Joint Custody

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “Hi,” The Woman said, just as somber.

  Ever since their big breakup, this was what things had been like between them whenever they’d meet: a world filled with somber.

  But I didn’t have time to dwell on the sadness of the human condition, because it immediately occurred to me that I needed to hide that stranger’s scarf. I’d already screwed up once with those Valentine’s Day chocolates. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice with some attractive piece of neckwear. Live and learn, I always say, or learn nothing and stay stupid. Hurriedly, I desperately nosed the scarf down between the couch cushions before bounding to the door, eager to greet her.

  “Gatz!” The Woman cried, dropping to my side to exchange affections.

  For my part, I rolled onto my back and assumed the position.

  A rub here; a scratch there. I looked up just in time to catch The Man gazing down at us wistfully.

  The Woman rose to her feet.

  “So,” she said, “I’ll bring him back Sunday night. I might be a little late. I hope that’s OK.”

  “Sure,” The Man said. “I’ll be here.”

  She nodded knowingly. I did as well. Where else would The Man be?

  Ask her in! my mind screamed, as I barked encouragingly at him. Offer her a drink!

  But he didn’t.

  “OK, then,” The Woman said.

  If you asked her in, she’d come in! my mind screamed some more, as I figure-eighted my way in and out of their legs, hoping to nudge them closer together.

  “OK, then,” The Man said.

  The Man nodded as she and I walked out the door, his hand on the knob, preparing to close it behind us.

  Outside, on the steps of the brownstone, The Woman paused to zip up her raincoat. There seemed to be the beginning of a storm brewing in the air.

  I gotta tell you: it’s hard being the product of a broken union. You love the one you’re with . . . but you’re always missing the one you’re without.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The following night . . .

  A man goes on a journey; a stranger comes to town. Some people claim that every story boils down to one of those two things. I’m no literary expert, although I do split my time between a writer and an editor, but to me they seem somehow like one and the same. And for either or both to occur, it involves someone coming in or out of a doorway, real or metaphorical.

  This is all by way of saying—albeit in an artsy-fartsy way—that it had seemed to me, lately, that a lot of my life was governed by knocks at the door, to wit:

  “I’m so glad you could make it!” The Woman enthused, opening the door, following the knock.

  I stood faithfully by her side, taking in the sight of the preposterously handsome man standing there: outside of the tiny scar under one eye, he really was Henry Golding to a T. I’d heard about this guy.

  Apparently, New Man had come to call.

  You’d think she might have warned me or something.

  Unprepared as I was, he was a lot to take in.

  New Man had a James Bond type of raincoat, damp spots sprinkled on his shoulders—it had been that kind of early spring—with a bottle in each hand.

  I have to confess, I couldn’t stop gawking. Damn, he was handsome, like . . . damn handsome. He almost made me look like chopped liver!

  “Can I take your coat?” she offered.

  Deftly, like if he had a third bottle he could easily do a juggling trick with them, he transferred one bottle to the other hand—so the guy was holding two bottles in a single handsome hand!—while slinking his arm out of one sleeve and then just as deftly repeating his neat little maneuver on the other side.

  Show-off.

  She hung up his coat, and as they moved off toward the kitchen, I trotted behind, worried. He was so undeniably suave. He really could be the next James Bond!

  “I wish we could have met at the office,” The Woman said.

  Phew! As soon as she mentioned her office, I knew what I was dealing with here: a work-related meeting over food. It wasn’t something she did often, inviting authors over to discuss their work, but when the author lived in the city or close enough, it had been known to happen.

  “And I’d have gladly come there,” New Man said.

  “But, as I explained, there’s construction going on, so it’s been too noisy, and I’ve been working from home this week. And while a coffee shop or restaurant would have been more neutral territory, I thought we might get interrupted by your fans.”

  “That’s not something that happens,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

  Ah, crap. He even did self-deprecating well, which is not an easy thing to do.

  “I was joking about the fans.” She laughed. “But while it’s fine to write in a coffee shop, it’s tough to discuss a manuscript with all that noise going on.”

  “So we’re here,” he said simply.

  “We’re here,” she agreed. Suddenly, she noticed that he was still holding his two bottles. “Oh! Let me . . .”

  “Oh!” he said at the same time, like he’d also suddenly remembered he was still holding two bottles. “I got one of each, a red and a white, since I didn’t know what we’d be having.”

  One of each? Sheesh. What a try-hard. Some people would just bring a six-pack of Bud and call it good enough, and I would agree with those people.

  “How thoughtful!” she said. Then she added more soberly, “Although I’m not sure we should be drinking wine at a business meeting.” And then: “Still, either is perfect because I made—ta-da!— takeout.” She gestured at the little cartons of Chinese dotting the counter space; huh, I’d thought those were just for us. “I was going to make something impressive, but I got so caught up in rereading your manuscript, the day simply got away from me.”

  I wondered if New Man was experiencing the conversational whiplash that I was. She was appreciative of the wine, then admonitory, then appreciative again. She emphasized it being just business, then she talked about having thought of making something impressive. It was like listening to a human yo-yo. Did she even know what she wanted? Did she even know what this was?

  “That’s OK,” New Man said. “If you’d made something impressive, I’d have had to make something even more impressive to reciprocate. This way, I only have to get more impressive takeout.”

  I didn’t want to see what I was seeing, but I couldn’t help it. There was an undeniable spark of . . . something between them as they maneuvered around each other in her kitchen: her pointing out where various things were stored, him passing her stuff, them accidentally brushing shoulders and laughing about it as they served themselves.

  But no. This couldn’t be meaningful interaction I was seeing. It had to be meaningless. I was sure of it.

  Still . . .

  Reciprocate? I began to panic. Sure, reciprocation is a hallmark of good manners—and I’m almost always in favor of good manners, but please don’t reciprocate! And don’t try to be more impressive—you’re already way too impressive as it is!

  But wait. Why was I getting myself so worked up about this? Normally, they’d have met at the office, and they were simply meeting here because of the construction and also like she’d occasionally done with other authors in the past, indicating that this was just a working dinner. This was just a working dinner . . . right?

  They brought their wineglasses and plates to the table, settled down, and much to my relief, it really was all business.

  “I love everything about the manuscript,” she said with an enthusiasm that was just shy of gushing. “It’s witty, insightful, and not in that know-it-all way some authors have that readers can find so off-putting . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “But?”

  “There’s always at least one but, if not a hundred,” New Man said good-naturedly
. This was a little bit surprising, because usually when The Man’s editor brought up his buts, The Man had a tendency to bristle defensively even if it was just one. This guy, on the other hand, seemed to welcome it, as evidenced by his adding, “And whatever yours are, I’d love to hear them. I don’t want to be told anymore that something’s fine when it could be better.”

  “OK, but—” she started to say and then she laughed and he laughed at her so quickly using a dreaded “but.”

  “Well,” she said, still smiling, “I did have a few ideas. Perhaps it would be easier if I . . .”

  She moved to the coffee table to grab her laptop. I watched her go with admiration, and then I watched New Man watch her with admiration. It was all very unsettling.

  But as he moved plates and things out of the way to make room for her laptop, and as she sat down and they both settled into the business of her showing him what sort of editorial changes she had in mind, it really was all business.

  Time passed.

  Work continued.

  My attentive vigilance began to wander.

  Hey, you try listening to two people go on and on about plot, theme, tropes, story arc, character consistency, and continuity issues, not to mention the occasional subject-verb disagreement—all about a book you haven’t had the pleasure of reading—and let’s see how long you stick with it!

  Before long, I was nosing among the cartons for leftovers.

  Before much longer than that, fueled by MSG-infused moo shu pork, I was chasing my own tail around for amusement.

  And before too much longer than that, I felt myself beginning to drowse on the sofa, not too far from where they still worked. My eyelids grew heavy, the god of sleep Hypnos carrying me away on Lethe, the river of forgetfulness and oblivion.

  It was something of a surprise, then, to wake to a palpable shift in the atmosphere.

  Gosh, I thought, shaking my head to clear out the cobwebs, I hope I wasn’t snoring out loud.

  The lights had been dimmed, and there were sounds in the air that could only be described as . . . mood music.

  Oh no! Immediately, I was fully awake and fully anxious too. What was going on here?

  Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, I told myself. But then . . .

  Oh hell. Romantic music and soft lighting ALWAYS means something! How did we get from mixed metaphors and scene continuity to THIS?

  Quickly, I sprang into action.

  Shakespeare would have advised: first, kill all the lawyers. Me, I could only go with one of my biggest strengths.

  First, I barked.

  And when that didn’t garner the reaction I was looking for—or, really, any reaction at all—I went full-on ballistic: barking my fool head off and tearing around the place in my search for them until I finally found them in the kitchen, talking over yet more glasses of wine; I could tell it was “more” because the color of this wine was different than the color of their dinnertime wine. You’d think that with the racket I’d been making, they’d have heard me coming and been alerted to my impending presence, but as I barreled into the room, my nails sliding on the linoleum, New Man startled, taking an awkward little hop backward. It was weird, because The Man did awkward on the regular, and I was used to it, but on this guy it looked super strange; like he did awkward so rarely, he was awkward at it. Still, even The Woman seemed to be caught off guard.

  “Oh!” The Woman said. “I forgot to take him out.”

  Him? Him? Now I was just a him?

  “Would you like to come with?” she offered New Man.

  Hey, hold on here. We’re consulting New Man about what he wants? What about what I want?

  As The Woman got up and set her now-empty glass on the counter by the sink, New Man glanced warily my way. I, in turn, gave him good cause for that wariness by glaring back at him as I barked violently.

  “Easy, Gatz,” The Woman said. “We’re going out.”

  “I, uh, I think I’ll stay here,” New Man said.

  “No problem.” The Woman shrugged. “We’ll be back in a few minutes. Let me just grab my coat, Gatz.”

  As she exited the room, I backed toward the door, keeping my eyes on New Man all the while.

  That’s right, pal. You better stay there.

  He tried to break eye contact from my steely gaze, but I held firm.

  When I heard The Woman call, “I’m ready now, Gatz!” from the general direction of the front door, I at last turned tail and trotted after her.

  Once we were outside, a light drizzle falling upon us, I sulked as I walked beside her, barking loudly at the occasional passing truck. Damn semis. Usually so much more sensitive to my every mood—which, I have to admit, is usually positive and upbeat—for once, she seemed completely oblivious.

  “Oh, he seems so nice!” she said. “What do you think? Doesn’t he seem nice?”

  He’s only “nice” if you like try-hards. He doesn’t seem very nice to me.

  “And smart. He’s so smart!”

  The Man’s smarter. I’m almost sure of it.

  “And he takes editorial direction so well!”

  Well, I had to grudgingly admit, that part was true enough. When it came to editorial direction, The Man sucked. He fought back on everything. Even if the issue was as seemingly minor as a comma versus a semicolon, if he was forced to concede the battle, he’d be depressed for days afterward. I once heard The Editor tell The Man that if he weren’t so brilliant, he’d tell him to take his Oxford comma and fuck off. In my experience, and in this one regard, most writers sucked. And yet I’d heard New Man accept all her suggestions with a calm equanimity; an eagerness, even.

  “And he’s, well, he’s handsome, so handsome . . .”

  Yeah, I guess. If you like that kinda thing.

  “Not that that’s the most important thing in the world.”

  It absolutely is not.

  “But I can’t get involved with one of my authors.”

  Of course you can’t. That’d be ludicrous.

  “Even though at least one of my colleagues says it wouldn’t be unethical, because it’s impossible for an editor to take advantage of an author of his stature.”

  Damn Brunette.

  Normally, I prefer not to swear very much, even if it’s just the word damn. I figure you can always come up with more original wording. But on that night, I was so worked up, the situation had me doing it on the regular.

  “But it would still be unethical, because while it wouldn’t be an abuse of power, it would be a conflict of interest. So I just can’t.”

  Phew.

  She sighed a heavy sigh, clearly disappointed.

  “Aren’t you gonna go, buddy?”

  Oops, guess I didn’t need to go for a walk after all.

  Returning to the apartment a few minutes later, it immediately became apparent that, in the short time we’d been gone, New Man had taken it upon himself to tidy up. The dishes had been brought from the dining area into the kitchen, and we found him washing the last of them, a towel jauntily tossed over one shoulder.

  What a try-hard. Also? I hate jaunty. Unless I’m the one doing it.

  On the plus side, the music had been turned off and the lights were now fully on. The mood had been broken.

  Thank the Universe.

  Seeing her come in, New Man wiped his hands on the towel.

  “I had a really great time tonight,” he said.

  How original. And she thought this guy was so smart?

  “I did too,” The Woman said. “The work went very well,” she added stiffly.

  “You’re every bit as wonderful an editor as I thought you’d be when I met you at the London Book Fair.”

  I couldn’t deny what I was seeing. Clearly, she was pleased with his words.

  “Thank you. It’s easy with a writer l
ike you.”

  Words, schmords, I tried to dismiss in my mind. Any idiot, any schmo can string together a few pleasing words.

  Dismissive as I sought to be, I was increasingly concerned, filled with the hopelessness, however trite the metaphor, of watching a train crash.

  “The renovations on the office should be done next week,” The Woman said, “so we should start meeting there.”

  “To work on the book,” New Man said, somehow sounding disappointed.

  “To work on the book,” she said firmly.

  Like a moment of zen or that one time I tried doggy yoga, I felt my whole being relax.

  Yes. Smarter heads were prevailing here.

  No matter what the contents of their words, though, I sensed a mutual feeling on both sides. And if I had to put a word to it, that word would be . . . longing.

  Unlike with The Man and his quest for meaningless affairs, New Man—even if, so far, it had all been just “business”—seemed like a genuine threat to my ultimate goal: getting The Man and The Woman back together.

  “Well,” New Man said, visibly perking up a bit, “I’m just grateful to have you as my editor. I love working with you.”

  “And I feel the same,” she said.

  I could tell she meant it. There’s probably little more gratifying for an editor than a writer who takes direction well, so of course she’d like his company.

  “Maybe,” New Man said, then hesitated.

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe,” he tried again, obviously nervous, “maybe when editing is over, I could take you out for coffee . . .”

  “Maybe you could,” The Woman said, cautiously, before adding a firm: “But only after editing the book is completely finished.”

  “Then here’s to quick editing,” New Man said.

  Once New Man was safely on the other side of the front door, I slumped to the floor in post-anxiety exhaustion. Gosh, this was depressing.

  I felt a familiar tug on my bladder.

  Oh great. Now I really did have to go for a walk.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next afternoon . . .

  Doors! Doors! Too many f-ing doors!