The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets

by Diana Wagman

  His toes curled, digging under the warm top layer to the cooler, wetter sand below. The wind blew and he was cold. Time to head back. Tomorrow he would surf. It had been too long.

  “Do I know you?” the silver surfer asked.

  Jonathan prepared his TV smile.

  “’Cause you’re staring at me like you know me,” the guy continued.

  “Oh no, man, sorry, no, no, no. I wasn’t looking at you. I mean I guess I was, but I wasn’t looking, you know. I was just thinking. Sorry. I used to surf here three or four times a week.”

  The guy nodded. “Look over there,” he said. “Just don’t look at me.”

  “Sorry,” Jonathan said again.

  He turned around, his shoulders tightening in embarrassment. He took a couple of self-conscious steps back toward his car. There were houses in a line along the concrete boardwalk, with decks and balconies and sliding glass doors right there. They seemed so friendly. Inviting. Maybe this guy lived in one of these. Jonathan looked away. Now he didn’t want to seem to be staring at the guy’s house. He wasn’t sure where to look.

  He kicked through the sand to his car. He hoped he seemed laid-back, indifferent, lost in thought. If he had one of these houses, he could surf whenever he wanted to. Or he could sit out on the deck, drink a beer, and listen to the waves. If he got cold, he’d have a sweatshirt right inside. Even if he came home to one of these houses every day at five-thirty exactly, conforming to the norm, even so he could stand in his own living room and still be at the beach. He would ask Jessica about moving. He and Winnie had planned to live here when they could afford it. Winnie loved the beach, not as a swimmer or a surfer, but the sand and the wind and the attitude, she said. She loved the beach attitude. She wore that same one-piece red bathing suit all the time he knew her. Wait. That couldn’t be right. In nine—no, ten—years she must’ve bought a new bathing suit. But maybe not. He only remembered her on the beach in that stretchy bit of red. How faded it got like a wagon left out in the yard. How she would step out of it at home and leave it on the floor inside out with a little scattering of sand. Sometimes it would stay there until the next time they went back to the beach. Princess Winnie. Not that it ever bothered him, the sand under his feet and in the corners of the shower. The salty tang of her skin under his tongue.

  Jessica would like living here. She would look amazing in a bikini on the deck of that three-story yellow clapboard house right behind his car. He could surf in the morning, and then head into work totally chill, at peace, one with the ocean’s qi. Jessica said it was restorative, or rejuvenating, or recuperating.

  He got to his car and turned back toward the sea and saw the surfer dressed now in cheap chinos and a wrinkled button down. He pretended not to watch as the guy trudged across the sand with his battered surfboard and pushed it through the sunroof of some old, dented Japanese car. Jonathan got into his Porsche and relaxed in the warmth. It still smelled almost new. The leather seats were like a hug. He heard the guy’s car struggle to start, finally catch and whine out of the parking lot. Jonathan shook his head, did a television laugh at himself. That guy had made him feel bad? That guy?

  The wind blew a piece of trash across the sand. The beach was speckled with tar and waste. He couldn’t move down here. Lacy’s new school was very close to the Beverly Hills house and Jessica’s yoga studio was only minutes away. Maybe when Lacy was in college and Jessica was making movies or whatever they would move to Malibu, someplace more private.

  He looked at his watch and, as always, admired the weight and shine of it. The most expensive watch made, a wedding gift from Jessica. It was handsome, a thing of beauty that would be a thing of enjoyment—or whatever the phrase was—forever. The second hand moved in increments, not sweeping, but ticking off the seconds.

  Even as he was admiring it, he knew he shouldn’t be watching the second hand. He should never pay attention to the ticking, the slow slip slip from one second to the next. Stop it, he told himself. He tried to look away, but then the feeling came. It rushed into his chest and the back of his throat, that horrible,

  desperate feeling of his life passing, moment by moment. With every click of the second hand, he was aware of his existence, his being, winding down. He heard his heart beating, throwing away his precious allotment. His heartbeats were limited. There went one. And another. And another. He felt each breath. He wanted to catch his life in both hands, but there was nothing to grab. He was dying a little with every second. It was a familiar feeling, too familiar lately and he hated it. It was like when he was a kid and would become aware of his tongue. In his mouth. Behind his teeth. Taking up breathing room. Unable to think of anything else. Recently, at night, in bed, he had taken to counting the beats of his heart, afraid to stop, as if his counting kept it going. And one. And two. And three. And four. When would it stop? When would it stop?

  Jonathan opened his car door and gulped the air. He swung his bare feet around to the pavement and bent his head to his knees. He tried to avoid looking, but he caught sight of his feet. His feet. These could not be his feet. Bony and translucent, the veins prominent, the toenails gone yellow. His father’s feet. His grandfather’s feet. Jessica had a framed saying in the den, “Nothing is worth more than this day." He wanted to make this day special; he wanted to make every moment count, but how? How could he make each moment of his life the best it could be? He had to eat and shit and shower and drive in traffic and do his job. He had to smile and please people and to do that he had to get his teeth whitened and his hair frosted and spend an hour every day at the gym. So was this it? Was this not wasting his life? Sitting in his car watching other people surf?

  Oh, God! Oh, God! Tears came then, but a man’s tears that offered no real release, only further awkwardness and shame.

  He forced himself to get back in the car, to start the engine, to turn on the radio so he could concentrate on whatever the announcer was saying. Instead it was music, classical, written by some dead guy who had left a mark on the world. No one would watch his game show years from now. No one would care that he had been alive. What was he doing here? What was he doing with it? He unfastened his watch and tossed it behind him, out of reach in the back seat. He would drive home right away, as quickly as he could. He needed Jessica.

  18.

  Winnie knew exactly where she was. Oren was taking her through Inglewood, west toward the airport. Manchester Avenue was six lanes wide and flat, a straight line through the traditionally black neighborhood of older homes, small shops and many churches. A lot of the stores were boarded up and out of business. Even the ‘for lease’ signs looked old and forgotten. Three middle-aged men clustered in front of a liquor store smoking cigarettes; one of them had a bottle in a brown paper bag. Winnie saw two young, white hipsters going into a restaurant that advertised ‘authentic soul food.’ She could hear them telling their friends later how cool it was, what brave pioneers they were. A young black teenaged girl laughed with a friend. Her bouncing, tightly curling hair reminded Winnie of Lacy. She closed her eyes. At that moment, she knew Lacy was sitting in class absently playing with her hair, twisting one ringlet around her finger as she had since she was a toddler. At home, the dog would be sleeping on the sofa. Jonathan was annoyed she never called, but he wasn’t worried. She was not missed yet; no one knew she had been abducted. Would she make the evening news? Not tonight. Not until tomorrow at the earliest. Daughter of famous movie star. Ex-wife of famous game show host. Missing, presumed dead. Finally she would get her own moment of fame.

  Oren—she was glad to know his name—tapped the steering wheel. A steady one-two rhythm like a heartbeat. Where did he get these ideas about her? That she had servants. That she would lock Lacy in her room at night. Was there a tabloid that had made her out to be a witch? Jonathan Parker’s horrid ex-wife. But no one cared about her anymore. Oren was definitely not anxious to call Jonathan for a ransom. He had something else in mind. Something worse, she was sure. His father had killed hi
s mother. Beaten her to death. Buried her in a cornfield. She could expect the same. He was taking her somewhere, some remote place to kill her slowly. The knife. The gun used as a hammer. His feet in his white sneakers. His fists. Like father, like son. She heard Jonathan at her funeral, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the bag—the branch—whatever.” She pictured Jessica, Jonathan, and Lacy around the dinner table. She hated that image in her mind when Lacy went there just for a weekend. The thought that it would be the rest of Lacy’s life made her sick. The three of them. Lacy’s family. She imagined Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, Lacy leaving for college, Lacy bringing her first boyfriend home. And when that boyfriend broke her heart, Winnie could not believe Jessica would comfort her, tell her he wasn’t good enough for her anyway. Jonathan thought Jessica would be great with Lacy. He had said she would be a wonderful influence and could teach Lacy so many things.

  “Like how to steal someone’s husband?” Winnie had retorted.

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  The look on his face. His guilt made him hate her sometimes; at that moment he despised her. If she were dead, if he didn’t have to see her or talk to her on the phone, it would be a gift to him.

  Winnie opened her eyes. They were passing the round and columned pseudo-Roman Forum on her left. The sign advertised Sunday services for the Faith Central Bible Church and also the comeback tour of a 1980’s heavy metal band. A giant cemetery stretched off to her right. She had made no instructions about her funeral. The cemetery was pretty, a swath of deep green grass and leafy trees in the middle of the sinking urban scene. It was bordered on the west by Prairie Avenue. She had always loved the word prairie, the wide, open spaces, the long grasses moving in the breeze. She had never seen a prairie, never been to Nebraska or Kansas or any place where she could see empty land for miles and miles.

  “I’d like to be buried there,” she said.

  “I’ll tell Lacy,” Oren replied.

  Winnie recoiled as if he had hit her again. “I’ll do whatever you say. Just leave her alone.”

  “You can’t make deals with me.”

  He was crazy. He didn’t know where Lacy was, he couldn’t. They crossed under the 405 Freeway.

  “We’re almost there." He had his phone out giving him directions. He turned right abruptly, throwing her against the door.

  “Sorry,” he said. “This is it." He turned into the parking lot.

  “Tip Top Coffee Shop,” she read the neon sign aloud. The second “o” was only partially lit and the rest of the slanted 1960s building was equally neglected. But she could see customers inside, sitting at booths in the window. A handsome black man looked right at her as they drove in. She held up her bound wrists, but he had turned back to his eggs and potatoes or grilled cheese sandwich, whatever was on his plate much more interesting than her.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked.

  “This has nothing to do with you. I’m sorry you had to come along.”

  Oren drove through the parking lot and around behind the building. The back area was completely empty except for a young Latino man in an apron throwing garbage into two green dumpsters. He wiped his hands and went back through the kitchen door and closed it behind him. Oren looked at his watch.

  “Are you late?”

  “Tell me he didn’t leave.”

  “We’re meeting someone with a female iguana, aren’t we?”

  “You’re pretty smart.” Oren sighed. “He’s a reptile dealer. The best. He doesn’t have the female yet. He’s going to get me a good one. From the jungle. A young adult and a clutch of eggs." He continued proudly, “I negotiated for the clutch. Won’t cost me a penny more.”

  “How much money is in that envelope?”

  “He wanted three thousand for her, and fifteen hundred expenses.”

  “Forty-five hundred dollars? He’ll wait.”

  “I’m short three hundred.”

  Oren groaned and pressed his palms into his eyes. He had a redhead’s hands, every wrinkle obvious in the white skin, with fiery little hairs and freckles. Winnie thought of his mother telling him not to bite his nails, slapping his hand out of his mouth. His mother, his dead mother. Maybe he didn’t bite those nails until after she died. And what happened to his father?

  “It’s a lot of money." Winnie tried to reassure him. “Maybe he’s inside.”

  Oren shook his head. He sighed again and let his shoulders drop, his chest sink, his hands fall open on his lap. Everything about him collapsed.

  “I shouldn’t have come." He looked used up, an old rag wrung out.

  “He’s got to be here." She soothed him as she eyed the back door to the coffee shop. There were people in that kitchen, right through that door. If she screamed as she climbed out the car window, somebody would hear her, somebody would run out and see her. Slowly she inched her hands toward the button, leaned over on one hip preparing to leap.

  “Thwock!”

  Oren jumped. So did she. An overweight man in a safari jacket was knocking on Oren’s window.

  “Kidney!” Oren grinned as he rolled it down. “Thank God.”

  “Where the hell’ve you been?” The man asked Oren, but he was staring at her, taking in her tied hands, her sweaty face, the bruises on her bare legs. Oren tried to lean forward, keep him from seeing her, but it was too late.

  “What you got there, Oren?”

  “Nothing.”

  The man leaned in, pushed Oren out of the way. “Hey there. You’re not nothing.”

  “Please. I’m Winnie Parker and he’s kid—”

  Oren clamped his hand over her mouth. She struggled, but it didn’t matter. She was saved. The man had heard enough. Then he began to laugh, a slippery sharp laugh that turned in her gut like a knife.

  “Heh, heh, heh. Pleased to meet you Winnie Parker. I’m Kidney." Then to Oren, “She looks a little old for you.”

  “It’s not what you think." Oren said. “We’re just talking.” Kidney laughed some more, but it sunk to a scratching low in his chest. Oren handed him the envelope of money. Kidney counted, and then gave a little tsk tsk.

  “You’re missing some.”

  “Just a little.”

  Kidney handed the envelope back to Oren and started to walk away. He was bluffing. Winnie could tell by the way he took tiny steps with his head cocked back waiting for Oren’s plea.

  “I can get it to you. I can. Kidney, please.”

  Kidney turned and did a little funny move, as if he was dancing, pulling an imaginary hat over his forehead. She had hoped he would save her. He was crazier than Oren. He came to the car and squatted down. He held onto the door through the open window and his fingernails were too long and dirty. The pinkie nail was the longest, for cleaning his ears or picking his nose.

  “You owe me three hundred dollars. That’s a lot of money.”

  “I’m good for it. You know that. You know me.”

  “Fact is, I hardly know you at all.” Kidney stood up. He hitched up his pants and Winnie saw the crotch of his old man light washed jeans was spotted with pee or spilled food. “Get out of the car, Oren, so we can talk face to face.”

  Oren looked at Winnie.

  “Don’t let him push you around.” Winnie whispered. “I mean it, you shouldn’t have to pay the rest until he delivers her.” She surprised him and herself. She was not his mother. She should have told him to punch Kidney, to get into a fistfight. Then the cops would come or the manager would run out. Someone normal who wouldn’t laugh when he saw her. Oren gave her a little smile, calmly turned off the car, took his keys from the ignition, and got out. She saw the butt of the gun protruding from his jacket pocket. Surely anyone walking by would see it too. But nobody was walking by. There was no reason to be back here unless you were the busboy with the garbage and he had finished that job.

  The busboy and that kitchen door. Oren and Kidney were talking on his side of the car. Oren was pleading with Kidn
ey, holding out the envelope, begging him to take it. On her side, the kitchen door was closed but it had to be unlocked. It had to be. She counted to three and lunged for the door handle. The door opened and she half fell from the car. Her ankles were tied, but she had thought she could manage to stay standing. She struggled to her knees. She opened her mouth to scream just as Kidney grabbed her from behind and squeezed the air from her lungs. She could smell beer and sweat and his dirty clothes and hair. She thought she would vomit. She thought she would pass out.

  “Where do you want her?” Kidney asked Oren. He spun her around like a child in her father’s arms. Around and around and around.

  “Stop,” Oren said, “C’mon, Kidney. Stop.”

  Kidney chuckled and put Winnie down on her feet. She was so dizzy, and her feet so close together, she fell over. He pushed her prone and straddled her. She would have bitten an ankle, anything, but he wore scuffed and dirty cowboy boots.

  “Who is this bitch?” he asked.

  “She’s my girlfriend’s mother.”

  Winnie twisted to look at Oren. He was making this up. He was trying to get Kidney to leave her alone, but it was so ridiculous no one would believe him.

  “Sure, she is.” Kidney looked down at her. His face was bloated and sagging, but his arms had been like a vise around her ribs. The cuts on her stomach were bleeding again; Oren’s white T-shirt stuck and pulled as she tried to get to her hands and knees.

  Again Kidney pushed her flat with one foot. “Listen, Oren. You owe me three hundred bucks. I got a deal for you. Why don’t I take her off your hands? We’ll call it even.”

  19.

  Buster had done this before and Lacy was glad. The top button of her jeans had been hard to undo. She sometimes had trouble with it herself, and Buster was only using one hand. She was also happy he was absolutely stone cold sober for this most momentous act of her life so far. He told her he’d been too nervous to even take a single toke with the guys in the glass garden.