Perhaps Bedford and Roy need to meet each other, as the two animals of the house.
You are so adorable. Cats and dogs don’t so much enjoy meeting each other.
Patrick, would you ever go for a walk with me, do you think?
Hey, how is Lola doing?
She’s fine. They’re doing tests. Lots and lots of tests. Patrick, would you ever go for a walk with me?
When is she coming home?
Not sure. Patrick, so you never go out? Never? At all? How do you get groceries?
Marnie, where you’re from, do they not have delivery services? It’s a wonderful system! But now, sociologically interesting as this is, I really must get back to work. Toenail fungus is a serious disease, and people are waiting to hear my thoughts.
Fine. Gotta go because a stormtrooper is at the door anyway, wanting candy. #mightbesammy
Oh, these quaint customs of people and their children! Pro tip: Sammy is one thing, but if other children come to the door, you don’t have to open it for them.
You are a curmudgeon of the highest order.
The very highest. A higher curmudgeon you will not find in today’s world.
I stare at my phone for a few minutes, wondering if I dare take a chance, say what I want to say. And then I type:
Were you always such a high curmudgeon? Or is this because of what happened?
Whoa. Good talk. Off to describe toenail fungus! The fun doesn’t stop. Ask Roy.
“Look at this magnificent stormtrooper!” says Jessica. “At least I get him for Halloween!” She’s standing in my kitchen doorway, pointing to Sammy, who is all dressed in white with a white helmet. He’s carrying a pillowcase full of candy. He says, “Oh, Mom.”
“Well? If Halloween had fallen on one of those alternate weekends, then you would have been in Manhattan with your father and with her. And she, being all of about twenty-four, probably wouldn’t know that children even go trick-or-treating. And that they need costumes. Or who knows? Maybe she’s so young she still goes herself.” She shrugs, both hurting and pleased with herself.
“You’re my costume person,” he says. He looks at me and rolls his eyes, the universal signal of the exasperated child. “Also, Mom, Dad told me he isn’t even seeing her anymore.”
“Dream on!” says Jessica. “This is the relationship for the ages, to hear the way he described it to me.”
I interrupt her before she can continue with her tirade. “Come on in. I’ve made hot chocolate for you. And show me all your loot! Oh my goodness, you’ve filled that whole pillowcase to the brim!”
Jessica and I make him spill out his whole sack of goodies on the table—luckily it’s a huge surface—and for a while the three of us are laughing and picking through the candy bars and lollipops and bags of M&M’s and toys, exclaiming over everything. We drink our hot chocolate and eat candy bars and Skittles, and Bedford organizes one of his cattle drives—a “puppy blowout,” Sammy calls it—and the two of them race through the apartment, barking and laughing, until Jessica says enough is enough and they have to go back home.
Before he leaves, though, Sammy sidles up to me and whispers, “Have you looked at the book yet?”
I shake my head, and he says, “Please. You’ve got to at least look at it.”
I glance over at it, still on the bookshelf. But I don’t go open it up.
Although I can’t say for sure why not.
THIRTY-TWO
MARNIE
Once it’s the first week in November, the weather turns sharply colder, becoming at last what I’ve been expecting from New York all along. The wind whips around corners and up and down the streets. It plays with the litter, sending papers and plastic bags dancing along the sidewalks. Taking Bedford out for one of his daily walks and squirrel-chasing sessions, I watch a white plastic shopping bag do a tantalizing waltz until a bare treetop reaches out and holds it close.
I tell Jeremy in one of our daily phone calls that it’s as if a referee suddenly blew a whistle, and said, “CHANGE!” and the old summer team limped off the court, and the wild, windy fall team came dashing out, young and energetic and whirling around. It is so un-Florida-like. So un-California-like.
Winter will come after that, and it will be Christmas, and then I will leave. Less than two months from now. My family is already talking about how fun it will be when we’re all together again, Amelia’s first Christmas, the stockings, the Christmas turkey, the millions of little shiny ornaments my mother thinks it’s fun to hang everywhere.
Jeremy says it’s going to be amazing, having a big family Christmas for once, and not the tiny little twosome Christmas he and his mom usually endure. Already my mother has invited him to bring his mother over to be with my family. He’s actually been taking our two moms out for breakfast some weekend mornings, and he says it’s lovely, seeing them chatting so amiably about us. I cannot imagine.
“Us,” he says, and my nerve endings curdle with guilt when he utters that word. Then he says, “You know, maybe you should contact a real estate agent so that when the time comes to sell, everything will be in place.” He says, “I miss you so much that I’m going to have to be physically restrained from carting you off somewhere when you get off the plane.”
“Huh,” I say.
One morning I awaken because the entire building is banging and clanging, and then shuddering like the Huns have arrived and are pelting its bricks with iron bars. Noah is up, already taking a shower. The whole commotion seems to be originating from downstairs, so I grab my phone and start typing.
Patrick, are you okay?
Yes. Welcome to the heating system poltergeist. Harbinger of winter.
What does it want? Money? An animal sacrifice?
No, it’s friendly. It just has air in its pipes. Wants you to know about it. (By the way, curious that your thoughts go right to animal sacrifice. Things going okay, dog-wise?)
Why do you ask? I happen to LOVE wearing chewed-up shoes.
This is what gives dogs a bad name. And I’m not referring to the rather brilliant name of Bedford.
You think that’s a brilliant name? THANK YOU!
Oh, shucks. I think anything beyond Rover or Spot is brilliant. By the way, what does the Gentleman of the House think of your canine friend?
Um, he’s not the Gentleman of the House.
Could’ve fooled me. Could’ve fooled HIM, for that matter.
It takes me a little while to compose myself again. And then I type:
It’s complicated.
Is he planning on leaving anytime soon?
Good talk. Gotta go feed the dog.
A few days later I’m at Best Buds when an elderly man comes in. He has the pained appearance of a man who needs to ask somebody a huge question, and so I ask him if there’s anything I can do for him. He says no, looking around furtively like he’s sure I’m hiding something in the palm tree.
So I leave him to ramble with his thoughts. He drifts over to the orchids in the cooler and stands with his hands in his pockets, looking at the tight little roses, and then he moves along to gaze for a while at the feathered greenery, and then his eyes suddenly swerve over to me. I look down at the counter quickly.
He clears his throat, and I smile at him. Our eyes meet.
“I guess I’m not ready,” he says abruptly.
And, just like that, he leaves the store.
If I were a different sort of person—if I were, say, Blix—perhaps I would run to the door and call after him. Perhaps I would say, “Oh, but, sir, no one ever thinks of themselves as ready. From the look of you, you are ripe right this minute.”
But I am me, Marnie MacGraw. And so he slips away, down the street.
Two months ago today I was with her when she died.
I’m walking home from Best Buds, and it’s dark now that we’re back on Eastern Standard Time. I have to walk fast because it’s freaking cold. But this text stops me in my tracks. I lean against a mailbox and type:
I need to talk about her. Can I come down?
No. Well, maybe. Yes. OK.
That seems to cover all the possibilities. I tell you what: I’ll bring a chicken because I’m starving.
I wait to see what he’ll say, and when he doesn’t say anything, I stop at Paco’s and pick up a rotisserie chicken, some mashed potatoes, and broccoli rabe. Paco, standing behind the high counter near the front of the store, is almost giddy with happiness tonight, but he says he can’t tell me why. Not yet but soon. Still, he comes around the counter and hugs me when he gives me the bag of food.
“How many people you feeding tonight? Just you—or you and that . . . bandito?” He makes a face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.”
“Who’s the bandito? Oh, you mean Noah? Noah is Blix’s grandnephew, Paco.”
“I don’t like him.” He turns to his assistant, George, who’s squatting down stocking the shelves, and George laughs.
“Nobody like him,” George says. “Even Blix didn’t like him.”
“Are you kidding me?” Paco says. “Blix for sure didn’t like him.” Then he says, “We gotta stop this kind of talk. Marnie—she like him fine. Sorry.”
“Well, it’s not him I’m eating with anyway,” I say. “It’s Patrick.”
“Ohhh, Patrick!” they say in unison and then they exchange glances.
“What? What about Patrick?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. You go see Patrick. Here, extra potatoes. Patrick need potatoes. And here’s a bone for your doggie. Tell Patrick I got the special almond flour he wants. And the Irish butter.”
“I’ll pay for them and take them over to him. It’ll save him a trip.”
George laughs a little. “You mean, it saves me a trip.”
“Patrick no comes here,” says Paco. “We take to him.”
“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”
Patrick lets me in when I ring the bell. I notice he’s not wearing his hoodie tonight, which gives him a welcoming look, much less ominous than usual. Also, Roy runs right over to say hi—a function of the chicken I’m carrying, no doubt. Still, I feel as though they’re both happy to see me for once. The lobster incident must have been forgiven.
The place smells like something amazing is about to come out of the oven.
“Vanilla cheesecake,” he tells me. “My old standard.”
I give him the almond flour and the butter, and he looks like a kid at Christmas. “This butter is the best! Let me pay you for these,” he says, but I wave him off and take everything into the kitchen.
Then, as happens sometimes, I suddenly remember that I am a dog owner. And that you have to let dogs out. Often. I’ve learned this the hard way. Also, he needs company. He gets lonely.
I look at Patrick apologetically. “I need to go take Bedford for a little walk, and then I’ll come right back. You can start eating if you want. I know it’s late.”
“No, no. I’ll wait for you.”
“Well, thanks. I’ll hurry!”
Bedford is frantically happy to see me, way happier than anything I can imagine Roy doing, even at his best. I take him out of the crate and he races to the front door, his ears flying. So I clip the leash onto his collar, and we go sailing down the front steps—the stoop—and he tears over to the little patch of dirt near the gingko tree and lets loose a long stream of pee. Then he has about fifty things that require sniffing and some items he has to stop and chew, like a candy wrapper and a piece of somebody’s shoe. I take these things away from him and he briefly considers whether we know each other well enough for me to take those kinds of liberties. But I win because I know the secret phrase, and I’m not afraid to use it: “Do you want to EAT? Do you want to go inside and EAT? Eat??”
And boy, does he ever! We go racing up the stairs and back into the house, and I feed him in the kitchen. Some dry kibble mixed with a little meaty wet food that smells awful. I clock his eating time at thirty-six seconds, and then I tell him the bad news.
“You have to go back in the crate, my dear friend.”
He lies down with his head on his paws and makes his eyes look round and innocent.
“I know. But it’s only for a little while. It’s because Patrick is worried you would eat his cat.”
He wags his tail. Which is probably a yes.
When I get back downstairs, Patrick has put food on our plates, and we sit down at his table, which I notice he has cleared of papers and books. He’s using a nice yellow tablecloth, and there is even music coming from one of the computer monitors. Bach fugues. Very tinkly pianos. He’s poured us glasses of wine, and made an incredible salad with walnuts and seeds and butter lettuce.
I unfold my napkin in my lap and look across at him.
“You’ve gone to some trouble,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Well, it’s the least I can do for a fellow trooper.” He smiles and lifts his glass in a toast. “To Blix, away from us for two long months now.”
I look closely at him, but he’s holding his emotions in check. Probably for my sake.
“To Blix! Who is still watching over us,” I say.
“And also I have some news for you. I’m moving. I wanted to tell you in person.”
“You’re moving!” I put my fork down.
“You sound shocked.”
“Well, I guess I am shocked. I never meant to disrupt your life! And also—I haven’t even talked to a real estate agent yet, so who knows if this place is even going to sell? And when I go back, I was thinking I could rent out Blix’s place, and you and Jessica could stay on. Also, even if it did sell, you could probably negotiate staying—”
“No,” he says. “Thank you but no.”
“May I ask—without you getting mad at me—what you’re going to do?”
“Yes. I’m going to my sister’s in Wyoming.”
“Wyoming?!”
“Wyoming. The wilderness. My sister lives in a town with a population of twenty-eight. That’s what it says on the sign year after year. So obviously when somebody dies, somebody else in town has to step up and reproduce. It’s the law of the land.”
“Can you really be happy there? I mean, with no people around?”
He laughs. “Have you noticed that I don’t have a lot of people around already? Frankly, I’m worried that twenty-eight people are going to be too much for me. I’m counting on my sister to fend off the hordes.”
“Patrick.”
“Marnie.”
“Can you tell me . . . what happened to you? How . . . ?”
He looks surprised. He refills our glasses, which is really just to give him an excuse not to look at me, I think, because we both have plenty left. And then he says, slowly, “Ah, actually, no. I can’t.”
“Patrick, I—”
“No. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s talk about you. We covered my life at your last visit.” He looks up and smiles. His eyes are hard to read, maybe because of the scars that pull that right eye so taut, but I can see that he’s making an effort to look happy. God knows he probably wishes he could shift this back to a nice, light, polite conversation. “So here’s what I know about you. Let’s see. You were married to Noah for about two weeks, you met Blix at his family’s party, she went bonkers over you and decided to leave you her house. You, however, don’t really want her house. And so you’re moving back to Florida, but you feel guilty. Unnecessarily guilty, I should add.”
“Yes. Those are my facts.”
“And, if I may ask, what are you doing in Florida that is so much more compelling than Brooklyn, New York? Which you seem to have taken to, I might add.”
“Well.” I feel my mouth getting dry. “It’s kind of hard to explain. But at the time I inherited this house, I had actually only just settled in Florida, and I had—well, if you want to know the real truth, I have this sort of fiancé there.”
“What?” He raises his eyebrows, as best he can. He’s trying not to laugh. “What, may I ask, is a sort of fiancé? Excuse m
e, but given the evidence around here, I’ve been under the, um, impression that you and Noah were back together and rekindling your . . .”
“No. We’re not. I mean, not really.”
“You are certainly an interesting one, aren’t you?” he says. He raises his glass and clinks it against mine. “To an interesting life!” I know then, by the look on his face, that he knows we sleep together. My bedroom is just above his main room. The sound travels downward, I’m sure. I feel my face grow warm.
“It’s not—” I say, and at the same time, he says, “No, really. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I know that life is complicated, believe me. These things—really, don’t be embarrassed.”
We go back to eating. I pick up my fork and spear a piece of chicken. My silverware clinks together. The Bach fugue has stopped for a moment, and in the huge silence that yawns before us, there is only the sound of me trying to rip some meat apart. I feel him looking at me.
At last I put down both the knife and the fork and square my shoulders.
“Okay, yes. God, this is awful to have to say out loud, but you’re right. Everything you’re thinking is right! I am cheating on someone, and he’s probably the nicest guy in the whole world, and I never thought I would do anything like that! I’m actually horrible and insensitive and incompetent at life, and oh my God, I’m having sex with my ex, who I don’t even love. And I don’t even mean to be doing it! It’s all a big mistake. And I don’t even know if that makes it worse or better, having sex with somebody by default.”
I am slightly aware that he says under his breath, “Really, I wasn’t . . . you don’t have to . . .”
But I am in this now, so I plow on, MacGraw-style.
“And my fiancé—he’s so trusting and nice, and yet—and yet, Patrick, can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone? He is so god-awful boring that sometimes it takes all of my willpower not to throw my phone into the nearest gutter just so I don’t have to hear him talking to me anymore. There.”
I stop, because Patrick is looking at me, and it looks, shockingly, like he’s suppressing a smile.
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