Joint Custody

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Here’s something almost no one else but me knows: The Man’s got a great voice. Dude can sing.

  After that, I went to my toy basket and fished out the dance skirt, used solely for this purpose. The Man helped me get it on over my hips, and then he hoisted me up in the air over his head. I could almost hear the crowd cheering us on when I imagined them swooning as we reenacted “The Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing.

  Hey, no one puts Gatz in the corner.

  Finally, The Man got fully dressed, took out two pairs of dark sunglasses—one for him and one for me—and we exited the apartment, hitting the sidewalk to “Stayin’ Alive” from Saturday Night Fever, that imagined guitar lick strutting us into the night.

  We may have had no time to talk as we passed the trees, fully in leaf now that spring had finally sprung, but that didn’t stop the ladies from checking us out as we made our way to our watering hole.

  Once inside, we had to take our sunglasses off, because otherwise we’d look stupid.

  Flash forward to the next morning. We’d just seen The Lady From Last Night off, and while I was happy enough for The Man to have some companionship, so long as it remained meaningless—if only I could be as successful in telepathically sending the “Keep It Meaningless” mantra to The Woman; if she had a string of meaningless affairs like The Man was having, it’d have been fine with me—I was happiest to have him back to myself.

  The Man headed for the couch, and I trotted along behind him, still feeling happy. It was therefore not until he sank into the couch and let out a heavy sigh that I noticed the change in his demeanor.

  “I miss her,” The Man said.

  Of course, I knew he wasn’t referring to the lady who’d just left. He was talking about The Woman.

  I hopped up on the couch, slumping down beside him, instantly deflated.

  Yeah. I miss her too.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Eight weeks later . . .

  New Man and The Woman sat in the front seat of his convertible, driving out of the city and onto the highway, while I chilled out in the back seat, a travel scarf blowing over one shoulder, feeling the bliss of the wind in my fur from the top being down.

  Where were we going? you may well ask.

  The Hamptons.

  We were going to the Hamptons.

  And I was OK with this, because it was, as The Woman had explained to me, a working weekend.

  Me, I’d assumed we were done with New Man. I hadn’t seen him since he’d come to Book Club so many weeks ago; and good riddance, said I. But I’d heard her talking on the phone with her folks, saying she didn’t think she could make it this year, something about needing to do some work with one of her authors, and while I knew she wasn’t his editor anymore, maybe it was like The Redhead had suggested— that, sometimes, they’d still want to discuss craft stuff? After all, The Blonde may have been on the same level as The Woman, but we all knew she wasn’t as incisive of an editor, so maybe New Man just wanted her informal input? Anyway, from what I gathered, her family said she should just bring the author in question along, so there we were.

  And I was especially OK with this because I just love the beach. I may be a city dog at heart—plus, that’s where The Man is—but there’s just something about the feel of wet sand squishing between my paws, and the sunsets over the water are spectacular. In the city, sunset is simply the orange ball disappearing behind a building. But at the beach? So many colors! And if you take the time to watch the whole show, it’s just so dramatic.

  What can I say? I have an artist’s soul.

  Specifically, we were going to The Woman’s family mansion, which came into view once we’d traversed a long, narrow, and bumpy dirt road. New Man may’ve been worried about what it might do to his transmission. Me, I was just enjoying the amusement-park feel of it all.

  As we pulled up to the huge lawn of the sprawling white estate, some of The Woman’s family spilled out of the front door, while others came at us from around the sides of the building, circling the vehicle before we’d even fully stopped.

  Her mother, her father. Her two brothers—who I think of as Tall and Short—and their wives and children. Whether in bathing suits, khakis, or Bermuda shorts, they looked like one giant Gap ad, all excited for the Fourth of July weekend ahead, but even more excited for . . .

  “GATZ!” the family greeted me collectively.

  It being a convertible, it was easy for me to hop over the door and greet them just as eagerly in return, accepting their adoration with licks as they gathered around me. There’s nothing like a reunion of family. At moments like these, happy as I was, I felt sorry for The Man. When it came to family, the poor guy didn’t know what he was missing. And that’s not just a figure of speech. Having been brought up in the family he had, he just really didn’t know.

  While me and the fam were playing Old Home Week, I suppose New Man and The Woman unloaded the car, because now they appeared before us, New Man carrying all the bags except for The Woman’s beach carryall.

  “Welcome, welcome!” The Woman’s Father said.

  “It is so lovely of you to join us for the holiday weekend!” The Woman’s Mother said, clasping her hands together.

  “It was so lovely of you to allow me to stay at your home,” New Man said, flashing a grateful smile.

  I saw it immediately: instantly, they were all charmed by him.

  But I couldn’t hate, not in the moment. I was too busy accepting all the love as the little kids squealed, “Gatz!” anew each time it was one of their turns to pet me.

  New Man gestured to the bags in his hands. “If someone could show me where to take these . . . ?”

  Tall volunteered, leading him away.

  They were barely out of earshot, when The Woman’s Mother turned to her.

  “He’s so much friendlier than the last one,” she said appreciatively, squinching up her shoulders as she let out a girlish giggle.

  “‘The last one’ wasn’t just some passing thing, Mother. We were together for three years.”

  You go, girl. You tell her, girlfriend.

  “Still,” The Woman’s Mother said.

  “It’s a working weekend,” The Woman said. “Nothing more.”

  The Woman headed for the house as her mother turned her attention to me, waiting happily at her feet.

  “What do you think, Gatz? I know I can always trust you for the real poop.”

  I think it’s like The Woman just said: “Nothing more.” And with me around, that’s the way it’s going to stay.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Same day . . .

  Yes, I was living the life of Riley here.

  Lounging on a stylish beach chair beside the gorgeous infinity pool, the surrounding area covered by The Woman’s even more gorgeous, model-beautiful family members who were frolicking in and around the pool and on the lawn—The Woman had promised we’d hit the beach later—I had my Wayfarers on to protect my eyes from the damaging UVA rays.

  Peace. I was totally at peace.

  At the end of the beach chair beside mine, The Woman and New Man were giggling over something. The Woman looked as stunning as you’d imagine in her bikini, which managed to be both tasteful and incredibly alluring. But New Man? It was practically obscene how good he looked in his swim trunks.

  The Woman held a bottle of sunscreen out to New Man.

  “Would you mind?” she said. “I can’t reach.”

  “No problem at all,” he said.

  No problem at all, I might’ve mimicked, in a mocking singsong voice, but the weather was too nice for pettiness. I got out of the city so rarely. I just wanted to enjoy my brief break from all the hustle-bustle madness while it lasted.

  And so it was that I watched, unconcerned, as New Man slowly massaged sunscreen onto The Woman’s back, gently eas
ing his fingers beneath her straps and all along the edges of the top and bottom of her suit in order to ensure that not a single square inch of her insanely soft skin got burned.

  When you think it about it, it was very thoughtful and considerate of him, being that thorough about it. And while some others, looking at them there, wouldn’t describe what they were seeing as “a working weekend,” I knew exactly what I was seeing.

  You see, growing up with a writer like I did, I’m privy to a lot of insider info that the average layman or laydog might not have. For example, something I’ve heard a lot in my day is that even when a writer isn’t writing, they’re always writing. Life is writing. Life is learning and creating and building material. Like the late, great William Goldman said in The Color of Light, the greatest novel about the writing life ever written, “It’s all material.”

  And, I supposed as I sat there, the same must be true about editing as well. New Man and The Woman might not look to the untrained eye like they were editing, but the Gatzer knew: they were hard at work, dedicated to their livelihoods.

  Not long afterward, New Man and The Woman were swimming in the pool, splashing each other and generally cavorting. I was too busy sunbathing to pay them much mind, but then I caught sight of Tall. His wife was trying to tell him something, but his eyes, narrowing slightly, were glued to New Man and The Woman.

  I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking it too.

  It looked like New Man and The Woman were still busy editing. They should really give that work thing a rest.

  Enjoy yourselves, kids! It’s a holiday!

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That evening . . .

  Everyone was gathered around an incredibly long table set up in the yard. The table looked rustic, but I’d bet anything it cost a mint. Overhead, colored lanterns hung, and tiki torches lined the perimeter. The Woman’s Mother and The Woman’s Father were at either end of the table, with everyone else lining the sides. I was a few feet away munching on the burger The Woman’s Mother had set out for me on a Lenox plate.

  This, however, was not just any burger. It was the very best filet mignon, the meat ground up so fine it practically melted the instant it touched my tongue.

  I tell you, these people really knew how to throw a barbecue.

  There was plenty of good-natured sibling banter going on between The Woman and her brothers, and she’d just finished telling them all about the new novel New Man had written. As it turned out, they all knew who he was. They were all fans.

  Yeah, I thought, you just keep writing those megaselling New York Times bestsellers, pal. The Man is a real writer. He’s literary.

  What can I say? If it’s in service of The Man, I’m willing to put on my snob hat.

  “It’s exactly what the market is looking for right now,” The Woman said. “It’s refreshing. It’s different. Everyone at the publishing company feels really good about it.”

  The Woman and New Man shared a look, which I caught, as did Tall. The look on Tall’s face was similar to the one he’d had when we’d all been poolside earlier in the day and then some. It was slightly skeptical but somehow without malice and very brotherly.

  Short was too caught up in his burger to notice anything. In my experience, Short is all about the food.

  “This is delicious,” New Man said. “Did you make all this food?” he asked her parents.

  “It would’ve taken them days,” The Woman said.

  “Not to mention,” Short added, “if our parents had cooked, everything would be charred.”

  The Woman’s parents laughed good-naturedly, and New Man laughed more heartily than the mildly amusing line warranted. Still, he was clearly enjoying all of their company as much as they were enjoying his. It was practically a mutual admiration society, with the possible exception of Tall.

  New Man went to take a bite of his burger, but then his eyes met mine and he stopped. It occurred to me then that I must have been glaring at him from the sidelines. Despite my determination to have a carefree weekend, it was hard to completely let my guard down. There was too much at stake.

  It should’ve given me satisfaction to see how unsettled I made him, so much so that he lowered his burger to his plate, bite untaken. And yet it didn’t. I didn’t want to be this petty dog. I wanted to be Gatz, Friend to All Beings.

  Turning my attention back to the delicious food still on my plate, I resolved to do better, be better.

  At least for the weekend.

  “How come you’re not home for the weekend?” Tall asked New Man. “Why aren’t you with your own family?”

  “My family lives in the Midwest,” New Man said. “A bit hard to pop over for the weekend. I do make it home for the major holidays, though, and family events, and of course I have them here too.”

  “But not this weekend, huh?” Tall said. “That must be some heavy-duty work you two were doing today, to keep you away from your family.”

  “Um, yes,” New Man said. “There were just some things about the book that we still, uh, needed to discuss.”

  “Riiiiiight,” Tall said. “But why live in New York at all? It must be hard to be so far from your family.”

  Was it just me, or did Tall not completely trust New Man?

  “I know my sister has authors all over the country,” Tall went on.

  “It is hard,” New Man said, “sometimes. And I know I could write in any state, but . . . I don’t know. Something about the city always felt right to me. I could never quite put my finger on it.”

  I looked at The Woman. I could’ve sworn there were stars in her eyes, but I was sure it was just the reflection of the hanging lanterns. Although when I looked around at the others, no one else’s eyes looked like that, except for New Man’s.

  “That’s cool,” Tall said, “I guess. So, you married?”

  The Woman almost never does anything that’s not one hundred percent elegant, but how else to describe red wine flying out of a person’s mouth? Her eyes shifted to Tall, digging into him.

  “Hey,” she said threateningly.

  “What?” Tall said, all defensive innocence.

  “Not cool,” Short said, mid–burger bite, mouth already full of food.

  And for once, I sensed he wasn’t commenting on his food.

  “What?” Tall said. “What’s wrong with asking if the guy is married? Mom and Dad are married. You and I are married—”

  “Not to each other, thank the Universe,” Short cut in.

  “And most people this guy’s age”—Tall ignored Short’s weird interjection, pointing a fork with purple potato salad on the end of it at New Man—“are married. So I don’t see anything wrong with asking—”

  “He’s an author with a book coming out from my publishing company,” The Woman said. “It’s unprofessional to ask that.”

  “Hey, you brought him to our family’s Fourth of July Weekend bash. What am I supposed to do, refrain from discussing everything but business?” Not waiting a beat, he turned once more to New Man. “So, are you married?”

  My burger bites slowed, and I watched New Man stiffen in his chair.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not.”

  “Ever been?” Tall pressed.

  “Come on—” Short started.

  “Still not asking strange questions here,” Tall insisted.

  “No,” New Man said, “I haven’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Dude!” from The Woman.

  “What!” Tall barked back at her.

  “You gotta admit,” Short said, “that’s pretty invasive.”

  And I gotta admit that if I was looking for someone chill and fun to hang with while knocking back some great filet, it’d be Short by a country mile. But if I ever needed someone to defend my honor in a bar fight, it’d be Tall all the way.<
br />
  “Do you really want to be that guy?” The Woman asked Tall.

  “I’m not being any guy. All I’m doing is asking a simple question—”

  “A simple invasive question,” Short corrected.

  “It’s not an invasive question. Hey, Gatz!”

  I put my head up, alert.

  “Do you think it’s an invasive question?” Tall asked me.

  I love when they loop me in.

  “I think it’s an invasive question,” Short said.

  “Is your name Gatz?” Tall asked.

  “I only wish it was. It’s such a cool—”

  “I hadn’t found the right person before,” New Man said, slicing straight through the banter.

  Thanks a lot, pal. I was just about to give my answer.

  But no one was looking at me anymore. The group had all turned to New Man.

  “Say that again?” Tall said.

  “I’m not married,” New Man stated steadily, “nor have I ever been, because I never found the right person before. I don’t know, I . . . I believe in that.”

  He looked so vulnerable then and somehow sweet too. Certainly, everyone at the table looked touched by his words, and even I had to lower my eyes in acknowledgment of the sweetness of it all. It sounded like New Man believed not in settling for good enough. Rather, he believed in True Love.

  As did I.

  “That’s really sweet,” Tall said, playing foreman of the jury.

  New Man nodded, clearly embarrassed.

  “Never mind all that . . . emotional stuff,” Short said, leaning forward. “What I want to know is: Tell me about the perks! An author who does as well as you do, there have to be some mighty fine perks.”

  Leave it to Short to forsake the heart of the matter to get at the heart of the matter.

  New Man looked a bit uncomfortable at this line of questioning— perhaps he was one of those people who don’t like talking money, politics, or religion with people he just met? Not that I could blame him. Still, it did make me wonder: Just how rich was this guy? I mean, The Man was well respected for his work. We lived OK. Could New Man really be living that much better? Somehow, I doubted it. They were both writers, after all; they both put on their pants one leg at a time, so how much difference could there be? And yet, people seemed to always be asking him about it.