How the Dead Dream (21 page)

They got to the car and discovered Casey still had the honeydew, a symptom of their distraction. On her lap it lay pale and heavy.

•

The next business trip ended early. On his way to the zoo for daytime reconnaissance, listening to the news on public radio, he learned the pygmy chimpanzees he meant to visit had a newborn. He could not risk disturbing the group so with reluctance he turned back toward the airport.

He had left his dog in the care of his mother’s nurse, since Angela could no longer be relied upon to remember to feed

and walk her, and when he got into his car in the parking structure at LAX—a new 600, for he had recently traded in the 560—and called his mother’s apartment on the car telephone, the nurse was out.

His mother made him nervous.

“Your dog was here. But she’s gone,” she said vaguely. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Out? Is Vera walking

her?”

“She went away. After we saw the man in the BMW.” “I’m coming there now,” said T., anxious. “Stay home.

OK? I don’t understand what you’re telling me here. Tell Vera to call me on the car phone if she gets there before I do.”

At his mother’s apartment Vera answered the door with a worried face. His dog had run away, she said.

“What do you mean? She never takes off!”

“There was a man in a car when we were on our walk. It was the three of us, your mother and the dog and me. We were walking on Abbot Kinney. This man parked his car. It was a nice car. Shiny black.”

“Leather seats,” said his mother, nodding. “Beautiful. And brand new. A death machine, of course.”

“He said he knew her,” said Vera. “He was a friend of yours.”

“He was the one from the party,” said his mother. “And I’ll tell you what, T. You should steer clear of him. I know he’s your friend but in the end that young man is headed straight for the Pancake House, no questions asked. I could tell right away.”

“What party?”

“At your office at Christmas last year. You know. The big one with the muscles, and the very small wife. She wore pink.”

“Fulton.”

“I don’t remember his name. He talked about tennis.” “Fulton. Oh no. Oh shit.”

“Your mother needed to use the bathroom,” said Vera, “so he said he would hold the leash for us while we went into a store. But then when we came out again he said she had run away.”

“This is not happening.”

Legs weak, he sat down on the arm of the sofa.

“I called the Humane Society,” said Vera. “I called all of them. We went there to give a photo of her—from the picnic, where she was biting the rubber bone?—but no one knew anything.”

He was stunned. He blinked and looked down at his knees. He had failed her. Was she dead? Suffering?

He held out his hands: they shook. He put the heels of his hands on his thighs and ground them in. He had done this to her.

“Oh, honey,” said his mother, and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s OK. She’ll come back.”

Charges could be pressed but that would get him nowhere; it would not help his dog. Fulton would not respond to anything but abasement. Fulton must be granted the power, must feel he had won. And T. would do it gladly: he did not hesitate.

He called and asked Fulton to meet him, but Fulton said no. Fulton was busy. Fulton was seeing a marriage counselor, to stave off divorce. Fulton had no time for him.

“But you had time for my dog. What did you do with her? Tell me, Fulton. Please.”

“The thing ran off, T. Not a damn thing I could do about

it.”

“I know that’s not true. She isn’t a runner. I know you’re

lying about this, Fulton.”

“Didn’t take to me. Trying to do a favor for a couple old ladies. Holding their dog while they hobbled up the steps. Thing lit off down the street like a bat outta hell. Who knew something so ugly could run so fast?”

“Tell me you didn’t hurt her. Please.”

“You fuck up my entire fucking marriage and now I’m the bad guy. Talk about blaming the victim.”

“Listen. I’m very sorry for the effect my words must have had on Janet. I had no idea she was there. You know I didn’t. Or your daughter. I deeply regret upsetting them. But I’m begging you here. Picture me on my knees. I’ll give you whatever you want. So help me. Just tell me where she is. Let me have her, Fulton.”

“What can I say. All I know is the thing took off down the street. All she wrote. And now I gotta go.”

“Fulton. Please. I love that dog. You know I’m sorry. Help me out here, man. Please.”

“See ya, T.”

The dog had been missing three days when Casey rang his doorbell. In his distance he forgot the chaos and privacy of his space and opened the front door.

On her lap she held a basket full of rubber toys, a leash, a bag of dog biscuits.

“We’re going to get her back,” she said firmly. The hopeful goods broke his heart.

“Come on,” said Casey. “Let’s go look. I’m ready.”

He felt a dragging reluctance but she was determined; she turned her chair briskly and headed back to the elevator. Finally he grabbed a jacket and followed.

Casey had strong arms but even so, he knew, after a while they grew tired, and moving south along the boardwalk he thought of this: the farther, the longer, the more she must

ache. He felt guilty. Other dogs passed them, for the boardwalk was popular among dog owners: now and then he or Casey petted one. At first they spoke but as they grew tired of walking their conversation dwindled.

“I’m exhausted,” he said finally.

They had made a loop to the bottom of the Marina: it had been several hours. The soles of his feet were burning. Casey’s stamina was shocking.

“I think we should cut in off the beach and get a taxi back to my place,” he pressed.

“No,” said Casey, and shook her head. “If you want her you have to pay. You have to pay for what you want. You know that.”

“We’re not going to find her just because we suffer,” he said.

“Yes,” said Casey. “We are.”

“I should have worn different shoes.”

“What are those, Ferragamos? Fulton was right. Sometimes you dress really gay.”

“It’s not gay, Case. It’s expensive.”

On the way home along the bicycle path his feet hurt. A poodle with a tall bearded man in tight shorts, a Dalmatian with two lesbians, a pug with a fat man, a Chihuahua with an emaciated woman wearing too many bangles. All of them. But not her.

At the apartment door he remembered he should not let Casey in. On the floor in his dining room were the snarled, half-inside-out legs of his wetsuit; evidence was everywhere. But he was too sore to keep up his guard. He had to collapse.

“It’s a mess,” he said wearily as he opened the door for her, and strode ahead to scoop up the most obvious traces and hurl them into a closet.

“What are you doing with an article about a rare tortoise and off-roading? You getting into ORVs suddenly?”

“Impact fees. A casino project,” he mumbled, lowering himself onto the couch. He kicked off his shoes and heaved his feet up on the arm. “You need anything?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Chinese takeout in the fridge,” he said, closing his eyes. “But it’s from yesterday. No, wait. Two days ago.”

“Disgusting . . . really. What
is
this stuff?” said Casey. “What?”

“About animals? All this material. Everywhere.” “Told you! Research for a project.”

“A lot of it.”

He shrugged. “Money at stake. You know me.” She gazed at him for a moment, then let it go.

They drank a bottle of white wine with the TV playing and then they drank another; they lolled on sofa and chair, drunk and still drinking. He felt relief that she had let him off so easy. His secret remained securely hidden.

“I’m going to go out on your balcony,” she said after a while, and left him there, eyes glazed over: there seemed to be a prizefight on, men sweating. He looked around for the remote, but did not see it. He was tired.

What if his dog appeared below? Casey might fail to see her. Casey’s view was limited from the chair, her seated position. His dog had always liked the pool, tail wagging as she moved and sniffed among the long knifelike leaves of the tiger lilies . . . he got up and went through the sliding doors to the rail.

Below the turquoise pool water glittered, empty.

“I thought she might be there,” he murmured, and then looked over at Casey. Her face was turned from him.

“You don’t know,” she said. “You don’t have a clue. You’re not as arrogant as I thought, I guess.”

“What?” he said sharply, a clutch of fear. “Know what?” “It’s damaging to say it,” she said. “But it can’t be helped.

It’s too bad. But without honesty I don’t have anything. Once your body’s taken from you, or at least your independence in the body, the only thing you have left is this, like, idea of yourself. It’s an idea of character, or something. If I lie or hide, that’s taken from me too. So I have to tell you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rushed. “Case, you’re scaring me here. What is it? Are you sick?”

“No. Just pathetic. I love you.”

“I love you too, Case. You know that. So tell me. What is it?”

“No, that’s it.”

She turned her face toward him finally, small and white with wide eyes.

“. . . that . . .”

He felt nauseated. She studied him sadly: this was grim. “Yes.”

He turned and looked out at the palm fronds, still. He was glad of the lights, which gave him an excuse to look elsewhere.

“I thought it would go away. For Chrissake, you wear Ferragamos. And there’s this one shirt you have with blue stripes on it that really dorks you up. No man should ever, ever wear a blue-striped shirt with a white collar.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” “It should be federal law.”

“Or maybe I should wear it more often. Then your crush will go away.”

“It’s not a crush, T. If it was I wouldn’t bother telling you.” “Whatever it is.”

“And don’t feel you have to explain how deep but completely platonic your feelings are. It’s obvious. I never expected

anything else. I know I’m like the cute paraplegic sister you never had.”

“You like to speak for me.”

“I’m good at it. Don’t you think?”

He bent down and put his arms around her; she rested her forehead stiffly against his collarbone.

Inside she put on music and they drank more and danced giddily, she by moving her wheels on the slick kitchen floor. They went to his closet and she tore shirts off hangers, threw the shoes she disliked into a laundry hamper. He thought of the hundreds of dollars they represented, indeed thousands, and as he thought this she raced away from him toward the sliding doors with the hamper balanced on her lap. On the balcony she tipped it over the edge.

Right behind her he looked down and saw the shoes floating in the pool.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he said, but he could. She was at her bag, pulling out a vial.

“Have some of these,” she said. “They’re for pain.” “I don’t have pain,” he said.

“Then take them for mine.”

He thought of all that he had always forfeited, how he always kept control. How he never lost his hold on himself for even a moment.

He swallowed the pills.

“I want to go swimming,” she said, and was already on her way out.

In the elevator she pulled off her sweater. Beneath she wore a cotton undershirt; her torso was surprisingly lovely, compact and muscular.

“I don’t have my flotation device,” she said. “You’re not serious.”

“You’re going to have to be my buddy,” she said. “Never go swimming without a buddy, T.!”

“But it’s three a.m. The sign says closed after midnight.” “Really, T.,” and she shook her head, “who gives a shit?

You’re such a prig.” “Proud of it.”

“Have you ever even been in this pool the whole time you lived here?”

“Once, in the first week.” “I’m going in the deep end.”

“Wait!” he said desperately, but she was already out the back door of the lobby and headed for the pool deck. “How does this work?” he called after her, but she ignored him.

A few moments later she was rising in her chair, lifted on her strong arms: and then she fell forward into the water and sank like a stone. He jumped in, panicking.

As he heaved her head and shoulders above the surface, sputtering and soaking in his clothes, he thought she was crying but in fact it was laughter.

“I do pool physio all the time, fool,” she said, water running down her face. “You didn’t, like, save my life or some shit.”

“Good. You don’t deserve it.”

She pushed his head under, holding the rim of the pool with the other arm. Submerged—he stayed because he wanted to: the lights on the sides of the pool were bright and hypnotic—he thought that he admired her. He looked at her ribcage, her flat, lean abdomen, his eyes smarting from the chlorine; her shirt floated above her belly. Behind her the pool lights wavered and dazzled him. Hard to keep his eyes wide; the eyeballs smarted. But he was busy seeing. He admired her bravery. She was a heroine.

In the water beneath them her legs receded, white and tapering to a distant point of feet; but here any legs would recede that way, pale and disappearing. Other legs would be moving in the water, that was all.

He saw his own legs; he could barely keep them down. They were not white because he was wearing pants and shoes. They were big and heavy. They wanted to be floating.

It did not matter how proud she was; still he had to admit to pity. No matter what, there was always pity, however her defiance might reject it . . . and yet the water was turquoise, flooded with white, and they were here within it like two parts of a whole—connected by liquid, only the membranes of their skin between them. What were legs, anyway? She could swim without them.

How specific each thing was to the need for it.

In the pool someone might see her and not know. Someone might catch sight of her floating and believe she had legs that walked; they might believe she was whole.

He could almost believe it himself.

He thought he was happy, for a second, but then how could he be?—he must be missing something.