“My apartment is a lot more spacious than yours.”
I nodded and waited her out.
“Five cats and two dogs,” she admitted. “And briefly a snake. But to be perfectly honest, snakes give me the creeps, although please don’t tell anyone. It can’t be good for business.”
“And how about Lucy?”
Lucy was the office receptionist. She was around thirty-five years old, maybe five foot two, and weighed a good three hundred pounds. She lived with another woman—Alana, who was almost six feet tall and weighed at most one-twenty. They’d been a couple since Lucy had moved to New York and owned at least four animals, all of which I was pretty sure had come from the abandoned list at Marjorie’s practice.
“Okay,” Marjorie said. “Lucy has taken her fair share, too—including the pig, by the way. But it’s a slippery slope. Should you be doing this without discussing it with Anna?”
“Anna? Anna’s gonna love this little guy.”
“Let me ask you something, Heller. How long have you been married?”
“Over a year now. Sixteen months.”
“How come you don’t have any animals?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re a vet. You studied to be a vet for three years, and you probably wanted to be a vet for ten years before that. So why don’t you have any cute little pets running all over the place?”
“’Cause we wanted to wait until we got settled somewhere.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?” I demanded. “That’s a totally legit reason. I’m telling you, Anna will want this little guy as much as I do.”
She looked at me, unconvinced, but I didn’t say anything more. I just kept waiting until finally she handed the tiny creature over. Marjorie seemed both grumpy and satisfied that I’d won the argument. I didn’t rub it in; instead I simply nodded a thank-you and then gave my full attention to the kitten.
“It’s not a hard commute,” I told him. “And it’ll be a lot easier when you learn how to go up and down the stairs.”
He meowed at me with complete understanding.
“See,” I said to Marjorie. “He and Anna are going to have a lot of interesting conversations.”
When our last patient left, I took the kitten upstairs and presented him to Anna. She cooed appropriately and then said, “Um … there’s something I should probably tell you.”
“Feel free,” I said. “Although I think the last time you said that to me, I found out you were a totally different nationality than I thought you were.”
“This is almost as big.” She hesitated and literally took a gulp. “I’m allergic to cats.”
A long silence. Then I managed to go, “Uh-huh.” Another silence, not quite as long. Then: “You do know I’m a vet, right?”
“I just never had the heart to tell you. I’m okay as long as I don’t touch them or anything.”
“Okay. You realize you’re holding him, which qualifies as total touching.”
“I know. And I’m about to start sneezing my head off.”
She called it perfectly: The sneezing began on cue. For such an otherwise delicate person, Anna delivered a string of rapid-fire sneezes that were startlingly loud. She sounded the way I imagined Curly of the Three Stooges would sound if he went on a major sneezing jag. I’d never seen this particular quirk of hers, and I could tell by the flash of her eyes that it would not be wise to comment on it. She sneezed seven humongous sneezes. (Later, when we were able to have a rational conversation about this physical anomaly, she told me that she always sneezed seven times; never six, never eight. Once it stopped, she was free to live life the way it should be lived until it was time to sneeze again.) Then she produced a second and third set of seven sneezes—twenty-one sneezes in all.
When the terrifying noise abated, I waited a few moments just to make sure there wasn’t going to be a fourth round. Then I said, hesitantly: “What about dogs?”
“Not quite so bad. But not good.”
“Is that why you make me wash my hands so often?”
She nodded.
“And do the laundry three times a day?”
“That’s an exaggeration, and you know it. But yes.”
“So all that talk about waiting to get a dog until we were settled…”
“Avoidance.”
“How long did you think you could avoid this?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Until a safe fell out of a window and landed on my head. I just couldn’t tell you.” She looked miserable, and not just because the skin around her eyes was turning red and puffy.
“So … you didn’t think this was worth mentioning? I mean, this is kind of like me being allergic to furniture. That would not be good for your job.”
“I know. I know. “
“I always thought we’d have a whole bunch of cats and dogs. That was my idea of what our family would be like. You, me, a few cats, a puppy or two, a Vietnamese pig.”
“A Vietnamese pig?”
“That probably won’t happen. I’m just saying.”
Anna was silent for quite a while. Finally, she said, “I can take shots.”
“Shots?”
“I checked it out. I talked to Marjorie. I can go to a doctor and get allergy shots once or twice a week.”
“That seems kind of crazy.”
“No, it doesn’t. I can see it on your face. You already love this little guy. I’m not gonna deprive you of that just because my sneezing can practically wake the dead if he gets too close to me.”
She was right. I’d already fallen for the little orange-and-white fur ball. It’s difficult for me to explain the reaction I have to animals—my heart just goes out to them. I’ve played basketball with a team of guys, sweated and struggled and fought to win with them, but afterward, once the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat has faded, I have no idea what any of them were thinking. Before I met Anna, I’d made love to women and, afterward, holding them in my arms, I didn’t have a clue about what they were feeling or what they wanted.
In truth, most humans were complete ciphers to me. I knew they had emotions, knew there was an awful lot of complexity under the benign layer of skin, but I didn’t have any idea what those emotions were or how to tap into their complexity. But I could pet the head of a horse, look into its eyes, and absolutely understand what he wanted, what was pulsing through that insanely strong body. I could tell what different meows meant; I was able to distinguish between “I’m hungry” and “I want to go out” and “I want to be petted” and “I just want to meow and pretend I want to jump on the bed but really I’m staying put.” I knew when a dog wanted to wrestle or run or bite or lick. And I loved that connection to animals. They touched me deeply; I appreciated their independence and willingly accepted their needs. They brought me comfort, something very few people did until I met Anna. And now here was Anna, dropping an atomic bomb on my world. I’d already been grinning at the thought of the little orange cat sleeping on me, of feeling his small body heave up and down to the rhythm of his breathing. In my imagination, I could already feel his weight on my chest, and the idea that I wouldn’t ever be able to feel that for real was beyond my comprehension.
“Do you like ’em?” I asked Anna.
“What?”
“Animals. Cats, dogs, chickens, you know. All of ’em. We never even discussed it. I just assumed. I mean—”
“I love them. And I always wanted to have them. Well, maybe not chickens or a Vietnamese pig. But cats and dogs, yeah.” She laughed. “I want a whole nursery full.”
“So,” I said, “Marjorie knows about this?”
“I figured she’d know what to do. I knew you’d show up with one of these guys”—she nodded toward the kitten, who was doing his best to get under the refrigerator in our Pullman kitchen—“sooner or later.”
“You’d really take shots?”
She nodded, simultaneously making a “what choice do I have?” face. Then she said,
“Do you think I don’t know?”
“Know what?” I said.
“Know all the things you were thinking while you were standing there panicking about not keeping our new cat.”
I stepped forward and kissed her. “No,” I said. “I think you know everything about me.”
She went quiet for a moment and then asked, “How’d I get to be the lucky one?”
“Lucky how?”
“You’re so much better with animals than you are with people. How come I made the grade?”
When I didn’t answer, she said, “Seriously.”
I nodded. “I don’t know if I’d call it lucky. But … I trust you.”
“I know you do. So tell me.”
“I just did. That’s my real answer. I don’t trust people. Not all that much. I trust animals. And you.”
“And Phil. And now Marjorie.”
“Yes,” I said. “Phil and now Marjorie. I also kind of trust the guy who runs the laundromat on West Fourth. He told me I gave him an extra five bucks by mistake, and he gave it back to me.”
“Wow,” Anna said. “You’re making progress.” Then she said, “Oh, and just so you know, I’m not allergic to kids. I mean, in case you’re wondering.”
I stepped back—a giant step. I couldn’t help myself.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I just wanted to see your reaction. It was a good one, by the way. A little subtle but effective.”
“I thought you didn’t want kids.”
“I said, ‘Don’t worry.’ Why do you think we’re such a good pair? I don’t trust people any more than you do. I’m just more civil about it than you are.”
I nodded. Anna looked down at the kitten.
“What are we gonna name him?” she asked.
“Rocky,” I said.
“I thought you hated those movies.”
“Not Stallone Rocky. Jimmy Cagney Rocky.”
She looked me blankly.
“Oh my god,” I said. “I can’t believe you don’t know this. Angels with Dirty Faces. Cagney plays Rocky Sullivan. He’s a total gangster—doesn’t give a shit about anything, has zero fear. The Bowery Boys completely idolize him. But he goes to prison and is gonna get the electric chair. Pat O’Brien convinces him to pretend to be terrified so kids everywhere will spit on his memory. So even though we know he’s not afraid of dying, he acts like a coward to make sure kids don’t idolize a guy like him. The ultimate act of heroism. And the big headline in the paper is ‘Rocky Dies Yellow.’ That’s my fantasy for my obit. I want the Times to say, ‘Bob Dies Yellow.’”
She peered at me as if I’d lost my marbles. But she didn’t seem to mind. I could also see her registering this new bit of information about me, tucking it away for future use. Then she turned her gaze on Rocky. The look in her eyes was affectionate but not as affectionate as when she looked at me.
“He does have that tough-guy, trench-coat kind of look,” she said.
“So you’re really okay with this?”
“Look at him,” she said.
Rocky was now up on our one kitchen counter, trying his best to stick his nose into a package of Pepperidge Farm double chocolate cookies. I picked him up with one hand, held him against my neck and collarbone. When he meowed, a tiny squeak of a meow, and then started purring, Anna reached over and put her hand on his head.
“How could I resist?” she said.
Then she sneezed fourteen times.
It turned out she couldn’t resist. Not Rocky, and not Scully (an abandoned black cockapoo; Anna was an X-Files fanatic). Not Margo (a lovely little alley cat who’d been cruelly burned by her previous owner and left in a bike basket a block from the clinic; we named her for the lead singer in the Cowboy Junkies), and not Larry (named for Larry Bird because even though I was a Knicks fanatic I loved Larry Bird), an insanely talkative green-and-pink parrot who’d been picked up on a street near the Meatpacking District and liked to greet visitors by saying, “Hello, cocksucker.” And definitely not Waverly (a truly dumb but extraordinarily enthusiastic Irish setter who lived, I believe, solely for the pleasure of licking Anna’s face; it was Anna who insisted on taking Waverly in and naming her after her favorite Village street). That was our family, and it was a very happy one.
* * *
One evening, Anna and I were lying in bed, comfortably leaning against each other. We had just finished making love; we weren’t newlyweds any longer, but it was still impossible to imagine taking each other for granted physically. We’d been living in our small apartment for about three years, and life was good: I loved my work, the clinic was thriving, and Anna, in between allergy shots, was beginning to develop a reputation as a gifted designer. Our animals were in various stages of repose on or near the bed except for Margo, who was chasing after something, hopefully not a roach, in the other room. Anna picked up a book; I’m pretty sure it was a Jane Smiley novel. I turned on a Law & Order rerun.
At some point before the conclusion of that episode’s trial, Anna put her book down and said—no big deal, not whispering, not overly dramatic—“I’m starting to think about kids. I mean real ones. The two-legged kind.”
I was a little surprised at how unshaken I was at this pronouncement.
“And what are you thinking?” I asked.
“I’m thinking about whether or not I’d be as terrible a parent as my parents were.”
“No,” I said. “You’d be a perfect mother.”
“You’re not a good judge.”
“Why not?”
“You think I’d be a perfect anything.”
“Well, you pretty much would be.”
“That’s what I mean. You’re a little biased.”
“So, what do we do? Go to Judge Judy and see what she thinks? My bias is valid here, unless you’re thinking of doing this without me.”
Anna ignored me. That was one of her many skills, ignoring things I said that deserved to be ignored. “Are you scared by the idea of having a kid?” she said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d be having it with you.”
The radiant look on her face: I can still see it, still feel its warmth. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me,” she said.
I shrugged and did my best to look blasé, but secretly I was thrilled to have made her so happy. “I didn’t say it to be nice. It’s just the truth.”
“Do you want a kid?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. I looked around the room, at Rocky, who was sprawled, sound asleep, on my chest, and at Margo, who was now at the foot of the bed, playing with a paper clip as if it were the most fascinating invention in the history of the world. And at Waverly, who was, of course, gently licking Anna’s cheek, and at Scully, who was on the floor, aggressively spinning in circles, trying to catch his own tail. Larry was perched on top of the TV and mercifully silent. “It might be a problem,” I finally answered. “I think we’ve run out of names.”
“And I think we have to do something,” Anna said.
I raised my eyebrows, half happy, half leering. “Try making a baby?” I asked.
“We can do that,” she said. “But actually I have something a little less fun in mind.”
* * *
From the New York Daily Examiner:
ASK DR. BOB
Dr. Robert Heller is one of New York’s leading veterinarians. He is the author of a book about taking care of pets, They Have Nothing but Their Kindness, and appears occasionally on the Today show, dispensing advice about animals. Dr. Bob takes care of cats, dogs, horses, birds, snakes, turtles, frogs, small pigs, snails, the occasional fish, and many varieties of rodents. You can e-mail him at [email protected] and ask him any question about the animal you love. His column runs every Tuesday in NYC’s most popular newspaper.
Dear Bob:
I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve lived alone for a few years, with my three dogs. I thought it would be fun to breed my little
Havanese. She might be the sweetest dog that ever lived. I did all my research, found the right breeding partner for her—a top-notch pedigree—and two weeks ago she gave birth. Well, something has definitely snapped in my sweet thing. She isn’t nurturing her puppies. At one point I found her growling at the runt—so cute, you could just eat him up!—and I was seriously concerned that she was going to kill him or do him some real damage. As for the others, she doesn’t seem to care about them at all or take any interest in them. She just wants to be left alone. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never heard of anything like this. All I know is that I’m so worried for the safety of her children that I haven’t slept since they were born. I hope you can help.
—Worried for Her New Kids
Dear Worried:
A mother who doesn’t like her kids and isn’t concerned about their welfare? And who doesn’t seem to care about what happens to them? Welcome to the real world. My only question is, Where have you been the last several thousand years? Can I help with this problem? Well … yes, but not totally. There’s nothing you can do about Mom’s indifference. I doubt she’ll actually do any physical damage—that would be extreme. But you might get the kids away from her as soon as they’re physically able to separate. Not because of the physical danger but the potential psychological damage. And make sure the puppies are around as many caring, loving people as possible within the next several weeks—that will help socialize them and minimize the damage done by the mother. Remember, too, that Mom will in all likelihood be just as sweet around you as she ever was. You’re not one of her children. And be particularly nice to the kids, especially the runt. They’re going to need it.
—Dr. Bob
* * *
CHAPTER 4
Anna had decided it was time for me to meet her family. Not only had she relaxed enough to use me as a prop while she read a novel, she had determined that we had passed whatever deadline needed to be passed and were now clearly moving forward into an unknown but permanent future together, a future that required us to wade into particularly murky waters. So something in the relationship part of her brain clicked into the “he needs to see my past for his very own self” mode.
Ask Bob: A Novel Page 9