Julia says.
Zev wonders if it’s the alcohol or how she really feels.
“It doesn’t matter how we treat you,” Cam says, lifting his glass. “You women find us irresistible.” Zev cringes. “Do I offend you?” The CPA’s words run together.
Lana puts her hand on Cam’s arm.
“I always tell my clients to change the locks after the property settlement is finalized,” Paige says. “You should give me some of your cards. I could send you some business.”
“I’ll take some, too,” Rick says.
Zev hasn’t brought any. “Give me your address, and I’ll send you some.”
Paige hands Zev her business card. “Send a bunch, and I’ll give some to Rick if he’s good. Do you have a website?”
“It’s being redone at the moment,” Zev says, making a mental note to create one when he can afford to.
As she serves the chocolate truffles for dessert, Julia says, “Roger just moved here from Missouri.” The table falls silent, as if no one has ever heard of the state, which is just as well, since Zev knows little about it. The conversation turns to the Diamondbacks’ chances for the season, but Zev doesn’t follow sports.
18
La La watches from the audience as her classmates don their gray hoods. She should have told Nat she had to work. One of only a handful of students from their class not graduating, La La feels naked wearing street clothes on what should have been the happiest day of her life. In a year she’ll receive her diploma with people she hardly knows. The graduates return down the aisle, their faces stretched into impossibly wide grins, except for Nat, who looks distracted. La La scans the room for Tank but doesn’t see him.
After the ceremony and photographs, she meets Nat at a Moroccan restaurant to celebrate. They sit at low tables on cushions. Next to scenes of Marrakesh, five-fingered hamsas wave from blue walls. Bells jingle on the server’s costume as she brings them bottles of Casablanca beer. Nat has been hired at a clinic in Atlanta, the city where she grew up, and leaves in a week. Tank is staying behind, Nat says.
“What happened?” La La asks, though she can guess.
“He was using again. Selling, too, I’m pretty sure. He says he’ll join me in a few months in Atlanta, but I don’t want him to. Not unless he gets clean.”
La La sips her beer. “Sorry.”
“It’s been going on for a few months. I had enough.”
“Your family must be happy you’re moving back.”
“When I planned it, I thought Tank would be a buffer. My father’s afraid of him.” Nat picks at a scab on the back of her arm, a souvenir from a frightened cat.
The server returns with a dish of roasted and salted chickpeas and takes their orders.
La La raises her bottle. “Congratulations!”
“Somehow I don’t feel like celebrating.” Beads of blood have sprung up on Nat’s arm.
“What happened to your philosophy of staying a thousand miles away from family?”
“My parents are getting older.”
“You’re lucky to have them.”
“I don’t know about that,” Nat says. “I think mountain gorillas have the right idea. When they reach a certain age, they leave their families and don’t come back.”
La La licks salt off a chickpea. “If you’re dreading it, why do it? Why not stay with the people who appreciate you? Like your friends.”
“I want to spend time with them while they still know who I am, before I have to change their diapers.” Their food—lamb for Nat and vegetarian stew for La La—arrives. Nat rips a hunk of meat off the bone with her teeth.
“I guess it’s the right thing to do,” La La says, mashing an overcooked carrot with the back of her fork.
“Atlanta isn’t exactly Marrakesh. You can visit. And we’ll talk on the phone.”
“Just don’t disappear on me.” She couldn’t handle losing another person.
Nat puts a hand on La La’s arm. “That’s not how I operate.” Nat’s skin is warm, her hand, solid. It’s almost enough to make La La believe her.
* * *
That night, still smarting from the graduation, her mother continuing to ignore her, and Nat about to move to Atlanta, La La cruises to a community thirty-five miles south. She makes sure she’s not followed, slowing down on the highway to see if anyone fails to pass her, then exiting and driving east before taking a series of turns, until she comes full circle. No one duplicates her unlikely path.
If Nat were really her friend, she wouldn’t desert La La. Not to go back to a family Nat doesn’t even like. But that’s the way it is. People always abandon her.
Driving toward a large Tudor house, La La senses something unusual inside. A compassionate presence, unlike anything she’s encountered before. Curious, she pulls up in front and detects young animals in distress. The house is dark. She parks a block away and jimmies the back door. Four blue eyes and two charcoal faces greet her. The Siamese kittens wail, and La La scratches beneath their chins. At least they have each other.
She crosses bamboo floors, her flashlight illuminating black-and-white fine art photographs: a turbulent ocean, dancers, the Joshua tree. They could be worth something, but La La wouldn’t know. She’s an ordinary burglar, not an art thief, unexceptional in every way except when it comes to understanding animals. A good reason not to jeopardize her veterinary career with senseless crimes. The thought has barely taken shape when a photograph of a family wearing wet suits, sun glinting off their surfboards, chases it away.
Retro furniture—a slim leather couch, a wavy coffee table, and a round king-size bed—fills the master bedroom. La La’s feet sink into an olive shag rug. She gathers jewelry and watches, the family so wealthy they haven’t bothered to hide them or even to put them away. La La ducks into a child’s room to see if there’s anything worth taking.
A rumpled cheetah-patterned blanket drapes off the bed. On a series of posters, a blue-footed booby nods to its mate, a sea lion sunbathes, and a whale spouts. The kittens slip their paws beneath the base of a closet door and cry. Perhaps their mother is trapped inside.
“Are you going to kill me?” a boy of about twelve asks, aiming a flashlight at La La when she opens the door. The kittens crawl into his lap.
La La is about to run when she sees a copy of
Caring for Your Cat, the book that came with Mo, in the boy’s hand. She shuts off her flashlight and orders the boy to do the same. No reason to give him a better view of her than he’s already had. “I’m not going to hurt you,” La La whispers. “Are your parents home?”
“They won’t be back for a few hours.”
La La sets down her duffel. Her eyes having adjusted to the dark, she grabs one of the kittens by the scruff, and holds him to her chest. She takes the kitten’s pulse and feels his abdomen.
“He’s scared of my dad, but not of you,” the boy says.
“How do you know?”
“When he sees my dad, his heart does a dance and mine does, too.”
“What else can you tell me about them?” La La says.
“They’re very cold, and that makes my fingers turn blue. But when I turn up the heat, my dad says I’m costing him a fortune.”
La La has never met anyone like herself before, though Dr. Bergman said there were others. “Did you tell your parents about your feelings?”
“My father said I have an overactive imagination. My mother said it’s best to keep certain thoughts to myself.” The kitten kneads the boy’s belly. “They miss their mother.”
About four weeks old, the kittens are too young to have been weaned. La La switches cats with the boy. She examines the kitten’s eyes and ears and warms him against her chest.
“My father won’t return them. He says it’s too late to get his money back.”
“Someone else would just buy them,” La La says.
“I don’t want them to feel sad.”
“Cradle them to keep them warm. For the next few weeks, bottle-feed them with kitten formula. You can find a recipe online. Mash up their solid food with water.” She shows him how to pick them up by the scruff.
“You mean be their mother?”
“Something like that.”
“Doesn’t their mother have to be a cat?”
“You’d be surprised. The kittens will be fine as long as someone gives them what they need. That someone could be a cat or it could be a boy.”
“How come you believe me about the kittens?” the boy says.
The Siamese paws her chin. “Let’s just say I know someone like you.”
“You?”
La La sets the second kitten on the boy’s lap. “Take them to a vet to get them checked out. But don’t mention me.”
“Because you’re not supposed to be here?”
“Right.”
“Are you going to take our stuff?”
She picks up the duffel and slings it over her shoulder.
“Do you steal because you’re poor?”
“Not exactly.”
The kittens have fallen asleep. The smaller one whistles through his nose. “To give away, like Robin Hood?” he says.
“Not that either.”
“You could get into trouble,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I’ll say I slept through it.”
“Good thinking.”
19
The morning after the dinner party, Zev mails business cards to Julia’s friend Paige. At a hardware store, he buys pick-resistant bolt locks, more secure than the ones he carries for customer installations, for Julia’s front and back entrances.
Dee-Dee yaps as if he’s a serial killer when he knocks on Julia’s door. As she opens it, the dog rushes for Zev’s shoe, but Julia intercepts her. Zev holds up the locks.
“That was fast,” Julia says. She wears a short white robe over her bathing suit, her legs aging and trim.
“I’d hate for you to get robbed because I took my time.” He sets his toolbox down.
“Want to come in for a cup of coffee first?”
“I’d just as soon get this done. I’ll bring the new keys out to the pool when I’m finished.”
Julia hesitates, and he can tell she’s uncertain about leaving him alone in her house. “Sure,” she says, though she sounds anything but. It’s something women do, act polite when they should protect themselves. Zev has seen it more times than he can count. Women who answered the door and let him use the phone when he lied about being stranded, giving him a chance to observe the layout and contents of their homes. They would have been better off being honest, telling him it wasn’t safe to open the door to a stranger. Julia closes Dee-Dee in the bedroom, so Zev can work in peace.
After she leaves, Zev takes his time. He bought a set of locks for the front and back doors that work on the same key. He removes the lock plate and the worn cylinder in front, unscrewing the dead bolt and pulling it out. He measures the backset to make sure the new lock will fit. He repeats the process for the back door.
Although he kept the new keys to test them, now he has another idea. He walks to his car and opens the trunk. He looks around for Julia, and when he doesn’t see her, he grinds a third key and tucks it into his pocket. He tells himself she might be locked out sometime, that he’ll never use it without permission, that Julia isn’t someone he’ll rob even if he becomes desperate.
Sitting on a lounge chair, Zev waits for Julia to finish her laps. She swims the crawl, barely disturbing the water, flipping like a pro at the end of the lane. In the pool and elsewhere, there’s an elegance about her. Watching her is hypnotic.
She climbs out and shakes water from her ears, wraps a towel around her waist. When she’s settled on a chair, he hands her the keys. “I don’t want you to think this is bulletproof,” he says. “A burglar can still kick in the door.”
“You’re full of good news,” she says. She fishes in her canvas bag for a keychain and slips one of the new keys onto the ring. “What can I do to be safer?”
“Having Dee-Dee helps. I wouldn’t rob the place if I heard her barking. Not that I would, anyway, of course. Rob your place. Or any place.” He scrambles out of the chair and grabs hold of the pool skimmer.
Julia gives him a long look, or maybe it’s his imagination.
Wishing he hadn’t brought up the topic of security, Zev scoops a flailing bee from the water. When he shakes it onto the concrete, it doesn’t move.
Back at his apartment, he gets a call from a woman named Sheila Brandt who just bought a home and wants all the locks changed.
“Lucky for you, I just had a cancellation,” Zev says. “I’ll be right over.”
According to Zillow, the house is worth a million five. Zev wonders how the Brandts became wealthy enough to afford it. There’s no path he can take, legitimate or otherwise, that would allow him to buy such a house. Even as a veterinarian, La La won’t be able to afford it. He doubts the homeowner is worthier than La La, which just goes to show the randomness of good fortune. The woman didn’t ask for a quote. As he drives to the property, Zev doubles what he is planning to charge.
From the driveway, he sees large colorful shade sails flapping in the backyard. Stone Buddhas, sitting and reclining, flank an enormous front door. They have some religious significance, but Zev doesn’t know what it is. Jews aren’t supposed to make images of God, though he’s seen some in Passover seder books, illustrations of an old man with a white beard blowing the Red Sea apart for Moses. Always easier to escape with God’s help.
Sheila greets him at the door, wearing sky-blue silk pants, a white tank top, and a ring with a yellow diamond wider than her finger. The marble floors and granite-topped table in the entryway inspire a moment of regret. He’ll earn a fraction of what he could have made robbing the home. “You’re smart to replace these,” he says. “You never know who had access to the house.” He could just rekey the locks, changing pins and springs at a fraction of the cost, but he doesn’t tell her that.
She rests her hands on her hips, her arms as thin as curtain rods. “How long is this going to take? I have a yoga class at two.”
“It takes what it takes.” The house has three entrances, one in front, one in the garage, and a sliding glass door in the back.
Running her right hand over her left bicep, she pulls h
er arm toward her, stretching.
From his trunk, Zev withdraws two bolt locks, a sliding door lock, and his tool kit. “They might as well have put up a sign that says, ‘Pick Me,’” he says, after he removes the front lock.
Sheila gazes at the hunks of metal, her face blank. “That bad?”
“Worse. You’re lucky you called me.” He tosses the old lock in a box, saving it for parts.
As she watches him work, he overtightens a cylinder and has to loosen it. It makes him nervous when customers look over his shoulder. He decides to order a khaki shirt embroidered with his business name, Safety Lock and Key. People are suckers for a uniform. Puts them at ease. Hot air blows in through the open door and is quickly tamed by the frigid air-conditioning.
He installs the garage lock, which he’s rekeyed to work on the same key as the front. Then finishes up with the sliding door in the back. “How many keys do you want?” he asks, after he puts away his tools.
She counts on her slender fingers. “One for me, one for my husband, one for the housekeeper, and two extras.”
A housekeeper, naturally. Zev looks through the front door again. He asked Sheila to lock up any pets before he arrived, but evidence of a dog is everywhere. Reddish fur collects under the granite-topped table. A front window is covered with noseprints. That’s what you get when you hire a maid.
Zev duplicates the keys, making one more than she requested and leaving it in the trunk of the car, an insurance policy of sorts. He tests the others and slips them into an envelope. “Here you go.”
“And I’ll make my class.” She pays him and adds a generous tip.
He needs more customers like her. “I know you’re in a hurry, but you should consider window locks. They’ll give you an extra layer of security.”
“I’ll talk to my husband about it.”
His advice would carry more weight if she knew his background, but of course she wouldn’t hire him then.
When Zev gets home, he tags the keys for Julia’s and Sheila Brandt’s homes. On Julia’s he writes Aunt Jenny’s studio, and on Sheila’s, Mom’s house. In a small notebook he keeps a record: Aunt Jenny = Julia, Mom = Sheila Brandt. He deposits the keys in a zippered pouch he tapes to the inside of Mo’s carrier, the notebook in a plastic bag that he buries in a fresh sack of the cat’s litter.