by Alan Lee
“You work so hard to keep your home perfect,” she said. “That’s the place of order, and you leave the orderliness to step into chaos and subdue it. See, Mackenzie? I listen to your vernacular. But the problem is, you brought the chaos home with you. Me.”
“You.”
“Yes. It’s a grand slam for me. And fun for you. Until I destroy it. You can’t save me. You know that. But you don’t believe it.”
I leaned back in my chair. Resettled my napkin. Drank some beer.
We watched one another. The air hummed with silence.
“It hasn’t occurred to you,” I said, “that perhaps I’m with you for selfish reasons?”
“It has. It is selfish of you to feed your sense of nobility.” She closed her eyes. A line formed in her forehead. “Wow, Christ, that came out poorly.”
“I keep you around because you make me happy. That is a selfish act. Were I noble as I think I am, I would only do it for your benefit. But I’m as enamored with you as most men are. I am possessive and self-indulgent and frightened, even when I try not to be.”
Her eyes were still closed. The candle light dappling shifted across her shirt as she took deep breaths. “I go to counseling for you. Because I know I should. To change. But deep down, I know I’m organically the wrong person. You shouldn’t be with me.”
“Because in a romantic comedy or novel, you would be the wrong woman? The nasty seductress the hero rejects at the end, turning his affections instead onto the charming and innocent heroine, and the crowd applauds?”
“Don’t make it sound cute.”
“Ronnie. You went to Italy for me. Risked your life. You spent untold thousands of dollars. You shot a woman because she sexually assaulted me.”
Her eyes opened. The right corner of her lips curled. “I did do that.”
“I know you’re a volcano. A volcano with seismic shifting. But…I like the way you look in jeans.”
She laughed. A sudden sound, perhaps my favorite. “I can’t promise this ends well for you, Mackenzie. Even if I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
“That’s what the vows are for. You have to promise me that.”
“Oh.” She paused. Searched my face thoughtfully. “Oh. That’s…revelatory. I never thought of vows like that before.”
“Because you’re in the business of writing legal contracts, you think of a marriage that way. A legal contract easily voided down the road. That’s not what I’m after.”
“The way you describe it makes the vows so much more…personal and intimate. Staggeringly important.”
“Yes.”
“So…sure, that’s great. And beautiful. Yet.” She squeezed my hand. We were touching the entire time. “Not everyone has your sense of duty. Your scruples. Marriage vows are broken every day.”
“It’s a leaky boat. But it’s the one holding the most water, I think. Our best chance.”
“Mackenzie, being very honest, you still don’t know how broken I am inside. Vows don’t provide protection from…from volcanoes.”
I nodded. “You’ve been raped and abused for twenty years. You’re a wreck. I know this. But…sometimes the heart wants what it wants.”
“You like me just because you do.”
“The reasons are accruing, I admit.”
“Do you know, Mackenzie,” she said, releasing my hand and waving for the check. “You have never told me you love me.”
I nodded.
She said, “Don’t say it yet. I admit it, your idea is good. We need a ceremony and to officially exchange vows. You can tell me then. Because I’m realizing saying you love me would be making a promise. And you take that seriously.”
“I do.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t sleep at my place tonight.”
“Worried you’ll lose me?”
“Possibly. I’ve never had something of value before. I’ve never worried about losing someone.”
I said, “Fret not. I am yours.”
“Also, what happens if I become prurient?”
“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.”
5
I visited the Roanoke SPCA and the local Angels of Assisi, inquiring after Georgina Princess Steinbeck. At both establishments I spoke with a woman—shouted actually.
“Loud,” I told the woman at the SPCA, in case she’d grown inured to the baying of the hounds from cages.
The woman replied, “They’re just excited about the new day, that’s all.”
“They’ll continue without surcease?”
“Pretty much, whatever the hell surcease means.” She typed into the computer some more. Her wrists had claw marks from cats. Also, so did her face. Stupid cats. “Tell me the name again?”
I did.
“Exotic and self-indulgent, no?”
She said, “You kidding? Met a dog last week named Mamma’s Lost Cause. Got a cat in the back, collar says Empress Pickle Juice. When did you say?”
I gave her the date, three years ago.
She frowned at the screen. “Nope. No boxers either, of any name. Wish I could help find your dog, but that’s a long time ago.”
“Not my dog, actually.”
“Oh. What kind you have?” She squinted. “Let me guess, I’m good at this. You’re a black lab kinda guy.”
“I’m not allowed. Dog hair, you know.”
“Not allowed? To what?”
“To own a dog.”
She stared at me. Couldn’t find the words to express her disappointment. That I, a grown man, maybe, didn’t own a dog. Or that I wasn’t allowed to.
I cleared my throat. “I am humiliated.”
“Naw, that’s okay. Wish my husband listened to all my rules that way.”
“Not my wife’s rules. My father’s. We still live…you know, I’m just gonna leave.”
And I did, tail between my legs.
From the car I called some of the names on the list provided by Rose Bridges. Five people visited Ulysses Steinbeck soon after he returned from the hospital. That she could remember. Potentially one of them stole the animal.
I left a message for Stephanie Larson, a former colleague of his.
I reached Victor Simpson, the neighbor. Gruff man but loquacious, waxing eternally about Ulysses, a damn shame, also his ex-wife, a kind woman, the way a woman ought to be, a damn shame, don’t remember the dog though, damned strange, why’d Ulysses have a dog?
Got me, Victor.
The next name on the list I knew. Dr. Whitney Potter, local pediatrician. She lived near Ulysses on Tradd, smoked a lot of dope. We’d once attended a swinger’s party, full of intrigue and peril. At least for me; I’d nearly given up the ghost before being purchased by Veronica Summers. I liked Whitney, so I decided to swing by her office off McClanahan.
I stood in the waiting room surrounded by sneezing toddlers, crying babies, and tired women on their phones. A television in the corner had Sesame Street. The walls were decorated with laminated posters of cartoon characters with minor injuries and catchy warnings about washing hands. The community toy box glistened with germs.
Whitney Potter herself escorted a family out from the examination area. She wore linen pants, the obligatory white jacket and stethoscope, and cute emoji necklace. Her hair was still a short pixie cut.
She saw me, pointed at my face with her finger, and crooked the finger to beckon. I obeyed. We went into the first empty patient room. She depressed a nozzle that dispensed cleaning solution, scrubbed the foam into her hands, and grabbed mine with hers.
“Mackenzie August, my favorite private detective, I need details. Gimme all of them before my next patient,” she said.
I grinned. “You refer to my ongoing and torrid love affair with Ronnie Summers.”
“Through the grapevine I heard she’s sleeping at your place. When last we spoke, you two hadn’t done anything worth writing a steamy novel about. Spill. I need it.”
“We’re married.” Kinda.
“That’s a shame. Y
ou’re both off the market then. But, when and where—tell about the first time. Quickly, because I need to stick a tongue depressor down another kid’s throat.”
“It’s better than you think.”
Her grip tightened around my fingers. “Don’t tease me.”
“It was on a plane.”
She closed her eyes. Released a throaty noise. “Shut up. That is better. Go on.”
“A private jet. I was injured and not moving well. Only through her wonder and magic was the deed accomplished.”
Had I been one ounce less a man, her grip would’ve been painful. “Go on. What were you wearing?”
“That’s all you get.”
“Mackenzie. I am a sexual deviant,” she said.
“I know this.”
“This moment we’re in, this is the best moment of my week.”
“How’s Paul?”
“Paul’s wondering if he should leave me. I won’t tell him, but he’d be much happier if he did.”
I said, “I’m hired by Ulysses Steinbeck.”
“You’re kidding. I know Ulysses.”
“Intimately?”
“No. Nor his wife. They never attended. Hired to do what?”
“Find his dog.”
She frowned. Glanced at her watch. “He got a dog? I’m surprised.”
“He had one briefly. Three years ago. Lost it within a week, right around the time he returned from the hospital.”
“You know, Mackenzie, that’s funny. I suddenly remember it. A puppy, I think. Cute as hell. You’re trying to find a dog from three years ago?”
“Yes. A glamorous life I lead. Any idea what happened to the dog?”
“No. How would I?” She stuck her head out of the door and called, “Sue, send the next one.”
“As the divorce finalization neared, he got a dog and wrecked his car. Eldritch coincidences, right?”
“What on earth does eldritch mean?”
“Weird or sinister.”
“Not weird. Tragic. A nightmare. Poor guy. Paul and I were so torn up. You chasing clues? Here’s some gossip, how I love the stuff. Ulysses and Colleen drifted apart. Colleen, his wife. Ex-wife. Nothing awful, just people going in different directions. Rumors were they both found someone else and the divorce was amiable. I don’t know about him, but I know about Colleen; she had found someone else. Gym guy, lots of muscles. Total beefcake. Kinda like you. They married so quickly we all assumed they’d been carrying on before. If Ulysses was with someone, she faded away immediately after the accident, the bitch.”
“Could the ex-wife have gotten the dog somehow?”
“Jeez, Mackenzie, I dunno. Yeah, it’s possible. They’re still on speaking terms.” A little kid and his mom came back. The mom shot me a second look. “Hey Chaz! Stick another marble up your nose? Mackenzie, we’ll talk later? Maybe over some wine? On my back porch? Bring your wife. Pretty please.”
I smiled.
No chance.
6
That evening it was just the August boys—Timothy, Kix, and me. Everyone else had obligations so we fried quesadillas with extra cheese and dipped them into homemade salsa. Kix glared piously at the salsa and refused it. He wanted a cookie, though, which meant he had to eat all his cheese and apples.
Near the end of dinner, the point at which humans grow philosophical, Timothy August said, “Strange, only the three of us. Makes one realize how large a percentage of words the women contribute.”
I set down my bottle of Oak Barrel Stout. “Don’t forget the Argentinian. Or Puerto Rican or whatever he is.”
“Sinatra, you mean. Can never forget him.” He set down his wine glass and indicated my hand. “Your electrical burns healed nicely.”
I flexed my fingers. “The burns from Naples. Skin’s tight in a few places. No real pain.”
“Remember our deal. I don’t ask questions, you don’t offer answers or details about Italy. There are some things a father doesn’t want to know.”
“The reality can’t be as bad as what your imagination cooked up.”
“Still.”
With my chin I nodded at the book he’d set down on the reading chair. “That Jordan Peterson I see?”
“Yes. His book on rules for living. You read it?”
“Sure.”
“Of course you have,” he said with kind of a snort. “You read everything. What’d you think?”
“I mostly read it so I’d sound learned and erudite at dinner parties.”
“And?”
“He’s fearless. Argues well. I was compelled. We disagree on some things.”
“Like what?” asked my father.
“For example, his definition of existence or being. Under his definition, God doesn’t exist. God is not compatible with Jordan’s view on suffering or limitations or becoming.”
Dad shook his head. Drank some beer. “You theologians. Way over my head. I’m still on the first chapter,” he said. “About confidence and strength. So don’t ruin it.”
I took our dishes to the sink. Came back and picked up the beer again. “I could use some advice on Ronnie.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “It’ll be pagan and worldly advice, though.”
“She thinks I have a serious character flaw. Essentially, I stick to things I shouldn’t and one of them is her.”
“Is she right?”
“Maybe. On paper we’re a disaster. If I wasn’t me, I’d warn myself about the eminent relational eruption.”
“What’s the Bible say?” he asked.
“Bible agrees with her. People shouldn’t be unequally yoked.”
“You two are oxen?”
I nodded sagely. “The best oxen.”
“So if you agree with her and the Bible agrees with her…” He spread his hands, palms up like, Need we go on?
“She went to Italy for me. Risked everything.”
Kix said some sweet things about how great he thought Ronnie was and I reward him with more chunks of apple.
Dad said, “I’m not counseling you two to break up, son. But are you with her out of obligation?”
“No.”
“Are you with her to prove something to yourself?”
“…No. At least not entirely.”
“Are you trying to save her?” he asked.
“…No. At least not entirely. I’m with her for a lot of reasons, most of them selfish. But she’s got me thinking. Statistically recovering prostitutes almost always return to that lifestyle. It’s a hard habit to break. She’s got more baggage than most and so the odds of her being free of that habit aren’t good. If she goes back we can’t be together, clearly. And, sticking with oxen metaphor, we’re animals accustomed to traveling at different speeds and moving in different directions. Suddenly yoked, it’ll be hard soon. One will pull the other, probably resulting in anger and scorn on both sides. Pull hard enough, the yoke breaks and both oxen are wounded and maybe worse off than before.”
He nodded. Thought a moment. He went for more wine and came back and resettled. “I’m trying to think of a more intelligent way to say this, but I can’t. You just described marriage. People never married think it’s easy. Anyone married knows the truth. Two people traveling at different speeds learning to co-exist in close quarters. You described it well.”
“Isn’t the point of dating or courtship or arranged marriages to pair yourself as closely as possible with an ox heading your direction at your speed? To reduce the odds of a disaster?”
“Ideally, I think. But,” he said and chuckled. “That way sounds like it’d be a boring sex life.”
“Ew, Dad.”
“Opposites attract and all that. Think about me and Stackhouse.”
“I will not. This conversation has derailed.”
Kix laughed and threw his bottle.
I said, “I don’t want to be with anyone else.”
“But you recognize that other women might be more suitable? That is to say, a more likeminded ox to be y
oked with?”
“That book you’re reading by Peterson, one of his rules is ‘Compare yourself to who you were yesterday and don’t compare yourself to other people.’ She’s evolving. Ronnie and I are a better match as time goes on. We’re more suitable today than yesterday. Right?”
Timothy said, “I don’t have the answers. No one does. Well, maybe God if he exists. Here’s the thing about marriage—it’s difficult. It’s messy and hard and no one yokes perfectly. It’s a fight, no other way around it.”
I nodded. We stayed quiet a moment. Kix ate his final piece of apple and expressed his need for a reward.
Timothy said, “I haven’t helped, have I.”
“I was never looking for firm answers. I wanted to advance the ball up the field and I think we did.”
“How so?”
“You confirmed my suspicions that modern romance is a fiction Hollywood sells. But I don’t know where that leaves me.”
Kix reached far enough to pat my hand. Smiled.
You’ll figure it out, you big dummy. Now about the promised cookie?
7
Colleen Gibbs was the ex-wife of Ulysses. After the divorce, she’d fled—abandoning Roanoke City and traveling all the way to Roanoke County. Miles and miles apart, six in fact, to the estates around Hidden Valley Country Club.
I pulled into her drive. She and her new husband lived in a brick colonial house. Stately, two stories, black shudders, white trim, no windows on the sides. Lots of mulch, no shrubs. The brick walkway led straight to the door, no porch. My appearance surprised her husband—he’d been about to slide into his enormous yellow Hummer H2.
Probably bringing fresh supplies to the warfront with that thing.
I got out of my car. He noticed. Watched suspiciously. “Help you?”
“I’m looking for Colleen Gibbs.”
“I’m Gordon Gibbs.”
“Ah! You probably know her then,” I said. Helpfully. Our words produced a little steam in the cool morning air.
Gordon was a beefcake—an overly tan one. He wasn’t lean and dense like he did CrossFit, he was heavily muscled like he did steroids. Shoulders the size of a spare tire. Kinda guy who screamed during bench presses and claimed The Rock was a weenie. He wore track pants and white Nikes and an Under Armour windbreaker. The pants and the jacket were black with white lettering. His head was shaved, like with a Gillette.