A Farewell to Legs

by JEFFREY COHEN

  “Aaron,” Abby said, shaking her head and sitting on a kitchen chair. “I fell in love with you. I married you. I have two kids with you. Do you really think I’d do all that with some guy because I felt sorry for him? I’m lucky to have you, and I thank the heavens every day that we met. You don’t love me more, and I don’t love you more. We love each other. That’s why our marriage works.”

  “So you’re not going to kill me?”

  “No. But I might maim you a bit. That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, and nothing like that must ever happen again, you understand?” I knelt beside her chair and nodded.

  “It won’t ever happen again, Abby. I swear.”

  She bit her lower lip, a sign that she’s going to do something she thinks she shouldn’t. “So, what’d you think of Preston Burke?” she asked quickly, before she could censor herself.

  “At first, I thought you were insane,” I told her, “but after a while, I saw how he could come across as dangerous.”

  “Do you think he threw the rock and made that phone call?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Just when I convince myself it couldn’t have been him, I recall the look in his eye when he realized I wasn’t who I said I was. . .”

  “Aaron!”

  “Don’t worry. He doesn’t know anything about us being married. The fact is, Abby, we’ll probably never hear from him again.”

  And, of course, the phone rang.

  I picked it up, and somehow, I already knew the voice would be muffled and masculine. I wasn’t sure what the words would be, but they weren’t going to be words I wanted to hear.

  “I know where you live,” he said, and hung up.

  I hung up the phone, and looked at Abby. “You know, the kids have Thursday and Friday off for the Teachers Convention,” I said. “You think you could take those days?”

  “I think so,” she said. “Why?”

  “I was thinking maybe we’d take a long weekend and drive down to D.C.”

  Part 2: The Dog

  Chapter

  One

  “A dog?” I was saying to Abby. “What, the lizard thing worked out so well that now you want to get them a larger, more demanding animal?”

  Wednesday night, we were packing in our bedroom for the trip to Washington the next morning. It had taken some doing, but I’d managed, through my friends at AAA and my influence with a certain celebrity Washington widow, to find accommodations at a hotel we could actually afford. In fact, we even had a suite, with a separate bedroom for the kids, booked in Georgetown at less than half the usual rate. Sometimes, it pays to know the wife of a prominent dead conservative.

  Steph had actually offered to put us up in her house, but I thought that considering her recent behavior, that would be, to say the least, horrifyingly awkward. I politely declined without actually discussing the suggestion with my wife.

  “I’m thinking about a dog because the lizard thing worked out so badly,” Abigail said. “Do you think I need a bathing suit?”

  “If you’re going to be swimming with anyone besides me, yes,” I answered. “You know, I understand the hotel has a pool, but we’re only going to be there for what amounts to three days, and I’m. . .”

  “. . . You’re going to be working much of the time, I know,” she said. “And while there are plenty of wonderful sights to see in our nation’s capital, the kids like nothing better than a hotel pool, so we’re going to spend at least some time there.” She took a one-piece suit and a bikini out of the assemble-it-yourself piece of furniture she uses for a closet. “Which of these is better?”

  “If you’re going to be swimming without me, you’d better wear a complete dive suit and an overcoat,” I said. “The one-piece. And I’m still waiting to hear how the lizard fiasco makes a dog a good idea.”

  Leah had flatly refused to feed E-LIZ-abeth since the infamous biting incident, but burst into tears anytime it was suggested the little beast might be better off in another home, like the one across the street, where it could play with another of its kind. I had tried to feed the lizard once, managed it without throwing up, and then bravely placed the responsibility in the lap of the person whom I considered most deserving. But Abby didn’t want to pluck worms out of a plastic margarine container with a tweezer and watch a refugee from Jurassic Kiddie Park gobble them up, either. So Melissa had been very gamely helping out for a few days.

  “You recall that the idea of the lizard as a pet was to encourage Leah’s interest in animals,” she began.

  “I recall that’s the excuse you used, yes.”

  “You know, I still haven’t completely forgiven you for the Preston Burke thing. You might try to be a little more agreeable on this.” Abby put the bikini in her suitcase.

  “Fine. So how does that lead to me cleaning up dog poop?”

  My wife, who grew up outside Chicago, took on what she considers to be a New Jersey accent, as if such a thing existed. “Dat’s da beauty of dis deal,” she said. “It doesn’t lead to you cleaning up dog poop. It leads to our daughter bonding with an animal and taking on the responsibility of its care.” I removed the bikini from Abby’s suitcase, stuffed it back into her closet, and replaced it with a much more concealing suit—one that would cause most men to weep silently, rather than drool openly, once she put it on. “Hey,” she said, but smiled and let me make the replacement.

  “So in your heart of hearts, you believe that your daughter will actually feed, groom, and, most importantly, walk a dog, probably a good few times a day, because she will feel responsible? Have you actually been living with this child for any period of time?”

  “Ethan will help,” she said with a straight face.

  “This is not the time for comedy,” I told her. “Ethan? It’ll take Ethan three weeks to notice we even have a dog!”

  “Then you’re saying it’s okay with you if we get a dog?” said my wife.

  I sat down on the bed and took her hands, beckoning her to sit next to me so we could talk seriously. Our eyes met, and I tenderly said, “no.”

  “No?”

  “No. Look, Abby, you know as well as I do that this dog is going to end up being mostly my responsibility. The kids will be thrilled to pieces with it for about three days, and then, once February comes and the wind is blowing and there’s six inches of snow on the ground, it won’t be so much fun to walk Fido anymore. And you’re at the office all day, so you won’t be able to do it. I’m here, I’m going to feel bad for the poor mutt, and I’m going to end up doing most of the care. So, as the person whose life it will affect most noticeably, I’m saying, no.”

  Abby stared into my eyes, and saw that I was serious. She took a deep breath.

  “Fido? You want to name our dog Fido?”

  “You’re beautiful when you’re annoying,” I told her.

  Abigail stood up and went back to packing. “We’ll take a look on the Internet when we get back,” she said.

  “Abby. . .”

  “I said a look. We won’t do anything until you say it’s okay.” She reached into the closet again. “Which nightgown should I bring?” she asked.

  “How badly do you want me to agree to this dog idea?”

  “Pretty badly.”

  I pointed. “That one.”

  She put it in the suitcase.

  Chapter

  Two

  Driving long distances with children is an experience to be undertaken only by those foolish enough to become parents to begin with. The travel time by automobile from Midland Heights, New Jersey to Washington, D.C. is usually about three-and-a-half to four hours if you go straight through. The actual driving time with a wife and two children is about six hours, and if you listen to what goes on in the back seat, it feels like eight days.

  “Stop that.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Ethan!”

  “Get out of my face, you imbecile!” Ethan gets all his best insults from cartoons, which are his
major source of cultural information. He thinks people actually say, “curse this traffic!”

  We stopped about every half hour so Leah wouldn’t get car sick, and made sure to pull into every rest stop because, guaranteed, someone would have to go to the bathroom a half mile after we left. Only a parent can actually force someone to go to the bathroom when they don’t want to. We ate bad rest stop food (there is no good rest stop food). We listened to an unabridged recording of one of the Harry Potter books, and I did my best to keep the kids engaged along the way.

  “Look, Ethan, a sign for the Decoy Museum!”

  “So?”

  “So, where do you think they keep the real museum?”

  Long pause. “What do you mean?”

  Like that.

  Finally, much more battered but no less irritated with each other, we pulled the minivan (which was rumored to hold more luggage than a sedan, an out-and-out lie) up to the parking garage of a hotel that specifically asked me not to mention its name, given the fact that it doesn’t want to offer the “Dead Conservative” rate to every family that pulls up with four stuffed animals, a bag full of foods an Asperger’s kid will eat, and one suitcase carrying a certain, specifically requested nightgown.

  My bag, an overnighter, held three changes of underwear and socks, a few shirts, an extra pair of jeans, my “toiletries,” and a copy of my latest script. Maybe being confined in a room with Abby for three nights, I’d be able to force her to read it.

  Getting Abby to read one of my scripts is like getting Leah to go to the dentist. She’ll do it, but only under extreme duress.

  She tells me it’s hard to read something when the author is in the room. I’ve offered to leave the room while she’s reading, but she says she can feel my eyes on her the whole time. This is silly of her, since my eyes are on her all the time, but Abby will generally read the latest book she’s gotten out of the library, even if she doesn’t like it, before my script. Hell, she’ll read the side of a cereal box before she’ll read my script.

  In the old days (before I wised up), I used to wait until she’d read it to send anything out to my agent. Now, I send it to my agent and then suffer the torture of days and days until Abby will crack the cover.

  So I had high hopes as we checked into the swanky digs we’d finagled for the weekend that I could do some meaningful interviews, see some sights with my children, and get my wife to pass judgment on my latest work, all in one weekend.

  And I believe I may have mentioned the specifically selected nightgown that had made the trip with us.

  Before the kids had time to discover Cartoon Network on the in-room cable, Abby spirited them out to see the Lincoln Memorial. I would have liked to have gone, since big Abe in his huge chair is one of my favorite sights, but I had already lined up a good number of interviews for the few days we had. So I was off to see the infamous Cherie Braxton, at the scene of the crime.

  I took the Metro, rather than the minivan, because Washington’s streets make as much sense to me as New Coke. And after asking only three complete strangers for directions, I found the nondescript, five-story apartment building, and Ms. Braxton buzzed me in.

  I couldn’t help but think about how many times Legs had climbed these stairs, and whether or not he’d managed to do it without being winded, like I did. Of course, it was just the second floor, but I still took a certain pride in seeing all that work at the Y pay off.

  Cherie had the apartment door open already, and she was standing in the doorway, watching for me at the elevator. She was startled when I appeared in the stairwell.

  “Mr. Tucker?” she asked in a small voice. I admitted to being me, and she gestured me into the apartment. “I wasn’t expecting you on the stairs,” she added.

  “I’m trying to work off fifteen pounds,” I said. Okay, twenty. But no more than that.

  “You don’t need it,” she said automatically. Flattering men who were older than her came to Cherie Braxton as a reflex.

  “I hope you don’t lie that much when we start the interview,” I said, but she didn’t smile. I walked inside and was immediately overcome by beige, the clear color of choice among the upwardly mobile in our nation’s capital. Beige carpeting gave way to beige walls with beige furniture breaking up the monotony. Amazingly, the ceiling was white. They must have run out of beige paint. There were cartons everywhere—it was obvious Braxton was moving out. She removed some boxes from an old sofa, and we sat down.

  She had, I noticed, decided to dress a little more conservatively for the Snapdragon reporter than she had for the cops. Her figure, which was in the top six percent, was still evident, but every button on her silk blouse was buttoned, and her denim skirt fell well below the knee. I clearly didn’t represent an upward move in status, so I wasn’t being seduced. Just as well.

  “You moving because of what happened?” I asked.

  “In a way. After the press got hold of me, people began picketing outside the building and everything. Besides, once the pictures ran in the papers and on the news, I started getting better offers.”

  “Better offers?” For what, her services as murder witness?

  “You know, I got asked out by men higher up in the government. And I got a few offers to pose in magazines, but I turned those down.” It’s nice to have standards. “They were only offering fifteen thousand, and that’s not enough to take off my clothes and get my picture taken.” No matter how low those standards might be.

  “How did you meet Louis Gibson?” I decided was a good place to start.

  “Louie came to my office at Housing and Urban Development to try and get my boss to endorse a rider for putting the Lord’s Prayer back in schools on a bill that HUD wanted passed in the House,” she said, sounding quite knowledgeable. “My boss made him wait a few minutes, and that got Louie pissed. Since we had a common enemy, we got along well right away.”

  “You started seeing each other.”

  “We started seeing all of each other, if you know what I mean,” she said. “I mean, we were never dating. We just came here to screw.”

  “You knew he was married.”

  “Of course.” Cherie made a face like she couldn’t believe how stupid one reporter could be. “He never shut up about his wife, how she nagged him, what a pain in the ass she was, blah, blah, blah. But he’d never leave her. It’d look bad in the media, this big family values guy throwing over the wife and two kids for a young blonde. And I was glad. The last thing I needed was to be saddled with Louie for the rest of my life.”

  I feigned surprise. “So you weren’t in love with Louis Gibson.”

  Her laugh was more like an eruption. “Pah!” the sound went. “In love? With Louie? Jesus Christ on a crutch, no! I didn’t even like the son of a bitch!”

  “And yet. . .”

  “He knew people. And I wanted to know those people. Simple as that. Now, he wouldn’t take me to dinner at his friends’ houses, but he’d make sure the folks there knew my name. A lot of girls these days don’t believe in sleeping your way to the top, Mr. Tucker, but I’ll tell you, I don’t see anything wrong in it. If men are stupid enough to do stuff for you because you’ll fuck ’em, I say, fuck ’em.”

  Washington is an interesting town. Sometimes, it’s as if entire decades of social change never occur there.

  “Can I see where it. . . happened?” I asked.

  She led me into the bedroom, which was also full of cartons. The bed was made, since Braxton still lived here, but the only furniture beside the bed were two nightstands with a lamp on each. It was a very beige room, with a beige rug. Near the foot of the bed on the right side, there was a small patch of carpet that was slightly darker, as if it had been rubbed the wrong way. That was the only thing that wasn’t quite as beige as the rest of the room. The closet doors were mirrored, and you can bet Cherie Braxton spent a good deal of time looking at her reflection, to make sure she was still a valuable commodity.

  “What did you see or hear that
afternoon?”

  “Nothing,” Cherie said. “I was in the shower when it happened. Louie had made some crack about my ass, and I decided to let him wait a good long time for me to come back. Then I was going to dump him, you know, just to see him look surprised. But I was the one in for a surprise, I’ll tell you.”

  “The knife was just sticking out of him when you came in?”

  “Yeah, and he had this look on his face, like he couldn’t believe it. Not like he was scared, or upset, or even mad, but that he was just so surprised. I guess whoever did it surprised him worse than I was going to.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  Chapter

  Three

  Estéban Suarez, the TV journalist who hosted the program Left of Center, was a breath of fresh air, at least compared to Cherie Braxton. Sure, he was just as ambitious and cynical, but he hadn’t slept with Legs Gibson, at least as far as I knew.

  “I love it when they go on about the ‘Liberal Media,’” Suarez was saying. “You get guys like Bill O’Reilly on TV, just to the right of Attila the Hun, and they complain about this liberal bias in the media, on the air, as if they weren’t in the media themselves.”

  All of which was fascinating, but it didn’t answer my question about his getting into a fight with Legs on the show six days before Legs ended up as a Conservative-on-a-Stick. Instead, he was explaining, without being asked, why his own televised soapbox was named “Left of Center.”

  “I’m a liberal,” he said, having worked up a head of steam. “I think I’m the last one left who’s willing to admit it. Everybody else is so busy trying to be ‘centrist’ or ‘objective’ that they can’t get out of their own way fast enough. Leaves the market wide open for a guy like me, who’s got the balls to say it right to your face. ‘I’m a liberal.’”