by Mary Miller
“No,” she said. “I told him I was leaving and would call him soon, and that he shouldn’t try to get in touch with me before that or I’d call the police.”
“The police?”
“I’m not really going to call the police, though a dog is considered property and if someone gives away your property without telling you it’s illegal. It’s always good to say you’ll call the police, though. It gets the point across.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well, I’m glad you came here,” which seemed like a risky thing to say but she could take it any way she wanted to take it. I didn’t care. She tilted her head at me and smiled crookedly before she burst out laughing.
CHAPTER 10
“WOULD YOU COME sit with me for a second?” Sasha asked. “Just for a minute.”
She was under the covers, her dark hair curled all over the pillow. I stood in the doorway, unable to move or speak. I missed my daughter. I wished I knew her and was sad to think I never would, that my not knowing her had been my fault. Of course it had been my fault.
I sat on the edge of her bed and she put her arms around my neck like she wanted me to piggyback her around the room. Her arms were freckled, hairier than I would have assumed. I could feel her breath on my neck, her heart beating against my back. It was such a strange place to feel a heartbeat.
“Do you like me?” she asked.
“Of course I like you.” And then I stood, abruptly, and said, “Goodnight. Sleep well.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and I wanted to apologize to her a thousand times for the wrongs I’d committed against others.
“I meant to tell you—there’s a bird that comes in the morning and bangs into the window for a few hours. Usually starts pretty early, around six o’clock. I could get you a box fan if you want. . . . I know there’s one around here somewhere.”
“You know a lot of birds die flying into windows, like millions of them each year. You should get one of those curtains or some tape or something. You’re going to kill it.”
“I’m not doing anything to it.”
“But you could do something to help.”
I went and lay down on my bed, feeling like I’d never be able to sleep. I hadn’t thought about the bird dying, though I’d considered wringing its neck, scattering poisonous seeds about the yard. I spent too much time thinking about that goddamn bird. I wondered what all of it meant, and whether she would stay and whether I’d want her to. I had money, or would soon enough, and it could go a long way toward changing things for me. I had to get in touch with that damned lawyer—why hadn’t he called me back? I would call and ask to speak to one of the partners, file a formal complaint. And I was healthy enough, though I should probably watch my diet and get more exercise. I wasn’t too old yet. I pictured Harry Davidson at my door with a baseball bat, ready to bash my head in, only he wouldn’t have a bat—we weren’t in sixth grade—he would have a gun and it would be small enough to fit neatly in his waistband or the pocket of his jacket and when he put it to my head and pulled the trigger there’d be no one to stop him. There never was.
But it didn’t seem like such a bad way to go, either, like dying in one’s chair. It would be quick. It would be painful but I had never felt much pain and didn’t know how to imagine it. More than likely, I’d immediately black out. When I stubbed my toe or slammed a finger in a door, the pain was so great I felt it in my balls, got light-headed and sweaty. What would a bullet to the head feel like if I couldn’t take a stubbed toe? I comforted myself with the idea of blacking out: a small, temporary death that would release me from pain until the pain was manageable or else I was dead.
I wanted to change my will first, though. I’d leave Sasha with enough money so she could buy her own house, a nice little spot on the water she could decorate any way she liked and that no one ever forced her out of ever again. This plan had the added bonus of pissing off Maxine. It didn’t even matter if Sasha loved me, or even liked me. It would be my gift to her. My gift to women.
I awoke as it was starting to get light out, wondering if I’d dreamed it all. No—Sasha was in Maxine’s room, and Layla, too. The previous day had been a blur. I’d started drinking early and more had happened in the past twenty-four hours than in the six months that had come before. Sasha eating pizza on the floor, wearing almost nothing. Wet hair dripping down her back. We’d watched a Japanese man beat Bobby Flay and a movie about a retarded man who’d overcome the odds to win some skiing awards. I’d been on Sasha’s bed with her arms around my neck, her hairier-than-normal arms, though I couldn’t say for sure that they were hairier than normal because I didn’t go around looking at women’s arms. I hardly even noticed a woman’s arms, got close enough to notice them. These didn’t seem like things that could have happened and yet they had.
I got up and peered out the window at the small blue Chevrolet parked in the driveway, an older model with hail damage I could see from this distance. I wanted to buy her something red or yellow, though I had never liked red or yellow cars. I liked the idea of buying her something extravagant, going to the car dealership with her and sitting in the passenger seat while she adjusted the mirrors. Smiling at me with her sunglasses on. They could leave before breakfast or stay forever, and we’d live together as friends or as man and wife. There was no way to know what was going to happen and I was just going to have to wait and see. It wasn’t my decision, none of it was my decision, and it had been that way my whole life. Ellen would let me pick where we went to dinner, or what movie we watched at the theater, would make a great show out of letting me choose as if these small things might make up for all of the larger decisions in which I had no say whatsoever.
There was a lot of conflicting information on what it meant to be a man, what it meant to be a good man.
I started the coffee and went to let Layla out, opening the door just enough to see Sasha’s body curled on its side and all the covers kicked off. She must have gotten hot in the night. I should have shown her where the thermostat was, told her to turn it up or down as she liked. She was wearing an eye mask, black with polka dots or stars.
I took the dog outside and she set off after a squirrel. She hadn’t caught one yet but I liked to watch her chase them because it gave her such pleasure. One of my father’s dogs, Jonesy, had caught them easily but always let them go, catch and release, until the day a squirrel bit him on the nose and he’d bled, bright red blood coming out of that black nose, and it was odd that something so bright should come out of it. I hadn’t really believed he was full of blood same as I was until that moment—that we were both living beings who felt pain and joy and the only difference was that he never thought he wasn’t deserving of joy or wasn’t worthy of it. From that point on Jonesy killed the squirrels, had relished killing them, leaving their bodies scattered about the yard and my father proud.
I went to get a cup of coffee and rejoined Layla outside. I petted her for a while and then broke out into a song about how we were best friends and did she want to be best friends forever? When I stopped singing I felt slightly disoriented, like my body had been taken over by this other person, this stranger who sang ridiculous songs to dogs. And then, as had happened the time before and the time before that, all memory of it was lost. I recalled a cartoon frog grabbing a cane and a top hat—hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal . . . —and then the top hat and cane vanished and he returned to being a frog. But then he’d do it again. And again. I had a vague recollection of a Mexican man watching him. Were frogs always associated with Mexicans, or had this been embedded in the memory, the two of them forever intertwined?
Layla walked beside me as I went to get the paper. I looked down at her and she looked up at me and licked my hand. She wasn’t ever going to carry the paper in her mouth but that was okay.
“Good morning, Louis!” Mrs. Sullivan called. She was walking her yippy Maltese back and forth in front of her house like she did every morning.
“Good morning, J
udy.” Don’t stop, don’t stop, I thought, but she was already asking her dog in an encouraging manner if it needed to take a poopy as the dog aimed its ass at my hedge. Mrs. Sullivan was something of a ringleader in the neighborhood, getting into everybody’s business, though Ellen and I had mostly stayed out of all that. Once she’d gotten into a spat with Polly, the lesbian on the corner, and told her, “You ain’t nothin’ on this street anymore,” which had been widely reported and commented on. Ellen had gotten such a kick out of it we’d started saying it to each other: you ain’t nothin’ on this street anymore.
“Have a good day,” I said, and we got out of there before I had a chance to see whether she’d pick up the turds.
I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate because the bird had returned to do its usual thing at the usual intervals and I was thinking about Sasha and how late she slept, how I could go in there and watch her if I wanted. I was also thinking about whether she had a job, how long it had been since she’d worked. And what time she might start drinking, or if yesterday had been a peculiarity, a difficult day and nothing more. It reminded me of one of Ellen’s friends—Ellen had so many friends, presumably still did—a devoutly religious woman who was always waiting and seeing. It was all in God’s hands and there was nothing to do but wait and see.
On top of everything, Maxine would be coming over. I should go to the store and have some of the drinks on hand that she liked—that sparkly water that tasted so awful, some juice or milk for the baby. I tried putting her out of my mind, which was impossible. She would knock on my door and I’d act surprised. I forgot you were coming over today. . . . And I’d hug her and say all the right things and we might both feel good about the visit, like we were finally moving in the right direction.
At 7:30, Layla and I set out for a walk. I decided we’d do something unusual, go somewhere we’d never gone before, so we walked down one street and up another and then out of the neighborhood altogether. I looked both ways and jogged across the road, dragging her along, as it was a pretty busy road, to the other side where there was a sidewalk. A jog! I felt damn near athletic and my knees weren’t giving me any trouble at all. Then we walked along as the cars whooshed past and I paused to let her sniff the new smells, allowing her the opportunity to enjoy herself fully. I was never out in the world so early in the day anymore and had forgotten that it smelled different. Someone honked and I waved. Who was it? I didn’t recognize the truck. I waved at the garbage men, a couple of guys working on a car in their driveway. Smiled at a young woman on a bike. Oh, she was lovely! Her hair flowing behind her. The garbage men and the workers and the young biking woman were tackling the day and I was one of them. We weren’t wallowing in bed.
I came to a light and pressed the button to cross an intersection. I hadn’t meant to go so far but it was still pleasant enough and the sun was shining, the birds chirping. I let Layla test the limitations of her leash to piss on a church rummage-sale sign.
On the other side of the street, an older black woman held the hand of a child—somewhere around the age of Laurel—only Maxine wouldn’t let Laurel stand on her own two feet like that. She’d have the child in a stroller or would be carrying her. There was a grown man with them toting some bags from the dollar store. We were facing each other and I was trying not to look at them and then the walking-man sign lit up and we began to cross the street, which was quite a wide one, and Layla was acting weird so I was having to encourage her, drag her along. And then there were only twelve seconds left and then ten, eight, and the grandmother and child began to run and the man was running, too, his groceries bouncing everywhere. When we met in the middle, they were smiling and laughing and I returned their smiles. It was such a small thing, but their joy—and the way they had included me in it—made me feel like we were in it together. That we were all just doing our best to get safely across the road and it didn’t have to be any more difficult than we made it.
CHAPTER 11
“SHOULD WE GO out for breakfast?” Sasha asked.
It was after eleven and she’d just emerged from Maxine’s room. To my knowledge, she hadn’t even gone to the bathroom yet. I’d pissed at least three times since I’d gotten out of bed. She sat on the couch with her knees to her chest as I poured her a cup of coffee, heated it up in the microwave.
“Might be too late for breakfast.”
“McDonald’s has all-day breakfast now,” she said. “It’s the best thing they ever did.” Her hair was down and messy. I liked it. I wanted to tell her that she should wear it down more often but women didn’t like it when you told them what you liked, or Ellen hadn’t, and neither had Maxine. If I complimented one of them on their dress, they’d go and take it right off and put on something frumpy.
“You want McDonald’s?”
“Not necessarily, I’m just saying we can still get breakfast somewhere. There’s always Waffle House or IHOP—we could go to one of them.”
“I haven’t been to IHOP in forever.”
“So let’s go there,” she said. “I can’t remember what I used to order—I think it’s called the Rootin’ Tootin’ Fruitin’ or something like that.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“I swear that’s what it’s called, or it’s close.”
“Then we’ll both get it,” I said, “whatever it is.”
I handed her the mug. “Tell me if it’s hot enough. I can heat it up some more or make a fresh pot.”
She put her lips to it slowly, carefully, as I watched. I wouldn’t say anything about her hair, ask to brush it, touch it. That would be weird. It was terrifying how easy it would be to mess it up. I felt like a pervert for having her in my home, at least fifteen years my junior, married. And she was wearing so little clothing, once again. One side of her shirt fell off her shoulder and she left it there, the top of a plump white breast exposed.
“I have an extra robe, if you want. It’ll be too big for you but it’s comfortable.”
“Do you want me to cover up?” she asked.
“I thought you might be cold.”
“You’re sweet,” she said. “I’m fine.” The way she said she was fine—dead-eyed, stony—sent chills right through me.
“I’m going to hop in the shower and then we’ll go,” I said. “It’ll take me five minutes.” And I left the two of them on the couch where they were happiest. I hoped she wasn’t the type to stay inside most of the day like Ellen, like me, though it was clear she was. I wanted to do things, get out into the world. We could rent kayaks and paddle out to Deer Island. I imagined us splashing each other, the sun shining on the water, helping Sasha pull her kayak onto the sand and exploring the island with her. I was sure there was a lot of trash out there; kids partied out there and left trash on the beaches. That ruined the fantasy a bit but we might find something good, even in the garbage. And we might rent a boat and go out to Cat Island. We’d pack a cooler full of beer and food and spend the day. I thought about the different scenarios, the ways in which Sasha and I and an island might configure, while I pleasured myself for the first time in a very long time.
At IHOP, there were a few tables of older couples eating lunch and three or four students scattered about, studying and drinking coffee, occupying entire booths by themselves. I remembered a time when Maxine was in high school and claimed that she was going to the IHOP by herself to “study.” Ellen and I never believed her. I’m sure it wasn’t easy being an only child, an only child with parents who didn’t much like each other. We had failed to model a positive relationship and I hated that. I hoped she was happy with Craig, though he seemed more like the idea of a man than an actual man. Even his name bored me and I liked to call him Greg to fuck with him, or to fuck with her.
Our waitress was a friendly woman with one of the largest asses I’d ever seen on a white person. She had her hair piled into a brownish-gray puff on top of her head.
“What can I get you two?” she asked.
“Pepsi,”
I said. “And a water. Please.”
“Same,” Sasha said. This thrilled me and I was embarrassed that I’d let it show. But once we had our Pepsis, there was nothing to say. I wanted to ask if she loved him, if she’d loved him prior to the whole dog situation. It was a simple question and one people avoided asking or talking about. There was a time when Ellen insisted we go to couples counseling even though we were finished with each other by that point, but we felt we had to go in order to say we’d done everything—we even went to couples counseling!—and the counselor asked all sorts of questions and gave us all kinds of homework assignments like staring into each other’s eyes for entire minutes without looking away, which I never could have done. The idea of it was a horror. Ellen hadn’t been interested, either, never even broached the topic to me at home. But the counselor hadn’t asked the most obvious questions, the ones that mattered: do you still love each other? Do you want to be together? Instead we talked about the bad things that had happened to us in our childhoods and young adulthoods and our past relationships as if they had any relevance on the present and the fact that we simply no longer loved each other and hadn’t for years.
If the counselor had led with the questions that really mattered, she’d have been out of business within weeks.
“This Pepsi is flat,” Sasha said.
“It tastes okay to me.”
When the waitress returned, Sasha sent back her Pepsi and ordered the Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity and then I repeated it—she had been right, or nearly so—and we grinned at each other and raised our eyebrows. The breakfast came with everything—eggs and hash browns and pancakes, sausage and bacon, but I went ahead and ordered an extra side of bacon, anyway.
“You’re mighty hungry.”
“I thought I’d bring some home to Layla,” I said.
She frowned in an exaggerated manner. “You mean Katy.”
“She doesn’t look like a Katy to me. How would you feel about changing it?” She kept frowning. “She seems to really like Layla.”