How the Dead Dream

by Lydia Millet

  And yet a particular way of existence was gone, a whole volume in the library of being. Others were sure to fall afterward—a long fly with iridescent wings that lived only in the nest of this single rat, say; a parasite that lived under the wing of the fly; a flowering plant whose roots were nourished by the larval phase of the parasite; a bat that pollinated the plant … it was time that would show the loss, only time that would show how the world had been stripped of its mysteries, stripped by the hundreds and thousands and millions. Remaining would be only the pigeons and the raccoons.

  But it was not the domino effect he considered most often, simply the state of being last. Loss was common, a loss like his own; he couldn’t pretend to the animals’ isolation, although he flattered himself that he could imagine it. He was aware that in his search a certain predictable need was being answered. Still he thought he had a glimpse of something in losing Beth. If a being could be so singular to another, there was no doubt that there was singularity elsewhere, that the irreplaceable nature of being was not limited to his own small circle.

  One day, he knew, it would be men that were last. In the silence of the exhibits he thought he could feel time changing him too, atom by atom. He was so bored one night that he lost resistance to falling asleep. It would be good to let himself go,

  he decided: so he did. After that sleep was part of the routine, and sleeping he surrendered—it was up to the animals what happened. He was not protected anymore by the city and its installations. Lying down in the exhibits with them, awkward, uncomfortable, and finally overcome; creeping out before the keepers appeared for the morning feeding.

  While he slept, as far as he knew, the animals did not mean to approach him. But when he woke up they were sometimes near him by happenstance. In this way he saw a ringtail nosing her young down into the entry of her den and a hyena tearing hungrily at the breast of a pigeon.

  •

  As a rule no one else came to his apartment. Since Beth had died and Fulton had kicked the dog it had welcomed no one: the rooms were a set of monastic cells, unseen by anyone but himself and the cleaning lady. And while his financial research was kept vaulted and secure at the office, indexed in spreadsheets and cross-referenced, his animal research was spread throughout the space he inhabited like debris at a crash site. Magazines were spilled over the arms and cushions of sofas, where the dog lay sleeping and shed her white hairs; printouts from library computers were piled on the kitchen counter where he never cooked; spilled water gummed the pages together in wavy blocks and blotted the type. Videotapes were perched in crooked towers, maps were laid out on the guest bed and over tables and desks. In disarray were his tools, the lockpicks for doors and gates, binoculars and night-vision goggles, cords and carabiners, wet suits and waders.

  After Beth his apartment had been reduced to a closet, with a door he could shut to seal off the contents. It was only the presence of his dog that kept the place from wholesale neglect. He did not like to think of the dog living in squalor throughout the workday, even if it was unlikely she would share his preference for tidiness.

  He meant to leave the apartment, which he had rented purely for convenience and to which he had never had a particular attachment. In time he would have to buy, he would need a show home. He lived so far beneath his means that Fulton ridiculed him. But when he bought he would have to move his office and his mother with him; so he delayed and delayed and the apartment felt less and less like a place he lived in and more and more like a storage locker.

  Meanwhile his mother and Casey met almost every day to work on jigsaws. They seemed to be forging an alliance, because when he stopped by they contentedly ignored him and made jibes at his expense. At first he viewed this development with alarm but soon it felt, when he stepped into his mother’s dining room, as though Casey was meant to be there, as though it was meant to be the three of them.

  “Puzzles,” he said to Susan at the office, and shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “You know what it is? It’s a miracle,” said Susan. “It really is. You don’t know the apathy I’ve been dealing with. I don’t care what her new hobby is. It could be beekeeping or kung fu movies. Really. Whatever gets her out of her apartment. Believe me. It’s a miracle, T.”

  In the past Fulton had left the planning decisions to him, but now he began to question the fundaments of the island

  project with a marked belligerence. He suggested, for example, that they should attempt to attract mammoth cruise ships to their facility, despite the fact that there was no port for such vessels and no channels deep enough to accommodate them; he saw no obstacles to a high-volume, fast-turnover operation on an island off a coastline that boasted only a one-runway airport and no paved roads, where even a modest supply of fresh water had to be imported.

  T. explained patiently the reasons for the modest scope of the development and its tidy benefits—the exclusivity appeal, the quick returns due to the fairly small capital outlay—but Fulton only shook his head restlessly and accused him of “thinking small” and having “no cojones.” He made this kind of remark most often in a group meeting with other investors, not when the two of them were alone; and though his protests were easily overcome, due largely to their senselessness, the suppressed hostility behind them was disruptive.

  When T. took him aside and reminded him the enterprise was only a boutique project, one of a large array of his current startups in which Fulton was free to invest, Fulton guffawed; when he offered him the opportunity to pull his funds Fulton ignored him. Clearly there was tension. Fulton had noticed that T. spent time with him only when he could not avoid it; it had dawned on him that T. preferred the company of others. Surprisingly to T. given his insensitivity in all matters, he appeared to be offended by this. He wished to draw T. back in, or failing that he wished to undermine him covertly.

  Presently Casey liberated Susan from her long servitude. She left the apartment every day; she bought her own food, paid

  her own bills, in short agreed to conduct her own life. For a while he drove her to buy groceries, to ease the transition.

  They were in the produce section of a luxury food store in Santa Monica, Casey reaching up to a shelf of honeydew melons to touch them and smell them, when T. wandered away to pick up a bag of apples and found himself looking past the bag at a man’s broad chest in a sport jacket, over a V-necked sweater.

  It was Fulton.

  “Shit, guy,” said Fulton, and delivered a punch to the shoulder. “Look who.”

  “Fulton.”

  “What are you doing here? You don’t buy food. You order out. I saw your refrigerator. One old jar of mayo that looked like earwax and a six-pack of Heinie.”

  “I came with my secretary’s daughter.”

  “The dirty-blonde there? The quadriplegic?” “Just her legs are paralyzed, actually.”

  “What I said, man.”

  He craned his neck to see past T.’s shoulder.

  “She’s not that bad. If you could get past the whole no-legs thing enough to just stick it in.”

  “Don’t be foul.” “Good tits.”

  “End of conversation.”

  “You could always put a paper bag over the withered parts and go for the tittyfuck, I guess.”

  T. turned on his heel. He meant to steer them away from Casey but Fulton preempted him, striding past him to stick his hand out in her direction.

  Caught off-guard, she dropped a melon into her lap. “Fulton Hanrahan! Business partner of T.’s. Pleased as

  shit to meetcha.”

  “Casey.”

  He shook her hand far too hard; when he let go she rubbed it, wincing.

  “So you two been keeping this whole thing real quiet, huh? He told my wife he was seeing someone but he wouldn’t bring her over. Now I know why.”

  “Excuse me?” asked Casey.

  “We’re friends, Fulton. We’re not in a relationship. I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “See Casey, my
wife was trying to set him up with these hot women, and then he blows them off and goes for one with zero feeling below the waist. You like that, T.?”

  Casey gaped. T. looked at Fulton sharply; his face was tanned and bland as ever.

  “Shut the fuck up, Fulton. Casey. Let’s get out of here.” “Are you kidding?” said Casey, and then smiled at Fulton.

  “I want to stay. Can I ask you something? So far what I’m thinking is Antisocial Personality Disorder. You may actually meet the diagnostic criteria for a sociopath. There’s a handy checklist in the DSM-III.”

  “Great legs; nice personality, too.”

  “Number one on the checklist: Would you say you’ve exhibited, since roughly the age of fifteen, a pervasive pattern of disregard for the rights of others?”

  T. looked at them both and an odd, dreary calm settled over him. He was aware of danger. It was like a tidal wave or a freeze: it was not up to him. Shoppers milled around and behind them in a blur.

  Casey continued to smile coldly; Fulton picked up a piece of pale red fruit. At first T. could not recall what it was and then he thought pomegranate.

  “Wait. I forgot. A sociopath typically fails to recognize his behavior as antisocial. You probably had no idea until I told

  you. Right? This whole time you thought you were just a regular rich guy, I bet.”

  Fulton turned to T.

  “This is one of those fruits where, if I ripped it open, there would be all those shiny red seeds inside. Right?”

  “Leave us alone, Fulton.”

  He took hold of the back of Casey’s chair, but she pushed off his hands. Fulton tossed the pomegranate back into the bin. “I can’t believe you, T. I knew you were a secret fag but I had no idea you would do sex on cripples. I mean that’s sick.

  It’s one step away from fucking rotting corpses. I mean half of this little lady is basically already dead.”

  T. felt stunned; the oranges and yellows of the produce aisle were dazzling. They fuzzed and vibrated in front of him. They were ancient Egypt in the tropics.

  But Casey was still matter-of-fact.

  “Among sociopaths the physically violent subjects tend to be the stupid ones. Did you know that? The ones who limit themselves to verbal abuse are smart by comparison. But that’s obviously not you. Unless—wait. Are you physically violent too? Are you a wife-beater?”

  There was a pause; Fulton seemed preoccupied suddenly, gazing over T.’s shoulder. T. heard his own voice, clipped and neutral. “He doesn’t beat her, but he’s been sleeping with the same prostitute twice a week since a year before they got married. He claims his wife is frigid. Every year he gives the prostitute a Christmas bonus.”

  “Fulton?”

  Janet was staring wide-eyed at her husband from above a full shopping cart. A few feet behind her stood their preteen daughter.

  Casey was the first to move, head slightly bowed, mouth solemn; she turned her chair and made for the row of check-out counters.

  T. could not catch Janet’s eye but he saw her daughter’s face, alarmed. He was not sure what the daughter had understood: and if he made an apology to Janet it would only confirm the salience of what she had heard. He had to cut his losses.

  “Janet,” he said softly in acknowledgment, “how are you,” as though nothing was happening. He raised a hand in greeting before he turned to leave.

  If only the daughter had been out riding her pony.

  At the front door he and Casey surrendered their grocery baskets without paying. They crossed the parking lot in silence. He was mulling over the damage to Janet’s feelings and the loss of Fulton’s money. For Janet—could she actually love him, or would it be mostly the shock? For himself, he considered whether he should be worried, because the funds were as good as gone already. Certainly their loss would be felt, he guessed, but it would not break him. He would go over the financials when he got home.

  They got to the car and discovered Casey still had the honeydew, a symptom of their distraction. On her lap it lay pale and heavy.

  •

  The next business trip ended early. On his way to the zoo for daytime reconnaissance, listening to the news on public radio, he learned the pygmy chimpanzees he meant to visit had a newborn. He could not risk disturbing the group so with reluctance he turned back toward the airport.

  He had left his dog in the care of his mother’s nurse, since Angela could no longer be relied upon to remember to feed

  and walk her, and when he got into his car in the parking structure at LAX—a new 600, for he had recently traded in the 560—and called his mother’s apartment on the car telephone, the nurse was out.

  His mother made him nervous.

  “Your dog was here. But she’s gone,” she said vaguely. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Out? Is Vera walking

  her?”

  “She went away. After we saw the man in the BMW.” “I’m coming there now,” said T., anxious. “Stay home.

  OK? I don’t understand what you’re telling me here. Tell Vera to call me on the car phone if she gets there before I do.”

  At his mother’s apartment Vera answered the door with a worried face. His dog had run away, she said.

  “What do you mean? She never takes off!”

  “There was a man in a car when we were on our walk. It was the three of us, your mother and the dog and me. We were walking on Abbot Kinney. This man parked his car. It was a nice car. Shiny black.”

  “Leather seats,” said his mother, nodding. “Beautiful. And brand new. A death machine, of course.”

  “He said he knew her,” said Vera. “He was a friend of yours.”

  “He was the one from the party,” said his mother. “And I’ll tell you what, T. You should steer clear of him. I know he’s your friend but in the end that young man is headed straight for the Pancake House, no questions asked. I could tell right away.”

  “What party?”

  “At your office at Christmas last year. You know. The big one with the muscles, and the very small wife. She wore pink.”

  “Fulton.”

  “I don’t remember his name. He talked about tennis.” “Fulton. Oh no. Oh shit.”

  “Your mother needed to use the bathroom,” said Vera, “so he said he would hold the leash for us while we went into a store. But then when we came out again he said she had run away.”

  “This is not happening.”

  Legs weak, he sat down on the arm of the sofa.

  “I called the Humane Society,” said Vera. “I called all of them. We went there to give a photo of her—from the picnic, where she was biting the rubber bone?—but no one knew anything.”

  He was stunned. He blinked and looked down at his knees. He had failed her. Was she dead? Suffering?

  He held out his hands: they shook. He put the heels of his hands on his thighs and ground them in. He had done this to her.

  “Oh, honey,” said his mother, and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s OK. She’ll come back.”

  Charges could be pressed but that would get him nowhere; it would not help his dog. Fulton would not respond to anything but abasement. Fulton must be granted the power, must feel he had won. And T. would do it gladly: he did not hesitate.

  He called and asked Fulton to meet him, but Fulton said no. Fulton was busy. Fulton was seeing a marriage counselor, to stave off divorce. Fulton had no time for him.

  “But you had time for my dog. What did you do with her? Tell me, Fulton. Please.”

  “The thing ran off, T. Not a damn thing I could do about

  it.”

  “I know that’s not true. She isn’t a runner. I know you’re

  lying about this, Fulton.”

  “Didn’t take to me. Trying to do a favor for a couple old ladies. Holding their dog while they hobbled up the steps. Thing lit off down the street like a bat outta hell. Who knew something so ugly could run so fast?”

  “Tell me you didn’t hurt her. Please.”

  “You
fuck up my entire fucking marriage and now I’m the bad guy. Talk about blaming the victim.”

  “Listen. I’m very sorry for the effect my words must have had on Janet. I had no idea she was there. You know I didn’t. Or your daughter. I deeply regret upsetting them. But I’m begging you here. Picture me on my knees. I’ll give you whatever you want. So help me. Just tell me where she is. Let me have her, Fulton.”

  “What can I say. All I know is the thing took off down the street. All she wrote. And now I gotta go.”

  “Fulton. Please. I love that dog. You know I’m sorry. Help me out here, man. Please.”

  “See ya, T.”

  The dog had been missing three days when Casey rang his doorbell. In his distance he forgot the chaos and privacy of his space and opened the front door.

  On her lap she held a basket full of rubber toys, a leash, a bag of dog biscuits.

  “We’re going to get her back,” she said firmly. The hopeful goods broke his heart.

  “Come on,” said Casey. “Let’s go look. I’m ready.”

  He felt a dragging reluctance but she was determined; she turned her chair briskly and headed back to the elevator. Finally he grabbed a jacket and followed.

  Casey had strong arms but even so, he knew, after a while they grew tired, and moving south along the boardwalk he thought of this: the farther, the longer, the more she must

  ache. He felt guilty. Other dogs passed them, for the boardwalk was popular among dog owners: now and then he or Casey petted one. At first they spoke but as they grew tired of walking their conversation dwindled.

  “I’m exhausted,” he said finally.

  They had made a loop to the bottom of the Marina: it had been several hours. The soles of his feet were burning. Casey’s stamina was shocking.

  “I think we should cut in off the beach and get a taxi back to my place,” he pressed.

  “No,” said Casey, and shook her head. “If you want her you have to pay. You have to pay for what you want. You know that.”