Love Love (16 page)

As it turned out, everyone got what they wanted that day. Mitch got to handcuff Alice, Mrs. Fugate got her arrest, his mother got the
branch, and Alice got to give. And Kevin got what he wanted, too, bringing his mother and his future wife together. Now his mother was dead and his wife was no longer his wife, but back then, he'd been happy with the knowledge that these two women were very much alike and that he was their interconnection.

K
evin sat on his living room floor and gave Snaps a good brushing, thinking of that day. His dog whipped her head around and growled. Kevin, in his reverie, ran the metal brush through her tail, a no-no.

“Sorry, girl. I should be paying attention, I know.”

Kevin's doorbell ding-donged, and Snaps bolted from relaxation to alert mode. It was too early for it to be Judy.

At the door, Bill thrust a six-pack of beer to his chest.

“Can't have you leave without a proper good-bye,” he said.

Snaps, even with her bum hips, found the energy to jump up around Bill.

“Missy Snaps!” he said, and he gave her a good scratch on her nose.

Kevin sat on the end of the sofa while Bill took the armchair. Tomorrow Ernie would assign half of Kevin's clients to Bill, including Robert the Third and Alexa. It depressed Kevin to think that the club would go on without him. And not seeing Bill every workday—it was a different kind of divorce, another odd space in his life left open.

“You sure about all this?” Bill asked.

“I haven't liked the job for a while now. And this thing I told you about my parents . . .”

“That's no reason to just quit your job. I mean what the hell are you going to do, you know, to live?”

Ernie, being the sweetheart that he was, had told Kevin that if he changed his mind in a week, he'd be welcomed back, but Kevin told him not to bother. Ernie asked him the same question that Bill was asking now, and Kevin's response remained the same.

“I'm not sure what I want, but I know what I don't want.”

Bill nodded. “You're okay financially? The airline ticket to San Francisco must've cost some Benjamins.”

“Trent, you know, the pilot with the Connors two-handed backhand? He got me on a reasonable flight at the last minute. Seemed like the right thing to do to go out there and see what I can find out.”

“And your dad hasn't told you anything more.”

“He says my mother took care of it all, whatever the hell that means.”

Bill cracked open his can of beer, and Kevin did likewise.

“Love?” Bill asked, raising his can.

“Love,” Kevin said, raising his own. “How long have we been doing that?”

“So long I don't remember.”

They toasted. Aluminum never emitted the satisfying ring of glass, but it was better than nothing. As the carbonation effervesced in his throat, Kevin felt as if they should say something meaningful to each other, but all they did was slurp and burp. This is where it was better to be women, who'd hug and cry and promise they'd do lunch every week. Even though the sensitive man was in, it was for girlfriends and wives. Guys were still guys with each other, keeping their emotions in check, preferring to talk about last night's ball game than to dwell on their feelings. He and Bill had been together for more than half of their lives, and this was it. The morning after Alice had left, Kevin walked into the club and saw Bill at his court, waiting for him. His friend tossed him a new can of tennis balls, and together they pried open the lids, the whooshing sound of the vacuum seal breaking and the smell of untouched rubber familiar and cleansing. They hit the crap out of those balls, and as his anger and melancholy bounced away with each stroke, Kevin wished there were words to express what he felt toward Bill. It was gratitude, but it was also love. They could attach the word to a can of beer, but not to each other. It was understood, and maybe that made it more special, or possibly just tragic.

They exchanged a handshake that led to a half hug.

“You'll be missed,” Bill said.

“Same here,” Kevin said.

And then he was gone. Snaps laid down to snooze on the rug by the door. Above her hung a small oval painting, one that Judy had done of her as a puppy, standing on a pair of open hands that pointed out toward the viewer, offering the tiny dog to the world. Judy had used thick brushstrokes, the dog's fur like a relief map, the lines on the palms etched in. His dog used to be so small, so young. His sister was supposed to become a successful artist, and he a professional tennis player. He thought his parents would stay healthy and grow old together. He and Alice, too.

Kevin walked over to the window that faced the backyard and pushed it open. The air was damp and cool, evening turning into night, another autumn day coming to a close. Crickets chirped faintly, far away in the approaching darkness. He wished for something to occupy him until his sister came to pick him up, but there was nothing left.

13

O
n the kitchen counter, Judy found a small stack of pages.

“Oh, that,” Kevin said, and from his guarded tone, she knew she'd stumbled on something he hadn't meant for her to see. Kevin had made seven copies, one for each day that he would be in San Francisco. It read:

             
   
QUICK WALK—MORNING

                     
•
  
get plastic bag (in case she poops)

             
   
FEEDING—MORNING

                     
•
  
1 1/2 cups of dry food

                     
•
  
1/2 cup of wet food (cover with plastic wrap and place can in fridge)

                     
•
  
Fresh water in bowl, filled 3/4

             
   
LONG WALK—AFTERNOON

                     
•
  
get plastic bag (in case she poops)

             
   
FEEDING—EVENING