Lately, she had been getting closer to Hildon, because that distracted her from thinking about Les. She knew that he knew this. He knew that she knew. She thought he knew that at some point, probably soon, she would step back. They were always there for each other in times of trouble. When Les left her, it had reinforced something she had known all along, something she always got in trouble when she forgot: that she could not be an exception. Whatever crazy thoughts men had about other people, they would eventually have about her. If they distrusted the whole world and trusted her implicitly, they would come to distrust her; if they were not close to anyone and they attached themselves to her, one day they would just remove themselves. If you demonstrated, day by day, that you were not the person they feared, they would be confused for a while, but gradually they would stop trusting logic and become frightened. Hildon did not think that anyone was a soul mate except Lucy. This meant that one morning Hildon would wake up and realize that he and Lucy were not simpatico. She was afraid because this happened so often — she dreaded it — but the truth was that she did not fear men individually. They sensed this and opened up to her. They talked to her — most men would tell her anything. Even Les had dropped most of his defenses. He had talked to her day after day, night after night. He had given her everything imaginable to figure him out, and when he knew that she had, he left. While she thought she was explaining things, in his mind she was creating chaos: he had secretly wanted her to consider the evidence, and tell him that he was larger than life. He had not been drawn to her rational mind at all; he had been drawn to the idea of proving that she was romantic.
Hildon hated Les — hated him out of all proportion, even. That was Hildon’s own insecurity: his fear that Lucy would prefer to analyze Les’s angst instead of playing games with him. He might have been right, if Les and all the men like him had not exhausted her. She had actually come to like the way she felt now that she had short-circuited.
Lucy pulled into the airport parking lot. She had forgotten her sunglasses and the glare had given her a headache. A redwing blackbird flew up and slanted away; it had the trajectory of a bullet, heading for the trees at the side of the parking lot.
She was twenty minutes early. A man in gym shorts and a long-sleeved, embroidered Greek shirt was talking to his son, who sat on his knee. “You don’t bite,” he said. “It hurts when you bite.” The baby, who knew he was being criticized, lit up with the Smile of the Sprite. He puckered his lips and kissed the air. “That’s right,” the man said. “Kisses, not bites.” The baby shifted on the man’s knee. “What does the cow say?” the man said. “Moo,” the baby said. “What does the doggie say?” “Arby,” the baby said. “That’s right. Arby the dog. But what does the doggie say?” “Woof, woof,” the baby said. The baby leaned into its father’s face. “Cows may noise,” the baby said. The baby arched back, and his father grabbed him around the waist just in time.
Lucy hadn’t seen Nicole in more than a year. Since Les left, she had not seen anyone but Hildon with any regularity. She was wondering if this was the place to be anymore; it was the place Les had wanted to be. She didn’t even know where Les was. When the plane landed, Nicole was one of the first off. The baby in the white baptismal dress who had once toppled into her lap was now descending the stairs, a bright pink gauze sundress blowing up around her. In spite of all the times she had watched her on television and at the movies, it did not really register that her niece could be a star. It was hard to realize that other people knew Nicole, other people saw her perform. A man in a seersucker jacket was talking animatedly to Nicole. When Lucy held open her arms to catch Nicole, he seemed rather disappointed. The man was clutching an air sickness bag that Nicole had autographed. “Oh, Lucy, it’s so sad — this man’s neighbor has a son, and the son has muscular dystrophy and he has to sit in a wheelchair and wear a helmet, and I’m his favorite actress.” The man smiled and looked apologetic at the same time. He thanked Nicole, backing away, smiling at Lucy, colliding with the man holding the baby as he walked backward. “Boom,” the baby said.
“Listen,” Nicole said, brushing her hair out of her face, “I hope you’re not going to be really mad. The maid quit. We don’t have a maid. Mom had it all worked out with Piggy that he was going to take St. Francis, but Piggy had to fly to Hawaii. Mom said you wouldn’t die if I brought the dog. Oh, I love the dog so much. He doesn’t cause any trouble. Piggy took us to the vet and they gave poor St. Francis a shot. He’s in a cage. Whether you like it or not, I’ve got him. Mom gave me money to put him in a kennel if it will really upset you, but please say that he can stay with me. Please, please.”
Lucy tried to take in Nicole’s rush of words. She had brought the dog. Why hadn’t Jane kept the dog? Why did anyone think she would care if Nicole had the dog? Where was the dog?
“You’re going to think this is really awful, but Mom’s in love. He’s a tennis player, and he’s twenty-five years old, and they’re going to the Inn at Ojai and everything, and Mom just didn’t have anyplace to put poor St. Francis but a kennel where he got gross fleas …”
“Twenty-five?” Lucy said.
“Mom said not to tell you — oh, he’s sort of neat. He’s taught me all this stuff about playing tennis. He’s very handsome. He might be twenty-four and he’s going to be twenty-five. This weekend is his birthday, and he was going to introduce me to Chris Evert, but I had my ticket and everything, and they were going to Ojai the next day and everything.”
Nicole spotted St. Francis’ cage. It was gigantic. She and Nicole had to tug together to pull it off the conveyor belt. “I can do it, oh, let me do it!” Nicole said. She began to unfasten the cage. When the top was lifted, St. Francis shook himself and fell against one side of the cage. Nicole put her arms around his neck. “Oh, I love you, St. Francis. You’re all right. You’re in Vermont now.” The dog’s eyes were bloodshot. He tried to stand, and thumped down again. “Is he ever going to forgive us?” Nicole said.
That afternoon, as the tranquilizer wore off, St. Francis dug up a rhododendron. For an encore, he treed the neighbor’s cat and killed a frog and dropped it on the doorstep. He peed against the side of the house, under the kitchen window, and ate no dinner. He was the quintessential villainous dog. As Nicole said, he was “a good boy.”
5
EDWARD BARTLETT greeted the morning by stretching through the motions of the Sun Salutation. He had brought his own juicer with him. That morning he had concocted, for the three of them, a mixture of fresh orange juice, lemon, Perrier, ice, bananas and protein powder. With his, he swallowed some vitamins in the shape of Flintstones characters. He washed Fred and Wilma down the alimentary and went out into the backyard to do aerobics. When he finished, he changed from his sweatsuit to his business clothes: khaki cut-offs, Nikes, and a recently purchased T-shirt that said: VERMONT — CAN 339,000 cows BE WRONG?