Hall of Small Mammals (13 page)

He kissed her. Later he wouldn't remember what exactly had prompted him to do it. Maybe it was her blowing in his face. Maybe it was a quick but powerful feeling that all of this was theirs—this baby, this life, this house, this night-light shining around their bare feet. She pulled him into her bedroom, next door to the baby's. She lifted her gown and stretched back on the bed. He kept his feet on the floor and leaned toward her, arms on either side of her shoulders. It was different from their first time at the hotel, almost a year earlier—less hurried, less boozy—and as he finished, he said it, or something like it,
like
or
love
or, the old Annie Hall joke,
luff
. But then again, maybe he hadn't. He might
have only sighed pleasantly. No, he'd certainly said
something
. He kissed her on the shoulder and said he should probably get back to his room. “Okay,” she said.

The next morning, at breakfast, he avoided eye contact with all of them. The Ash family whirled around the kitchen, dishes clattering as they unloaded the washer, discussing plans for the day, a Saturday, and Bet breast-fed Hank at the table. Watching the three of them, Felix felt like an intruder. He had an impulse to run, but he finished his cereal and then showered, whistling in the steam.

They spent the day Christmas shopping. In the car, Mr. Ash asked Felix if he even believed in Jesus, and Felix said, “Jesus . . . Jesus . . . didn't he drum for the Beatles before Ringo?” Mrs. Ash looked back at Felix scandalized. “Sorry,” Felix said. At the mall, he wandered through a toy store alone with Hank, who seemed to like the lights and colors and not much else. Then they went to find Bet and discovered her in the neighboring department store, checking the tag on a mannequin's jacket.

“You like it?” she asked. “I think I could wear it in the spring.”

“Let's see it on you.” With Hank gurgling in his arms and Bet wrestling the jacket off the mannequin, Felix forgot, just for a moment, that this wasn't his everyday existence. She bought the jacket, and they strolled through the mall together, like any other couple, hands on the stroller.

That night she snuck into his room after her parents were asleep and climbed into bed. On the monitor they could hear Hank breathing through the fuzz of static. She was on top of him, and he certainly wasn't resisting. “You okay?” she asked. He wasn't sure what to make of that and shrugged up at her: yes, he was okay. When they finished, she fell asleep on his arm and didn't
wake up again until Hank started crying in the early hours, milky light in strips across the bedspread.

In all, this happened three more times before Felix flew home. She would sneak into his room and stay until Hank's first morning fit. She did this without ever asking what it meant or where it was leading. Each time, afterward, Felix felt more agitated, as if the stakes were that much higher, though he tried not to show it. What was he doing? Possibly he cared for her more than he'd realized. He began to doubt his initial decision to stay on the West Coast. He even entertained notions of bringing her back West with him. His apartment would be too small for both Hank and Bet, but he could find something more suitable. If he really wanted to, he could make this work, couldn't he? When Bet drove him to the airport, she gave him a short kiss and asked him to text when his plane landed.

“Maybe you and Hank could come and visit me sometime,” he said, and when she nodded, he added, “To see how you like it out there.”

Had he been too subtle? Not subtle enough? He couldn't tell. Her cheeks were pink and she smiled uncertainly. “Okay,” she said.

On the flight home, he tried watching a movie but couldn't concentrate. He folded the vomit bag into tinier and tinier squares. He drank three whiskey-and-sodas. The woman sitting beside him asked if he was feeling all right. Felix wasn't sure. “I used to be the same way,” the woman said. “Have you ever listened to the black box recording from a plane crash? Don't. They're all on the Internet. It's addictive. It always ends one of three ways. It's either
Oh, God
or
Oh, shit
or
Oh, no, the flaps!
Religion, panic, or blame.
Every time I fly now, I think,
Well, that's it. So long, farewell. There's no possible way I'm going to survive this
.”

“There are worse ways,” he said. But really, every flight felt like a little death. What died was the place you were leaving and the person you'd been there. The more distance between him and Atlanta, the less real it all seemed to him—the Ashes, Hank, Bet, all of it. The only inescapable constant was himself: miserable, unfunny Felix.

Waiting for his suitcase at the baggage claim back in Los Angeles, he called Bet's cell despite the time difference.

“Hey,” she said, surprisingly not groggy.

“I'm here and—” His bag approached. “And that's it, I guess. I'm here now.”

“Good,” she said. “I'm glad. Hank already misses you.” She cleared her throat, and he could hear a door close. “Listen, Felix, I've been thinking. About what happened this week. Going forward, I don't think we should complicate things, you know?”

Felix grabbed his bag and wheeled it back and forth across the baggage claim floor as Bet explained all the reasons why it didn't make sense for them to be together. She had no intention of leaving Atlanta, and though she'd always care for Felix, she wouldn't love him, not like that. When she asked him what he thought, he said that, yes, well, she was absolutely right, it would never work. Only later—weeks later, trying to recall Bet's exact tone during this conversation—would he wonder if it had been some sort of test. Regardless, they didn't discuss it again. Whether Bet had told her parents about what had happened between them, Felix couldn't be sure, but they never offered him a guest room again. After that, he began staying exclusively at the hotel.

•   •   •

Hank comes stomping down the stairs after an especially long afternoon nap, looking a little bit like a high Shakespearean actor: red tights, wild brown hair, eyes a tad droopy. Felix holds out his arms for a hug, a little worried that he is about to be rebuffed in front of Laura and Bet and the Ashes. JT, who is apparently a master chef, is in the kitchen preparing a “gourmet” dinner. Hank launches off the bottom step and lands in Felix's arms. Felix spins his son's legs out like a helicopter. They all file into the living room for an early round of cocktails—vodka tonic for Laura, screwdriver for Bet, whiskey for Felix and Mr. Ash, and a seltzer for Mrs. Ash, who rarely drinks any alcohol aside from white Zinfandel. They sit in a rough circle, encamped on various pieces of antique furniture: a green leather sofa, the two wingback chairs, the ottoman under the flatscreen on the wall.

“Lovely house,” Laura says, taking it all in. “Bet, won't you be sad to leave in a few months?”

“I will,” she says, and squeezes her father's arm thoughtfully. “But I've been imposing long enough. It's not fair to my parents.”

“We've loved every minute of it,” Mr. Ash says.

Felix wonders if it is guilt—for living off her parents, for delivering chaos into their otherwise peaceful golden years—that is pushing Bet toward a man like JT. Her fiancé seems nice enough and is even mildly handsome in a second-place-homecoming-king sort of way, but he is certainly no genius; his face doesn't suggest much depth. Felix begins inventing a quiz: What book is on JT's nightstand? Can he name the last ten presidents in order? Who was responsible for 9/11? Though Felix won't be able to explicitly
call it a test, that's what it will be. Over the course of the evening, he will have to sneak in his questions and keep track.

“So,” Felix says to Bet, “how long has JT been your rug man?”

Laura gives Felix's hand two quick squeezes.

“His dad started the business,” Bet says. “It's pretty big. They've got three offices now across the state, and contracts with most of the school districts. He's been doing it ever since he graduated.”

“Ph.D. in red wine and bloodstain removal?”

(Another squeeze.)

“Come see my treehouse,” Hank says, eyes on Felix.

“I'd love to, buddy,” he says.

“I'd like to see it too, Hank,” Laura says. She stands with her drink and holds out her hand. Hank eyes it suspiciously, so Felix takes it and then offers Hank his other hand. Through the white French doors, they walk out across a brick patio and down the steps into a neatly manicured lush backyard. Hank breaks free and runs down the hill to a grove of slim oak trees, between which, about five feet up, Mr. Ash has constructed a platform. A rope ladder dangles from a hole at its center. Red tights a jostling blur, Hank ascends the swinging ladder and emerges gopherlike on the other side of the hole triumphantly.

“He's very cute,” she says. “Are we going up?”

“I'm fine down here. You look great, buddy. What do you do up there?”

The boy scrunches his eyebrows. “Different stuff.”

They watch him kick some brush off the edge of the platform.

“So,” Laura says quietly. “Bet.”

“Bet.”

“I can see what attracted you to her. She's beautiful. And young.”

“You're not going to get weird on me, are you?”

“How exactly would I get
weird
on you?”

“I don't know, but the way you just said
weird
felt a little weird to me.”

Laura adjusts her sunglasses and crosses her arms. “I'm curious if sometimes when you say things you ever hear a little alarm bell in the back of your head? Whoop whoop whoop. Do you ever think,
Am I saying what I think I'm saying?
”

“Alarm bells? I don't follow. What I say is what I mean. Or what I mean is what—”

“I think you need to take a deep breath and process what's happening this weekend. Here's something good. Actually, you know, I'll just skip to the bad, if that's all right. Don't take this the wrong way, but not everything is about you. Not everything is about Felix. There are seven billion people in the world, and sure, you're funnier than most of them—you're in the top three thousand, probably, but—”

“Three thousand?”

“Two thousand, whatever. It doesn't matter. My point is that you need to pull your head out of your ass. You get me?”

Felix does not get her. Is she calling him selfish? Self-involved? Delusional? He is ready to argue, but here comes Hank, singing and swinging back down the ladder, his business concluded, whatever it was, the rope swishing circles in the dirt at the bottom.

“Before we go back inside,” Laura says, “is there anything else I should know?”

“Maybe,” Felix says, irritable. “Probably, yes, there is, but I
can't for the life of me figure out what it might be. How far back should I go?”

“This isn't funny,” Laura says.

What else is new? They are almost to the brick patio when the entire family emerges through the double doors.

“All of us are going for a walk before dinner,” Bet announces. “It's been decided.”

•   •   •

The first person to bring up Gonuts the Hamster is JT. He's not only seen the show but is in fact a humongous fan and tunes in every Thursday night. They are on a wide and mulchy trail that follows the conservation easement behind all the houses in the neighborhood. JT and Laura stroll alongside Felix. Bet and the Ashes are a few steps ahead. Hank is between both packs dragging a stick he found in the brush.

JT wants more details about
Pets!
, he wants behind-the-scenes dirt. Some of the people at his work, JT says, are in love with the Rhesus Monkey on the show, the one that's always stealing and swallowing important things like zip drives and legal papers and car keys. Does Felix ever get to hang out with the monkey? Is it funny in real life too? Who is the voice of the monkey, because that dude deserves a frickin Oscar—

“Emmy,” Felix says. “And the guy's name is Joel. He's been in a few things over the years but not much. You're right, he's great.”

JT nods enthusiastically. He asks if Felix could do the hamster voice for everyone, just once, and then he'll never ask again. He promises.

Through his pocket Felix pinches the hamster (his leg) until it
throbs: “Somebody better let me outta this cage,” he says, forming a little bubble in the back of his throat. “'Cause I'm about to get wheel on these motherfuckers.”

Everyone, except JT, turns to shoot Felix the same look:
Hank.

“Amazing,” JT says. “Amazing. It's so surreal to hear that voice coming out of you. Now, you couldn't say that on television, could you? You couldn't say
mother-f
?”

“What book is on your nightstand right now, JT?” Felix asks him. “I'm curious.”

“People recognize Felix's voice everywhere we go,” Laura says. “We were out to eat the other night, and the waiter figured it out. But he didn't say anything to us. He just drew a little hamster wheel on our check. It was so cute.”

“That's really funny,” Bet says. “You're famous, Felix!”

“Or at least your voice is,” Mr. Ash says.

“What's the difference?” Felix asks. “I am my voice, aren't I?”

“I don't know,” Mr. Ash says, without turning around. “Are you your anus?”

Their footsteps are quiet on the mulch. It's like all the sound has been sucked out of the universe. Where are all the birds? There should be birds whistling up in the trees. Felix is on the verge of saying something, can feel words inching up his tongue. What he will say, exactly, he can't be sure, but most definitely it will be the wrong thing.

“In my experience some people are more anal than others,” Laura says then, eyebrows arched.

A short burst of laughter, like gunfire, escapes Mr. Ash's tight gray mouth. Felix has never seen him laugh that way. Not once.