Men and Dogs (25 page)

26
What Buzz Left Behind

W
HEN PALMER FIRST heard of his mother’s sex-toy party, he was beyond horrified. He couldn’t fathom what could possibly be spurring her to hold a vibrator sale at the DeWitt House, and loudly refused to go.

“I am supporting your sister,” his mother hissed at his inquiries. “She’s obviously going through some strange phase. But she needs our moral support, and the money won’t hurt either.”

He has taken care to arrive late, so already there is an impressive gaggle of women gathered around Hannah’s wares. Entering quietly from the doorway, he sizes up the situation, and it is nothing short of alarming: Mrs. Nelson turning one of the platinum vibrators on and off and waving it at Daisy; Mrs. Jones loading porn in the DVD player while Mrs. Walters and her friend Georgia try out a pair of handcuffs.

“It’s something.”

“Look at this wand thingie. You just press this button, and the head begins to—”

“Right. Got it. Wow.” Ever since Hannah’s rescue, his mother has returned to her determinedly cheery self; as a practicing repressor himself, he thoroughly respects this strategy. Today she is dressed for the party in typical ’70s finery, in a bright red, white, and blue–print pantsuit.

“You look very patriotic.”

“Well, I wanted to make a statement. It is a day for patriotism, after all.”

“Where’s Hannah?”

“Upstairs. If you go up there, tell her she needs to come down. Everyone brought cash, but she wasn’t particularly clear about the prices of things.”

Palmer nods, pours himself a glass of champagne from the bar that has been set out for the occasion, and climbs up to Hannah’s landing. The door is shut. He enters without knocking and finds that his sister is sitting on her bed, checking her flight time on the Internet.

“All packed?”

“Almost.”

“You’re missing the party.”

“I know, I know. I was there for a while, but when Mrs. Nelson starting telling Mom about the difference between G-spot and clitoral orgasms, I had to leave.”

“God.”

“They all brought cash, though. I’ll probably make a thousand dollars or something.”

Palmer collapses onto the bed.

“It’s nice of Mom to do it, actually,” Hannah says. “I thought it was a stupid idea, but they’re all having such a good time.”

“True,” Palmer says. “So, your head’s OK?”

“Which side?”

“The inside.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She closes the laptop and lies back beside him. “The inside’s OK, I guess.” They stare at the ceiling together.

“It’s really dirty up there,” Palmer says.

“How’s Tom?”

He tosses a pillow in the air. “Pretty good, actually.”

After catching the amused, slightly confused report of Hannah’s rescue on the local morning television news, Tom came to the dock to show his support for the family. By the time he arrived, they were gathered at the coast guard station, filling out paperwork. Palmer and his mother had come immediately, of course, as soon as DeWitt called. Palmer, for one, was not surprised to hear where his sister had been; in fact, the trip made so much sense that he was a little annoyed with himself for not guessing where she’d disappeared to. It was a bit touchy with the coast guard. After charging an astronomical fee for recovering the boat, the chief officer took DeWitt and Palmer aside and proceeded to lecture them on “keeping their women in check.”

“Oh, fine, thank you,” Tom said, his voice tremulous. His eyes darted over to Palmer. He was obviously terrified, and the women in the family immediately gravitated to his side. “How are you?” he ventured. “Is everyone all right?”

“Hannah’s fine,” Daisy said, waving her hand. “Just the usual theatrics. Have you been—”

“What are you doing here?” Palmer interrupted.

“Oh, well. I just thought . . .” Tom looked at the floor.

Palmer glared at his mother, rendering her mute for the moment. A long, painful silence followed.

Tom finally backed toward the door. “Well, I guess I should . . .”

“Mom,” Hannah said, “why don’t you show me where the bathroom is?”

“Hannah, you just went to the ladies’ room.”

“Mother!”

Reluctantly, Daisy followed. Palmer turned to Tom.

“Really,” Palmer said quickly before he could ruin things again. “Please. Will you stay?”

That was a week ago. Since then, things had almost returned to the way they were—although Palmer did permanently ban the baby idea. Tom agreed almost immediately, saying he would focus his affections on Rumpus instead.

“Has he moved back in yet?” Hannah asks now, propping herself up on her elbow.

“Pretty much. Now it’s me, the dog, and Tom.”

“A family,” Hannah says.

Palmer grins involuntarily; he reddens at the show of emotion. “Well, we should go downstairs,” he says. “All of these women want to buy your sex toys. And the election results are going to begin coming in soon.”

“Hey,” she says, sitting up. “Have you spoken to Jenny Meyers?”

“Of course. Every day at the office.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

“Why?” Palmer looks at her. “Wait, you saw Warren. Jesus, did you—”

“No. I mean, we saw each other. And talked. But it was nothing, really.”

“I just think if you’ve cared for someone . . . I don’t know. Do they have to disappear from your life entirely?”

“Hannah.”

“Palmer.”

“Jenny’s fine,” Palmer says. “I wouldn’t give it a second thought. Just leave. That’s what she—” But he catches himself,
realizing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. We all love having you here.”

“No, you’re right,” Hannah says. “I get it. It’s time for me to go home.”

The guests finally leave around seven. Hannah sits at the dining table and counts her money. It turns out she has grossed $2,300— a sum Palmer is rather jealous of, given the current state of economic affairs. The family takes plates of leftover hors d’oeuvres and heads to the study, where the twenty-five-year-old Zenith sits hunkered on the old game table. Palmer,
Daisy, Hannah, and DeWitt sip their drinks, watching the results come in and saying little. As Obama garners electoral votes,
though, DeWitt grows increasingly restless.

“How can this be happening?” he growls. “He’s just a damned whippersnapper!”

Palmer, who does not wish to argue today, concentrates on his crab cakes.

“You’re just upset that he’s black,” Hannah says.

“Oh, Will,” Daisy says drowsily. “We’re so old.”

Palmer remains silent. They have never been a family to speak about politics or to watch television together; doing so now,
he finds it’s as if they are onstage in a play. It has been this way ever since Hannah’s rescue. Daisy’s cheerfulness has peaked near hysteria, while DeWitt has been insisting on group activities, including an extremely miserable early-morning birding trip. Hannah, for her part, has been uncharacteristically docile. Palmer can sense that his sister knows they are doing this for her, and that she is at once grateful and put out by it all. Everyone in the family, he suspects, is now aching for their separate, less complicated lives away from one another. Tonight he literally feels bruised, as if he’s pulled a muscle in trying to be something he is not.

Still, he dutifully stays until the results are in, stays even past midnight to watch the people in Chicago scream and cheer as the president, with his shining, superhero face, delivers his acceptance speech. Palmer is so tired he can barely make out what the man is saying. Something about change and all things being possible. When he looks over, he sees that both Daisy and DeWitt have fallen asleep. Hannah, though, is watching intently, hanging on to every word.

“I’m going,” he tells her.

“All right.”

He kisses his mother, who wakes with a start and heads upstairs. DeWitt shakes Palmer’s hand before following. Hannah walks him to the door.

“Be good,” he says.

“Will you come visit?”

“Absolutely.” The lie comforts him. They embrace a bit awkwardly, and he tells her that he loves her.

“A new president!” she calls after him as he gets into his car. “You think he can save us?”

She is looking at Palmer expectantly. He can see she is waiting for some wisdom from her older brother, some sort of ultimate sum-up. But he really doesn’t have one. Suddenly he is almost too exhausted for words.

She stares at him. He’s failed, and they both know it. His face darkens slightly with embarrassment.

“Right,” she says after a moment. “Vodka.” She smiles at him with what can only be called mercy, and lets her brother go.

There are 206 bones in the body. Miles of connective tissue. One and a half gallons of blood. Approximately 600 muscles. When you laugh, you use maybe 100 of those muscles. Less so when you cry.

Buzz Legare used to tell his children that the brain produces enough electricity to power three lightbulbs. We are born knowing how to breathe, he said. We inhale around twenty thousand times a day. But when Palmer is looking up at a plane or thinking about what kind of sandwich to eat for lunch, how does his body know not to crumple? That’s the part Buzz never explained to them. Somehow when Hannah walks, her synapses know not to think about the steps she’s taking. Instead, she has to trust herself. She has to just give up and float.

At dawn, Hannah is packed. She says good-bye to her mother and leaves a note thanking Mitchell for restoring her bike. DeWitt drives her to the airport, and they exchange an awkward, bumbling good-bye; as he drives away, she waves until he’s around the bend, and thinks about all the fathers she’s had.

Hannah uses the entirety of her frequent-flier miles to travel first class. Because it is so last-minute, the amount required is exorbitant. She knows she should save them—this many points would translate to four round-trip tickets in coach, and funds will be tight for a long, long while. But the waste seems appropriate, somehow. She still feels that she needs a little extra room.

The way back is long and jagged. She bumps through the bleak hours in Charlotte and Denver. On the plane, she takes a piece of notepaper out of her day planner and makes one last list:

By the time she finally arrives in San Francisco, it is late at night. She hasn’t arranged for a ride, so she wheels her suitcase to the long queue of empty taxis and gets into the car at the front of the line. She gives the driver the address of the loft, but halfway there, she changes her mind.

“Upper Terrace, please,” she calls up to the front.

She waits for the driver to ask where that is, because no one ever recognizes the address. But this one is different. No questioning look, no turning on his electronic GPS system. He just nods and acts like he knows where to go. Still, she’s having trouble trusting and fears he may be taking her to the wrong place. She leans forward behind him, whispering directions he doesn’t require: