Men and Dogs (18 page)

Here Warren starts laughing. In fact, for the situation they are in at the moment, Hannah believes he’s laughing inappropriately hard.

“What?”

He takes the photos he’s still holding and tosses them into the air. Images of Hannah’s family and Warren’s mother rain down on the bed.

“Hannah.” He puts his hand on her shoulder and points to the photos, randomly scattered, a collage of her memory. “Look at these. You’ve hidden this shrine to your dad for over twenty years. Twenty years. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You really need to stop swearing like that. One day I’ll tell on you, and you’ll get fired. Which I secretly think is a good idea. But still.”

He picks up one of the pictures—his mother on the beach—and pockets it.

“You’re troubled. I’ll give you that. But don’t think you’re unfaithful, Hannah. I mean, think about it. I’m a little jealous,
actually. You’re the most faithful person I know.”

He twirls a curl on the back of his head. She knew he would. Familiar. He stumbles down the stairs, leaving her alone again.

See you later, then, maybe, Hannah thinks to herself. See you. My lovely, fallen priest.

18
Palmer and His Sister

T
HE DOG KNOWS something is wrong. Palmer has never taken a huge liking to Rumpus; since Tucker, he hasn’t allowed himself to get attached to an animal. His profession has trained him to see them as specimens to be spayed, euthanized, or, for a little while at least, healed. Rumpus is a nervous dog, and odd. But she’s not stupid. Sensing discord, she runs around in circles, emitting her horrible, mute bark. She has also left a neat pile of shit in the bedroom, an act that usually would infuriate Palmer, if the dog hadn’t pointedly done it next to Tom’s side of the bed.

In an effort to erase all of Tom’s remnants, Palmer cleans. The house isn’t dirty. It can’t really even be described as slightly dingy. It couldn’t be; Palmer has a maid named Jolie who scrubs the house every week using a near-lethal combination of Ajax,
ammonia, and Pine-Sol. Usually she does a good job, but the later the night gets, the more Palmer notices the spots she has missed. There is a speck of green mold around the sink faucet. A fine layer of dust coats the area behind the television.

He pulls out the rags and the bucket and mops the floors, sending Rumpus to her area under the kitchen table. He vacuums the sofas, washes the windows, strips the bed, even though the sheets have already been changed. When the landline rings at ten thirty, Palmer has just begun a reorganization of the linen closet. Pillowcases should be at eye level, not above! And where are the labels? He needs to buy Jolie a label maker. How can anyone cope?

“Hello?”

“So you see that I got my things out,” Tom says.

“Yes.”

“I left some toiletries, but you can set them aside for me, can’t you?”

“Of course.”

There is a pause.

“I’m only calling to tell you that you’re an asshole. Not only that. You’re just sad.”

Blankets up top? Or the extra pillows?

“A sad, sad man. I’m glad you ended things. I can’t be with someone as emotionally closed as you.”

“Where are you living?”

“Always practical, aren’t you?”

“Where?”

“I’m moving in with Naomi.”

“Why?”

“We’re sort of friends. I’m thinking that I might do this kid thing anyway. I have the money.”

Tom gives a sad laugh. “You know, I saw you at the deli. I saw your car and I thought, I should go over there.”

Palmer doesn’t reply.

“And then I realized, no. No! I always go over. I always make the effort, and I’m so sick of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you just come over, Palmer?”

“Palmer?”

“You drove away before I could get to you.”

There is a crackling sound, as if Tom has just opened a candy bar. Palmer is suddenly hungry.

“You’re really staying at Naomi’s? It’s a little pathetic.”

“I—”

“Good luck, Palmer. Good-bye.”

Palmer puts the phone down and stares at the closet for a good five minutes. Then he goes in the living room, puts Rumpus in his lap, and calls his sister. The dog wriggles away.

“Hi,” she says. “Don’t be mean to me. I’ve been really nice to everyone today and have done nothing wrong.”

“What are you doing?”

“Hiding. Drinking wine in my room.”

“Want to come over? Have a drink?”

“I thought you said I was supposed to do a cleanse.”

“Tom moved out.” The words echo off the walls. There is the sound of rustling sheets on the other end of the line. “Are you really drinking in bed?”

“I’m no liar.”

“Gross.”

“You’re such a dickhead.” She sighs. “OK. I’ll sneak out of here and take the Earth Cruiser. Just give me twenty minutes.”

He hangs up and cleans some more. Rumpus sits in the living room, staring with determination at the back corner.

“The door, Rumpus. If he comes back, it’ll probably be through the door.”

“Palmer?”

Hannah has let herself in through the back. Before he can get to the kitchen, he hears an enormous clatter, and comes in to see that she has excavated a large bottle of vodka, vermouth, and olives and is now rummaging through the newly rearranged and polished glassware.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

“I didn’t lock my bike. It’s in the back. But it’s an ugly piece of shit, so I think it’ll be OK.”

She throws ice and vodka into the shaker.

“I don’t really drink hard liquor,” he says.

“You asked me over for a drink.”

“I meant wine.”

“Palmer. This is an emergency.”

“All right.”

He watches his sister shake, swish, and pour. She’s surprisingly graceful at this. What else is she good at? Palmer wonders.
I seem to have missed most of my sister’s life.

She slides him a drink without spilling.

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know. I just wasn’t feeling it. You know?”

“Not really. I feel everything.” She takes a long gulp. “Is it this baby thing?”

“It’s more than that. He says I’m not emotionally open or something.”

“And this is news?”

Palmer wipes the counter down. “You think I’m not emotionally open?” he asks.

“You’re a Southern male with the clamps on. Plus you’re a Legare. Plus you’re sort of a DeWitt. Of course you’re not open.
You’ve always been like this. Honestly, I was proud of you for lasting this long.”

“So you think this failure is my fault? Again?”

“If you want to be with someone like Tom, you’re going to have to open up a little. Yeah.”

“Like how?”

“Play his game. Go to yoga with him.”

“Screw you.”

“Therapy.”

“I’m going to vomit.”

“Don’t vomit. Drink more. It’s the Southern way.”

“You know,” Palmer says, “the weird part is I saw him the other day. I was really going to get him back. But I couldn’t. Literally,
I was frozen to the spot.”

“The clamps. I told you.”

“Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Not if you love the guy,” Hannah says, thoughtfully chewing a toothpick.

“I don’t know if I do,” he says. “I love some things.”

“Like what?”

“The way he plays tennis. His taste in furniture.”

“Palmer, that’s not love.”

“Right, so. Better to let it go, right?”

Hannah responds by finishing her drink.

“He’ll come back,” she says finally. “Just don’t call him.”

“Is that what you’re doing with Jon?”

“Of course not. I call him every day. But you don’t see him here with me, do you?”

“Good point.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” She’s beginning to slur slightly.

“But I would never call him in the first place,” Palmer says. “Why would I call a man who doesn’t want to talk to me?”

“See, that’s the difference. That’s the difference between you and me.”

Palmer lifts up the shaker. There’s a little bit more. He pours it in her glass.

“I think there are a few other differences between us besides that.”

“I know. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even related at all.”

“We are, though.”

“I know.”

Palmer watches, slightly disgusted, as she jams her hand into the olive jar. He takes his drink and goes out to the living room. She follows. He sits in a large burnt-orange chair he’s never much liked, and she flops on the suede couch, propping her feet on the coffee table.

“Can you at least take your shoes off, please?”

“Anal bastard.”

Palmer flips on the television. The Dow: a jagged red line, sliding downward. Images of terrified bankers and Bush looking blankly from side to side. Palmer flips it off.

“This economy. We’re all so screwed.”

“Are you guys going to be OK?”

“Sure. People always need animal doctors, right?”

“Right.”

“Though people are leaving their pets in their houses when they foreclose. We’ve had four turned in this week.”

“That’s sick.” She puts her glass on the ground. It falls over. “Jesus. I don’t even like animals, but that’s really sick,
just leaving them like that.”

Palmer thinks he sees a hint of tears, which makes him uncomfortable. He changes the subject.

“Tom might be in trouble, though. A lot of his projects are on hold.”

“See? He’ll be back if you want him. He’ll have to. This crash could be good for you.”

“Always the delusional optimist.”

“Shut up.”

“What about you? What’s going to happen with your business?”

“Oh, people always need exorbitantly priced sex toys. Right?”

“So you’re screwed, too.”

“Probably. We have the apartment, though. It’s all paid off.”

“Well, you can’t sell it now. What are you going to do, build a wall down the middle and split it?”

“Totally. A soundproof wall so I don’t have to hear the sex.”

Palmer laughs. “You’re funnier when you’re drunk.”

“You’re nicer.”

“Do you think DeWitt will be all right?”

“Sure. The really rich people always make out OK.”

She stretches her arms over her head and closes her eyes. Her shirt is ripped, revealing some of her bra. It’s purple, trimmed with a bit of black lace. Her brown hair is wiry and electric. Her mouth is too small, and her nose is crooked like their father’s. Her eyes are enormous. They are observant to the point of prying. Lying on the couch with her spectacular limbs splayed, she looks like a Terry Richardson interpretation of an eighteenth-century courtesan: sad, homely, seductive, and slightly dirty. He’s hit by a pang of love for her. A feeling only understood between a brother and a sister. She has to be the most irritating woman on Earth. He often hates her, truly. But if he could gather her up and lock her in a safe to keep her away from anything else that could possibly damage her, he would.

Her eyes snap open. “Do you know what they did with Dad’s boat?” she asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Dad’s boat. I never knew what DeWitt did with it.”

“It’s still in the carriage house.”

“Really? Still there? Have you ever used it?”

“No. Well, once. I took it to the Rockville Regatta in college. But it wasn’t a good idea. It felt—”

“Wrong.”

“I don’t even know why we still have the damned thing.”

“I’m glad, though.”

Palmer braces himself. They are three and a half drinks in, the perfect time for Hannah to bring up her awful theory. Instead she rolls over and looks at Rumpus.

“Men are such fucking dogs,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Assholes.”

“Who?” He is surprised to hear his voice rising. “What do you mean?”

“Dad, leaving us. You, being an ass to this guy who clearly loves you. Jon, screwing Denise.”

“I work with dogs, Hannah. I work with them all day.”

“So you should know.” She makes an imaginary gun with her fingers, points it at Rumpus, and shoots. “Dogs.”

“Men are not dogs.” Palmer feels himself growing too warm again. “Look at that one. She’s been sitting there, waiting for
Tom for hours. Tom doesn’t even like her. Then he leaves, and she just sits there, thinking of nothing else except When is my owner coming back? You can club her in the head, she’ll still wait. You can be shot in the head, and your dog won’t run away. It’ll just sit there with you, waiting to—”

“Die,” she says.

“I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s a very appropriate saying. A bad idiom. Men can be assholes. But there’s nothing more faithful than a dog.”

“That’s funny,” Hannah says. “Warren just told me that I am the most faithful person he knows.”

“Well.”

“Well, woof,” Hannah says. “Get me more vodka.”

“Don’t throw up. This is a five-thousand-dollar couch.”

“Just get it.”

He goes back into the kitchen. As often happens with vodka, his mood has gone dark.

I should just tell her, he thinks. I should tell her everything. It’s me, Hannah. Dad drowned because of me.

He already regrets the hangover he will have tomorrow. So what is the point of being drunk? Still, he mixes the drinks. He is not as good at this as Hannah; his martinis come out full of ice chips. Tom would laugh, he thinks. It doesn’t matter.
By the time he brings them back to the living room, his sister’s eyes are closed.

“You asleep?”

“Room. Spinning.”

He puts the drinks on the table and pulls the cashmere blanket over her.

“No, tha’s OK. I’ll just wait a minute and ride the Cruiser home.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“The pink Cruiser.” She giggles. “Someone blew up her tires.”

“Shut up. Sleep.”

He watches her for a while as her breath slows.

“Do you think we’ll be fucked up like this forever?” she whispers.

“Sleep.”

He takes the drinks to the kitchen, dumps them in the sink, turns out the lights, and uses the remote to switch off the gas fireplace. He whistles for Rumpus, but she’s back in her corner, where she clearly intends to stay.