by Mary Miller
After that, we attempted a jog, working up a good sweat within a few short minutes, and then we got back in the car and drove directly to Sonic, inspired by Sasha, that bitch.
It was high-tech now—you could slip your card right into the machine. I ordered two cheeseburgers along with onion rings and mozzarella sticks and a vanilla milkshake, really going all out so I’d feel like the best version of myself for my date with Diane. As I crammed the onion rings into my mouth, I noted that they’d been fried perfectly, weren’t burned or dried out at all.
CHAPTER 17
THE CLOSER IT got to evening the more I wanted to cancel. Why bother going out with a woman I’d never see again? I couldn’t remember ever meeting a person from Arkansas and tried to picture a map in my head—it was close, but was it touching Mississippi? I wanted to look it up but Sasha was on somebody else’s couch with my iPad, reading advice columns or celebrity news or trying to purchase items with stolen credit cards.
I needed to contact my homeowner’s insurance but I was done with errands for the day. I was going to have a few pre-date beers while I watched my program and Layla napped peacefully at my feet.
By four-thirty, I still hadn’t gotten in touch with Diane to tell her where and when this date was going to happen, and this seemed an easy way out—we’d only had casual plans, a loose agreement, no set time or place, and I could simply not call her. The relief was so immediate and intense I fell asleep. I hadn’t turned my phone off, though, because I never turned my phone off—too few people ever called for it to even occur to me—when it rang once, twice. Three times. It was hard to let it ring, but I was growing more accustomed to it. There was a time in my life when I’d pick it up even when I knew it was a courtesy call—the cable company offering a new and better package, someone wanting money for disabled veterans or policemen who’d fallen in the line of duty. It rang a fourth time and went quiet. It was so quiet. I sat still, unmoving, as if Diane, or someone else, might see me. I imagined her sitting on a hotel bed in her beach dress, a damp swimsuit on underneath because she’d spent the day reading magazines by the pool, nursing mimosas and thinking about me. Maybe she’d even painted her toenails, shaved all her lady parts.
I went to the refrigerator and got another beer, talked it over with Layla. She seemed to think I should keep my word, but she was never going to say it and this was both the blessing and curse of an animal. What did they understand about human life? I took out a few pieces of bologna, tore them in half and tossed them underhanded, perfect easy tosses, nothing challenging. She missed tosses one and two but caught the third; she missed four, caught five. I regarded this as an immense improvement. If I practiced with her every day she would continue to improve, same as anybody.
But then she started gagging again.
“Goddammit, dog. You are really testing me now. You’re really pushing me to my limits.” I opened the door and forced her outside. “If you want to come in,” I shouted, “you’re going to have to use your door!”
The gagging continued so I went into the living room and sat in my chair, turned the sound up on the TV. On Naked and Afraid, the man refused to cuddle with the woman at night because he was afraid his wife would get upset. The woman was very put out by his reluctance to share his body heat because they were naked, of course, and it was cold, and she didn’t have as much fat to keep herself warm. The woman was nice-looking and I imagined the man might have been more inclined to cuddle if she weren’t so attractive. His wife would see him lying naked with this woman and all hell would break loose long after the show was over. The cuddling discussion went on and the man could not be persuaded and the woman wanted to leave him, saying she would be better off on her own, which wasn’t true—they were never better off on their own. The ones who tried it failed. I wondered if she had seen any of the previous episodes but then I thought in a situation like that you weren’t thinking about previous episodes; you were not a TV character when it was happening to you.
The man and woman silently, angrily, went about their business. I drank my beer, periodically checking my phone. It was five-thirty, five-thirty-seven, five-forty-one—I could still call Diane and explain things. We could meet and have a nice dinner and I could make her trip to the Coast something she would remember for years to come, or one of the things she would remember, if I wanted to. I could charm her, show her a good time. I was capable of it. I picked up my phone and called her, hung up before it started ringing.
She called right back and I answered before I could stop myself.
“Louis? Is that you?”
“It rang?”
“Yes,” she said. “It rang.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “I didn’t hear it on my end.”
“Why would you call me and hang up?”
“I didn’t mean to—my daughter was on the other line and I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for a few days. I thought it might be important.”
“Is your daughter on the other line now?”
“No.”
There was an extended pause and then she said, “You know, Louis, if you didn’t want to go out tonight you could’ve just said so. I don’t know why men do things like this—all you have to do is be honest. Why is that so hard?” She sounded like she was about to cry. It was awful, just awful.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I apologized again and she told me it was fine, she was used to this sort of thing, which made me feel like a piece of shit. I felt like such a piece of shit I thought it would be best to hang up and never speak to her again, but she said she still wanted to see me. This led me to speculate about how often men had stood her up, had hurt her, and it made me want to hurt her, too.
“Why don’t you come over to my house?” I offered. “We could order in food and have a few drinks.”
“I’m not sure I feel comfortable with that, going to a man’s house on a first date.” I poured myself a shot of Wild Turkey and tipped it down my throat. She explained that it wasn’t proper. I poured another and wished her a safe trip back to Arkansas, got off the phone before she could berate me and tell me what an asshole I was. I didn’t owe her anything, I didn’t even know her. She was just a forward woman who had gotten up in my business.
I opened the door to let Layla in, but she wasn’t there.
“Dog!” I called. “Layla! Come here, girl.” I walked around to the side of the house but she wasn’t there, either. The gate was closed and locked; there was no way out of that gate.
I stared at it for a while longer and then reached out, ridiculously, and shook it. It was iron, solid. There was no indication that anything had been tampered with. I wished I hadn’t drunk that Wild Turkey. The Wild Turkey was affecting me. I couldn’t think clearly. When Maxine was young I’d done my best to stay sober because what if she needed me in the middle of the night? What kind of man would I be if I was too drunk to drive my sick child to the hospital? But then sometimes I reasoned that Ellen would stay sober, and she had. Ellen hadn’t even started drinking until Maxine left the house.
The dog wasn’t in the backyard, which meant she was somewhere else—I couldn’t think beyond that. I imagined her trotting down the street and onto the main road, looking for the house where we had recently seen all of the squirrels, a group of them taunting her from the base of a tree. Would she remember such a thing, try to find her way back there? What was a group of squirrels called? I got in my car and drove slowly to the main road, yelling her name out the window. The cars were flying past and I knew then and there that she was dead. I wondered what I’d do if she really was dead, how I’d handle it. I thought for sure it would be the end of me. I scolded myself for being so dramatic at a time like this. She was nearby, couldn’t have gone far. She knew her way home. She was just out exploring.
I drove to the next street over, parked at the house that backed up against mine. Even though we shared a wooden fence, I didn’t know them. The fence predated them.
I had known the family that lived there before, the Hansens, but they’d moved to New Orleans and a new family moved in. This new family consisted of figures moving behind the slats. The man walking from the house to the grill with plates of meat while the woman sat in a chair and coughed great hacking coughs. There was one small boy—a quiet and solitary child, like Maxine had been—but lonelier, as boys often are.
There was a sign on the door asking you not to smoke because someone with an oxygen tank lived there. I knocked, thinking of all the times I’d heard the woman hacking, how painful it had sounded. I knocked again and peered into the windows, but it was dark. I had a bad feeling about the house. It did not look like a friendly place. It was maintained fine, the yard was trimmed and there were various flowers and a big oak tree, a welcome mat at the door—in other words, there was nothing to give its unhappiness away.
I waited a while longer but no one came so I got back in my car and continued driving, visions of Layla dead on the side of the road. I thought about how I had yelled at her and slammed the door in her face over something she couldn’t control. It was indisputable. I was a bad person, a real garbage person. I didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve to be loved by her or Sasha or Diane or Ellen or my daughter or anyone.
I realized at some point I was aggressively picking my nose. I must have looked like a lunatic, head hanging out the window shouting the dog’s name, frantic, half-drunk. I hoped somebody I used to know would see me and ponder the sad direction my life had taken since Ellen left. I saw Louis McDonald earlier today. . . . He was driving erratically and screaming out the window. You know his wife left him, walked out and no one’s seen him since. Poor guy . . . I hope he’s okay. . . .
Once I’d given up, I drove home. I was a wreck, my heart beating so fast I couldn’t catch my breath. I only wanted to imagine the dog dead in case she actually was dead, to soften the blow, but I hoped to God she wasn’t. I honestly didn’t know what I’d do without her, couldn’t imagine going back to the life I had when she wasn’t a part of it. When there was no one to talk to and nothing to do but drink beer and feel sorry for myself, and my life was mostly that way still but it was also different. I hadn’t even minded being robbed. It had been exciting—it had been something. If I had friends, it would’ve even made an interesting story—and then the bitch robbed me! Took off with my blender and my favorite watch, too. . . .
I circled the backyard again, checking the slats in the fence when I saw her muzzle, black nose and white hair trying to push its way through. She was in the yard of the oxygen woman—there must’ve been something over there she’d wanted to see, a squirrel or a cat, or she’d smelled a bone. She was an explorer at heart, compelled to climb the mountain because it was there. Though she’d managed to get through the fence, she couldn’t get back to me so I had to lift the board and hold it while she pushed and struggled—her muzzle turned greenish yellow from the old wood—and the damn thing cracked. And then Layla was mine again and I was hers. We were back together. We fell to the ground hugging and kissing each other, just as she had with Sasha. I let her lick my face, my ears and eyelids and cheeks and nose. A flash of Sasha’s yellow panties as her skirt hiked up. I slapped her a couple of good ones on the back end to make it clear I was mad, and then hugged her again, hoping she’d understand. She seemed to. It was hard to say, though. It was hard to say what the punishment meant to her when it was mixed with so much joy.
I licked my fingers and wiped her face, considered giving her a bath, but it wasn’t going to teach her a lesson and I didn’t feel like it. Dogs did the things they did without foresight, without thinking about the ramifications. At least untrained ones like mine. Somewhere there was a dog leading a blind man down a street, a dog that would not take off after a squirrel, dragging the man to the ground in its efforts to catch and kill it. There were dogs that sniffed out bombs and saved the lives of soldiers, moved quietly and calmly through airports. But Layla wasn’t like those dogs and I didn’t want her to be. I liked her the way she was. I liked everything about her except, of course, the gagging. I did not like that and could live the rest of my life without hearing it ever again but I would go easy on her about it. I’d just have to go easy.
I tried to check her for splinters but she seemed fine—a yellowed face and an adventure that I hoped hadn’t been too fun, especially now that she knew she could get out. I would double-check every piece of wood. Get out my toolbox, hammer and nails. Before I tackled the fence, however, I needed to calm down. There was a reason people claimed their hearts were beating out of their chests. I could see it. No, I couldn’t see it, but if I concentrated hard enough I’d have probably been able to. I sat in front of the TV with the bottle of whiskey and the drawer of deli meats on my lap, lowering the slices into her mouth one at a time. I adjusted the sound and was surprised to find the same couple huddled together in the dark—how had so little time passed when so much had occurred?—the man spooning the woman like a lover. Their primitive survival ratings must’ve gone through the roof.
CHAPTER 18
FOR SOMETHING LIKE the one-hundred-and-fifty-eighth night in a row, I slept poorly. I woke up at two in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep, thinking about the date I didn’t go on with Diane and the dog I was sure I’d lost and how I’d preemptively buried her. Sometime around sunup I dreamed I’d found Layla dead, saw myself curled up next to her on the side of the road. And there was a whole Diane/Ellen/Sasha mash-up on hotel beds, their bodies slumped in a way that accentuated their fat rolls. As a child, my dreams had been nonsensical—at least as I recalled them—but at some point they’d become terribly obvious.
I was depressed as hell but had to get Laurel a present and Layla was there, licking my hand. She had slept like a goddamn champ. She woke up every morning refreshed and glad to be alive, eager to start the day. At least before her first gagging session.
I made a pot of coffee, drank a cup. It turned my stomach but I poured myself another and forced it down. Then I showered and walked the dog around the block. She found a dead mouse, blood dripping out of its mouth and onto the sidewalk, its tail stiff. She carried it for a while and I didn’t bother trying to take it away from her. I was pleased with my resignation. It didn’t seem so much like resignation as it did acceptance and I chose to see it that way. Dogs would escape and bank accounts would dwindle and women would leave, fuck you every which way, and you would get new ones, or you wouldn’t. It didn’t matter in the least.
I took Layla off her leash and let her run and sniff at dogs behind fences, chase squirrels; she came back to me, right by my side, every time I called. When we got home, I drank some water and rested in my chair for a while, noting that the bird wasn’t around. Perhaps it was dead. I went to the window and looked out, thinking a cat might’ve gotten ahold of it.
After a short nap, it was time to go shopping. I would have to find a present for my granddaughter that would be good enough to compensate for all of the time and love I had failed to give her. I knew such a present did not exist. I’d get a card, too, and say something nice in it. I’d stick some money in there, as well, even though the money would immediately go into Maxine’s pocket. I got out an old phone book to look up the number for Toys“R”Us, make sure they were open this early, but when I called it was disconnected.
I said goodbye to Layla and drove over there, anyhow. I hardly ever went to the outlets because the things that appealed to other people—so big, so many choices, all of the alleged “sales”—were the same things I hated. And it was a weekend, which meant it would be crowded. I walked and walked and finally stopped at a map. You are here. There was something so appealing about that. Here I am, I thought, touching the arrow as I saw myself as if from above, coming into focus. I looked at the numbers in the boxes and tried to find the corresponding ones to see what shops were nearby, but I couldn’t seem to make sense of it. The stores were also listed by category. In the children’s section, there wasn’t a Toys“
R”Us but there was a Disney Store and something called The Children’s Place, a Gymboree, and an OshKosh B’gosh. I tried to match their numbers to the squares and rectangles and finally gave up and wandered once more.
I stopped to get a cup of Dippin’ Dots, amused that I had once been charmed by the cold little pellets. I ate a few bites and tossed it into the trash within eyeshot of the guy who’d sold it to me. I was sorry I’d done it so I went back and ordered another one in a different flavor: birthday cake. He looked at me as though he’d never seen me before, which I appreciated. Then I sat on a bench and ate, enjoying the feel of them in my mouth, how I could track them all the way down my throat and into my stomach in a way I couldn’t with regular ice cream.
After that, I went into Gymboree. A woman approached as I held a dress to my body in front of a full-length mirror. The dress had helicopters all over it in red and blue and yellow.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for something for my granddaughter—ideally an Easy-Bake Oven but I don’t think I’m going to find that here.”
“No,” she said, no humor whatsoever, “you’re not going to find one of those here, but you might find her a pretty new dress. How old is she?”
“Five, though she claims to be eight.”
“Isn’t that cute,” the woman said, even more humorless than before. How did I manage to find all of the unpleasant women in the world, or were they all unpleasant now? It seemed possible they were, that they walked around with scowls on their faces blaming every man for the faults of the particular ones in their lives. Well, I wasn’t going to be held accountable for all of them. It was true I could have done a better job but this woman didn’t know that.
She asked me a few questions about Laurel but I didn’t know if she was tall or short or big-boned for her age. “You mean fat—you’re asking if she’s fat?”