The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets (10 page)

“I'm just washing my face,” she called.

Quietly, with the water still running, she pulled open the medicine chest, but inside there was only a box of Band-Aids, a tube of antibiotic cream, and two things of dental floss. In her own medicine chest, crammed full of crap, she could have found a weapon. Perfume to spray in his eyes, an ancient rusty razor blade, a nail file. The cabinet under his sink held only a package of toilet paper and his carefully coiled electric razor. Her life was so full, every corner chock o' block with stuff. His seemed absolutely empty, except for Cookie, that monkey fairy skeleton, and now her.

She used his towel and carefully folded it over the rack just the way he had it. She felt better. The aspirin was beginning to work. She knew if they got in the car she would get away. Her purse was in the car. She could poke him in the eye with her house key. She stepped out and he grabbed her arm.

“In here.”

He tugged her to another closed door in the hallway, the last
door before the living room. Her resolve evaporated. She did not want to go to some new room, a chamber devised for her torture or demise. Fairy skeletons for his girlfriend, monkey legs, lizard skin. Winnie's teeth began to chatter, goose bumps erupted despite the heat. She forced herself to stay upright.

“Wait—” she began. She could not say more.

Oren opened the door. “Go on,” he waved her inside. “Go in.”

Winnie lurched into the room, but it was just a bedroom, his bedroom, as clean and sterile as the rest of the house. There was no steel operating table, no open case of torture tools. Thank God, she thought. His laptop was open on the bed. He stepped past her and closed it quickly. The double bed had no bedspread. It was made military style, corners just so, the white sheets and blue blanket perfectly straight. Only one pillow. Maybe he wanted sex. Involuntarily, her legs squeezed together. Then again, maybe it would distract him. She searched for something she could use to hit him as he lay on top of her, a lamp or an ashtray, but the dresser top was empty and dusted. A TV and a DVD player were on a stand at the foot of the bed. No reading lamp, not a single book anywhere, only a framed photo on the nightstand. She looked closer; it was a picture of a tiny lizard perched in a man's hand.

“Don't touch anything,” he said.

But she picked up the photo. She could hit him with it if she had to, even though the frame was just cheap plastic. “Is this Cookie?”

Surprisingly, his shoulders relaxed and he grinned. She exhaled.

“Can you believe it? Hard to imagine now that he's so enormous.”

“Is this your hand?”

“My father's.”

“Where was this?”

“The Amazing Amazon. Not in Africa, but a show, like a reptile show. My dad owned it when I was a kid.”

“You've had Cookie for so long.”

“He's my best friend. I know that sounds silly.”

“Not at all. I love my dog.”

“Oh yeah, right.”

“My daughter named him something long and complicated when we got him. I just call him Buddy. Honestly, he's good company.” Bullshit, she thought, I hate that damn dog, but at that moment even cleaning up the poop in her front yard sounded good.

“Buddy,” his voice got quiet. “Buddy is not a nice dog. Buddy is a pit bull. Trained to attack, to bite, even your daughter.”

“What are you talking about? He's a mutt. A sweetie. I know exactly how you feel about Cookie,” she blathered on. “Buddy and I spend a lot of time together. He has the softest ears.”

“I told you I hate lying.”

“I'm not. I'm not.”

He was jittery and frowning and Winnie saw she had upset him again. He put the gun down on the dresser. He opened a drawer. He was searching for something. He used both hands to rummage through a stack of seemingly identical white T-shirts.

Winnie jumped from the bed and pushed him away. She grabbed for the gun, but he whirled and kicked her hard in the stomach. She flew back and collapsed on the rug. The wind was knocked out of her, she gasped for air.

“Oh God. I'm sorry,” he said to her.

She rolled away from him and turned her back. She tucked her head and knees into her chest, protecting herself as much as possible from the next blow. She fought back the bile.

“Don't kick me again.”

“I had to. Don't you see? I had to.”

No, she didn't ‘see.' There was nothing clear about any of this. There was a dusty sock under his bed. He was not as fastidious as he believed. He had lost a sock and it probably drove him crazy looking for it. It made her feel a tiny bit better. She would never tell him the sock was there.

“Put this on,” he said. “You can't go out like that. C'mon.” He nudged her with his toe.

She unwound slowly and looked up at him. He held a white T-shirt out to her.

“Get up now. C'mon. Get up.” He was whining at her. “We're going to be late.”

Winnie unfolded and rolled over slowly. She did not wipe her tears away as she got to her feet.

He shook the shirt at her. “Put this on. I can't look at that one anymore.”

The blood was evidence, she saw, proof that he had hurt her, that what he was doing was wrong.

“Hurry,” he said.

Winnie took the T-shirt and turned her back to him. The fact that he wanted her to change made her feel better. He wouldn't give her a clean shirt and then kill her. He was saving her for something. She lifted her nylon tennis top gingerly, carefully over her head. Then she decided to turn back to him, to show him the long deep scrapes on her stomach, the stripes of crusty blood. She saw him wince. He avoided looking at her breasts in her jogging bra and she realized sex was not what this was about.

“You hurt me,” she said quietly. “You keep hurting me.”

“You hurt me too. My shoulder hurts. And my leg where you kicked me. You do this to yourself.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Put the goddamn shirt on!”

She put it on slowly, watching him every minute.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “I haven't done anything to you.”

“If I was your daughter,” he said, “I would hate you. I would.”

“What?”

“Your daughter hates you. Right now. She is hating you.”

“No, she is not.” Winnie thought of Lacy slamming the car door just that morning, those hours, that lifetime ago. “My daughter loves me.”

He gestured with the gun for her to leave. “We have to go.”

She watched him cringe as she dropped her bloody shirt right on his pillow. Then he stepped back to let her go first and she kicked him as hard as she could between the legs. He gave a little cry and fell back.

She ran through the living room, the empty dining room and into the kitchen. She had seen the backdoor; it had to open. Cookie was up on his log against the opposite wall. She rushed to the door. It was locked, but the key was right in the lock. Had no one ever told him that was the stupidest place to keep a key? In her hurry she pulled it from the keyhole and dropped it. She crouched and felt for it desperately among the damp newspapers and badly soiled sand. This area was Cookie's bathroom. She had to find that key. She had it in her hand as Oren lurched in.

“Stay away from that!”

She got the key in the lock. She turned it, heard the bolt slide back and had her hand on the doorknob when he seized her from behind. She held onto the knob as he tried to pull her away. Through the window, she saw the grassy backyard of the house behind them. A swing set. A yellow light on in the kitchen. Maybe a mother was home making lunch. Maybe a
toddler was sitting at that kitchen table hungry and refusing to stop banging her spoon. The mother was sighing and wishing she were in Paris or Hawaii or even at the pizza place down the street. He began to pull her away. She balled up her fist. “Help me!” she shouted to the mother, to anyone, “Help!” She hit the window with her fist. She hit it again. Pain shot up her arm. Again and again. How could the glass not break?

“Safety glass.” He read her mind.

He turned her to him and threw her through the swinging door into the dining room. She leapt toward the door to the garage. As her hand touched the knob, he grabbed her and tossed her down.

“Bitch!”

Her hand hurt. And her neck. And her arms and shoulders and her stomach and her head. She had banged her knee. She saw his angry red face, then rolled to all fours and tried crawling away from him to anywhere. He grabbed her ponytail.

“We are leaving and you will behave.”

She saw the gun in his hand. She surrendered. But not for long.

Lacy was learning to blow smoke rings. Buster showed her how as he drove. He flattened his lower lip and popped them out. Perfect rings. She could not get it right.

“Maybe marijuana smoke is different,” he said. “Heavier or lighter or something.”

“More circular,” she joked and he laughed and so did she.

They arrived finally at his special place. It had taken a while through winding back streets, neighborhoods she did not know, each street getting bumpier and more neglected, the houses smaller and shabbier.

“We're here,” he said.

He parked the car in front of a chain link fence. Junk was piled against the fence as high as possible. Chairs and boxes and car rims and an old birdcage stuffed with clothes. She couldn't see past the trash.

“Where?”

“Look up.”

She could just glimpse something glittering.

“Shiny,” Lacy said. “Whoopee.”

Buster hung his head. Lacy felt terrible. She had crushed him. She had tried to be cool and it was just stupid.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I just can't see anything from here.”

“I thought you were different.”

“You did?”

He looked at her from under his shaggy hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, but a soft, rich brown. His skin was tan and blemish free; as smooth as if he had never shaved even though she knew he was a year older.

“Well, come on.” She smiled at him. “Show me.”

“Better take your backpack,” he said. “I can't lock my car and in this neighborhood…” he shrugged.

She was glad she had left her flute at school. “I have orchestra this afternoon.”

“I'll get you back in time, Miss Flautist.”

“You remember I play the flute?”

“I remember your crazy curly hair too—and I grieve at its demise.”

“If you knew how hard I work to make it straight.”

“And why?”

If he didn't understand, she couldn't tell him. He was just a clueless stoner anyway. Still, it was funny he remembered her hair and that she played the flute. He led her around the corner. The chain link continued, the junk wall as well. Across the street an older Mexican woman, thick set with a broad, Indian face, was sweeping her porch. Buster waved at her.

“Do you know her? Do you live around here?”

“She is the Sweeper. Every time I come, there she is. Sweeping.”

“You come here a lot?”

“Not often enough. Now, shhhhhh.”

There was a tear in the fence right at the corner and a little tunnel under a wooden ladder with flowerpots of dead plants on every step. Buster held open the fence and nodded for her to go through. Lacy pulled her backpack around in front of her. She made herself small and waddled through the fence and under the ladder. She looked back at Buster and he was grinning.

“Is this legal?” she asked. “Are we going to get shot?”

“Depends.”

There were butterflies in her stomach, but not in a good way; she shivered and she frowned. Inside the fence there was just more crap and a very narrow path past an old sewing machine, stacks of moldy magazines, and some odd equipment she didn't recognize. She could not see a house. She hesitated.

“We'll be fine,” Buster said. “I know this place like the proverbial back of my hand. Like I know my own name.” He paused and leaned close to her. “Like I would like to know your face.”

Lacy blushed.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered.

She did as told. He took her hand and led her down the path. His hand was warm, soft, and dry, not gross at all. A dog barked angrily and she jumped, but now she was not afraid.

“Almost,” he said. “Almost.”

He stopped and she stopped beside him.

“Open!”

She opened her eyes and gasped. They were in a beautiful garden made entirely of glass. All colors of glass. Most were old bottles—blue, green, brown, red, and clear ones filled with yellow liquid. Some were woven into a wire frame to make a mosaic of a mermaid. Some were cut and glued together to make flowers. Lacy spotted a four-legged animal taller than Buster with bottle caps for eyes.

“Do you like it?” Buster asked.

“I can't speak.”

“And for you, that's something.”

She pushed him and he danced away from her. He spun around and around with his hands outstretched. She twirled too and the colors blurred and sparkled. Then she was dizzy.

“This way,” he said and skipped off.

There were paths and benches and a little fountain, all with glass imbedded in the concrete. He ducked inside an archway and she followed.

“Your face is blue,” he said to her.

“Yours too.”

They stared at each other and then her stomach growled. She was mortified, but he just laughed. “Lunch time. How about a glass salad? Or some glass fries?”

“I actually have a sandwich. Want half?”

They sat and she pulled her lunch bag from her backpack. She unwrapped her peanut butter sandwich and gave him half. He took an enormous bite. He was so skinny. Did no one ever feed him?

“Delicious.” He smacked his lips. “You make this?”

“My mom.”

“Your mom. I remember her. She's pretty hip for an old lady. An artist, right?”