Alice Fantastic (7 page)

Night had fallen and the daytime bustle of trucks and commerce had died down. There was pink at the sky's edges, the rest was swallowed in ink.

I didn't feel like I'd just made twenty-one thousand dollars.

As Candy and I climbed back up the stairs to the apartment, I could hear the phone ringing. I jammed my key in the door, got it open, and raced to the phone.

“Yeah,” I said, expecting Abe or Clayton.

“Miss Hunter?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Humane Officer Serling from the ASPCA.”

“Oh, hi, yes, is the dog okay?”

“He's doing all right, yes. Not great. Had some internal injuries. But he made it through surgery and is recovering well. Thank you for your help. But that's not why I'm calling.”

“Oh?”

“William Nichols asked me to give you his phone number.”

“Who?”

“The man who was with you with the battered dog? He said he had something important to tell you. Asked for your number. I wasn't going to give out your number but said I'd pass his along to you.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure what to think, “okay.” I wrote down the number. Humane Officer Serling and I spoke about the dog a little longer. He told me that, after fully recovering, the dog would be evaluated by the adoption experts and, providing he didn't have any insurmountable issues, be put into the adoption pool. And no. He would not be put to death.

I hung up and stared at the piece of paper where I'd written down the lunatic's phone number. What did he want?

I dialed.

“Yes?” He sounded terse.

“This is Alice Hunter. From Central Park. The dog.”

“Thanks for calling.”

“What's up?”

“I think we should get some coffee. We experienced a strange slice of life together. We should discuss.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said.

I shrugged. Then realized he couldn't see me.

“Okay,” I said. “When?”

“I have some free time tonight.”

“Ah.”

“Ah? Is that a
yes
or a
buzz off you jackass
?”

“A yes.” I felt a curious tingling in my spine. I thought of Clayton in his parking lot.

William told me he had a car and could come over to Long Island City. I told him about the café around the corner and we agreed to meet there at 9:00.

I was surprised when I walked into the café and realized William Nichols was attractive. He was long and lanky. His hair was brown going gray, eyes brown and a little slanted.

We shook hands. He had big, slightly beat-up hands.

I thought about Clayton's hands. They were a different kind of big.

“I felt like we should debrief,” William said.

“The thought occurred to me when we were still in the park. Maybe we should make a pact for future rescue missions,” I suggested.

“No. I don't want to see that kind of thing again.”

“You're right. I don't either. Bad idea. Let's think of something else.”

He laughed. His eyes lit up. He had a gap between his front teeth.

The waitress, a tiny Goth girl with pierced eyebrows, took our coffee orders.

“Did the humane officer tell you about the dog's surgery?” William asked.

“Yeah. Said there were internal injuries but the dog made it through okay.”

“And will be evaluated and put into the adoption pool.”

“Yes,” I said.

“It's strange to consider the effort that's gone to taking care of this animal. I'm all for it and more, but a corresponding humane treatment of humans would be a nice thing.”

“I'm all for the humane treatment of small humans or old humans, but I guess I don't have a lot of mercy for those in-between humans who are doing awful things. Like whoever beat that dog. He'll probably go and get another dog and start the cycle all over again. Or evolve up the food chain and start beating up women and kids.”

William nodded. “True. I'm just wondering why it's generally easier to treat animals well than it is to treat humans well. I'd say that it's the fur, but I'm not inclined to be all that nice to really hairy people.”

I laughed. And speculated about when I would announce that I have a live-in felon boyfriend.

“You have a spouse,” he said then, apparently clairvoyant as well as attractive and ethically responsible.

“A spouse? Like a husband ? No.”

“A paramour. A devotee.”

“That's more like it. Yes.”

“Live-in?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn't make me happy.”

“Me either.”

He smiled, then frowned. “Then why do you have him?”

“It just happened.”

“You don't strike me as a person who just lets things happen.”

“You'd be surprised. I can be slothful about certain things. I hope that doesn't disappoint you.”

He said nothing.

The Goth girl brought our coffee and we sipped in silence for a few minutes.

He asked what I do for a living. I shrugged and told him, expecting the traditional response, the one where people act as if I've just admitted to raging leprosy or an active heroin addiction. But not William. He was fascinated.

“And you?” I asked, after I'd gone into the particulars of my work.

“Architect. As you may have guessed by now.”

“Guessed why?”

“My stern and organized personality.”

“I just thought you were German.”

He laughed. We sure were laughing a lot.

“Now what?” I asked after I'd had half my coffee.

“We've debriefed, I suppose.”

“And that's it?”

“You're encumbered.”

“Encumbered?”

“The paramour slash devotee.”

“Right,” I said.

William paid for our coffees then walked me home. We reached my stoop and stood staring at each other. My eyes drifted to his neck. The skin was very soft looking.

“Can I kiss your neck?”

He tilted his head. “I typically don't allow women who are otherwise encumbered to nuzzle on my person.”

“Right,” I said.

“But I might be persuaded to make an exception.”

He leaned over and kissed me, softly. Then lingering. Then lips parting. The taste of his tongue. The smell of his skin. My knees literally weakened.

When we finally pulled apart, I weaved slightly, dazed.

“Okay,” he said, “see ya.”

“See ya.” I turned and stuck my key in the door. I climbed up to my apartment. Candy danced. I patted her and scratched her neck. I sat down at the kitchen table, put my head in my hands, and moaned.

The phone rang.

“Yes,” I said breathlessly, eagerly, hungrily.

“Hi, Alice,” came Clayton's low and slow voice.

A deflated “Oh” escaped my lips.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Are you all right?”

“Just wallowing in self-pity in the parking lot.”

I smiled. Then realized he couldn't see me smiling. “You don't have to do that,” I said.

“Okay. Is it all right if I come over?”

“You do actually live here.”

“I know, but I shouldn't. I forced myself on you. Repeatedly.”

“That's not entirely true.”

“But it's sort of true?”

“No, Clayton, no. Just come home already, will you?”

I hung up the phone.

I closed my eyes.

4. KIMBERLY

C
arlos, the Chihuahua, was barking frenetically and Jimmy, the Newfoundland mix, was spinning around in circles in the living room of my Woodstock house. The misbehavior of the disparately sized dogs incited the fifteen other dogs to riot as my girlfriend, Betina, a German blonde, stood naked in the middle of the room. She was staring ahead and leaning as far to one side as a person can lean without falling over.

“Betina,” I said, but I spoke too softly, she couldn't hear me over the din of the dogs.

For a moment, I blocked out the sound of the animals and just watched Betina. Her long limbs were bronzed even though they hadn't seen sun in months. Her belly had a tiny bit of pouching, as if she'd gorged on cookie dough while I was out earlier. She was lovely. And she was sick.

I imagined Joe, the composer living in the little wooden house next door, gazing into my window and getting quite a show.

“Betina,” I said again, coming to stand right in front of her.

She looked past me. She was smiling slightly, maybe watching some inner film, something starring Klaus Kinski, with whom she'd had a childhood obsession.

“Bee.” I reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

She jumped and her eyes focused on me.

“Kimberly,” she said.

“What's wrong, darling? What did you take?”

“Take?” She tilted her head.

“Let's get you to bed,” I said gently, fearing a bad reaction from her. Sometimes she goes ballistic at any suggestion, no matter how reasonable.

“Okay,” she said in a soft voice.

As we slowly walked from the living room toward the stairs, I glanced out the window and, sure enough, saw my neighbor Joe gazing over at us. He quickly looked away.

After I'd settled Betina into a nest of blankets on our king-sized bed, she admitted to having popped four Vicodins. At least she hadn't taken too many psychiatric meds. Those scare me more than Vicodin.

“Where'd you get Vicodin, Bee?”

“It's a secret.” She giggled, then let her head fall back. Her blond hair went spilling all over the pillow.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” I asked. “I need to get the dogs out to run.”

“Mmm,” she sighed. Her eyes had already closed.

For a few minutes, I stood watching her features melt. She was on more meds than I could possibly name. There was an eating disorder, depression, manic episodes. Various doctors and drugs had kept her propped up through a successful modeling career, but once she hit age twenty-seven and went from a size zero to a size two, she started unraveling. Which is just when I met her.

She was sound asleep now. I tiptoed from the room then went downstairs, dogs at my heels. All those brown eyes staring. The smell of dogness permeating everything. I meant to march to the kitchen and begin leashing dogs for the walk but I felt so heavy, so exhausted. I plunked down onto the couch and was immediately blanketed by dogs. Chico and Harvey, two unrelated but same-colored caramel pit bulls, wedged between the back of the couch and my side. Jimmy, the Newfoundland, tried to lick my face, and Ira, the three-legged hound mix, stood balefully to the side, shimmering with the need for attention but too polite to throw himself at me like the others.

“Come here, buddy,” I said, looking at Ira and patting the couch.

He came over. More graceful and agile on three legs than some dogs are on four. He peered at me with undiluted love pouring from his enormous eyes. I petted his face and his long, silky, spotted ears. He was the most well-adjusted and well-behaved of the pack but no one was ever interested in taking him and I had long stopped talking him up to potential adopters. I rarely admitted it, but I didn't want to give him up.

While the four dogs around me were contented, the rest were dancing and fidgeting. I had to get up off the couch and take them out.

I'd just managed to stand up when the phone rang.

“Hi, Mom.” It was my younger daughter, Eloise.

“Eloise. Hi.”

“I'm on the bus. I'll be at your house in two hours. I was going to do an unscheduled drop-in to see how well you like it when the shoe is on the other foot, but I didn't want to find you doing anything nefarious, so I decided to warn you.”

“There is nothing nefarious about me, Eloise, surely you know that by now. And I'm thrilled that you're coming up,” I said, though this wasn't strictly true in light of Betina's meltdown. “I should warn you that my girlfriend is, um …”

“Off her meds?”

“No. On too many.”

“Oh.”

There was no love lost between Eloise and Betina. They'd met only twice and it hadn't gone well either time.

“I know you don't like her, Eloise, but please try to be nice.”

“She's fine, Mom. She's just ditzy. But I'll be nice.”

“Betina is a very intelligent woman,” I said defensively.

It was possible this was true, but Betina had never been emotionally well enough to demonstrate much depth of character. She was too full of need. And I'd fallen for that. “By the way, Eloise,” I added, “why are you coming here? Are you all right? Are you still shaken about the trapeze instructor?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Of course not. But I know you. Nothing short of disaster would motivate you to come see your poor old mother in the woods.”

“I am still shaken about Indio. And I've had my heart broken by a new guy.”

“Oh, Eloise, I'm so sorry.”

“It's fine,” my daughter said. “I'll see you in two hours, Mom. I'll take a cab from the bus stop.”

“I could come get you.”

“I know you could. But you have all those savage beasts to tend to. I'll take a cab.”

After hanging up, I tiptoed back upstairs to make sure Betina was still sleeping. She was on her back, looking rubbery and very much asleep.

I put a few dogs on the back porch and some others in the guest room then leashed the rest and led them to the dog van, a big old purple Econoline from the 1980s. It isn't pretty and it smells terrible, but it's the only way I can shuttle half a dozen dogs at a time to the various trails and parks I take them.

Jimmy and Chico and Harvey and Arturo and Ira and Lucy and Carlos all arranged themselves in the back of the van, with Carlos waiting exactly three seconds before jumping into the front passenger seat then growling toothlessly at any other dog who dreamed of trying to join him there. Of course, the rest of the dogs knew that Carlos didn't have the firepower in his twelve-pound body to back up his threats, but they deferred to him for reasons I didn't entirely understand.

As I went to turn the key in the ignition, I worried about leaving Betina alone in her condition. I pictured her wandering out of the house and down Byrdcliffe Road, half-naked and stoned. I got back out of the van and, as all the dogs gave me solemn, guilt-inducing looks, went next door to Joe's house.

Joe's is a brown wood-shingled house with purple trim. It looks like something out of a demented fairy tale, particularly when one gets close enough to hear the swells of piano music coming from its entrails.

Whatever Joe was playing sounded beautiful, and for a moment I stood on his front porch listening. I felt bad interrupting but he had, time and again, told me he welcomes interruptions. And this would be the first. I waited for a lull in his playing and pounded on the door. I heard him make some loud exclamation then come running.

He pulled the door open and blinked out at me. “What's wrong?”

“Oh, I didn't mean to scare you, sorry.”

“I'm sorry I was looking at your naked girlfriend,” Joe blurted out. He even blushed slightly, which was an odd thing to witness on a man in his fifties.

“I don't devote my time to spying on you two, but I just happened to glance out the window and there she was. It was difficult not to notice.” He looked so sheepish; his rugged face, which always looks hangdog anyway, was really hanging now. His graying brown hair was falling into his eyes, his broad shoulders sagged.

“I know. I didn't come over to upbraid you. I'm worried about her and am wondering if you could check on her.”

I explained what had happened and asked if he could look in on her in half an hour.

He solemnly told me he would keep an eye on her.

“Not too close an eye, she's all doped up. If she tries throwing herself at you, please don't succumb to her.”

“I would most certainly not succumb to your girlfriend.”

“Why? She's not cute enough for you?” I was suddenly incensed.

“Kim,” he said, exasperated, “she's your girlfriend! I like you too much to mess around with your girlfriend. Anyway, you're more my type.”

“Since when do you prefer short fifty-three-year-olds to lithe young blondes?”

“I mean emotionally. Betina is a bit … well, I don't know. I just paid you a compliment. Must you put me on the spot?”

“Sorry,” I said. “And thank you.”

I walked back to my van. The dogs all danced. With the exception of Carlos, who was trying to take up as much of the passenger seat as possible.

I drove down the hill, onto Glasco Turnpike, then took Route 212 to Rabbit Hole, a winding road flanked by state land on one side and a rushing creek on the other. Just three miles long, it ends at the trailhead of a massive nature preserve. It's my favorite spot to take the dogs as very few out-of-towners know of or use the trail and, most days, I have the whole gorgeous place to myself.

I let the beasts out of the van and they tumbled forth into the bright spring day. Most of them knew the way but I had to keep Arturo, the Italian greyhound, on a leash since I'd only had him a few days and had no idea if he'd come back if I let him loose in the woods.

We walked along for a half mile until we reached the creek. The only way across was to either wade through the icy, rushing, thigh-high water or hop from one rock to the next. Two of the dogs sloshed through, the others jumped rock to rock. I hopped, with Arturo clutched under one arm. I thought of the time I'd brought my daughters on this trail. Alice had turned up her nose at the idea of jumping across mossy rocks while Eloise gamely hopped in spite of the physical problems that have plagued her ever since she fell in a manhole. Alice eventually deigned to make the crossing and did it effortlessly as she does most things once she puts her mind to them.

The dogs were all bounding up the narrow, lush trail. To the left, the creek roared, savage after days of rain. To the right, mossy hills rose up and slender waterfalls spouted from their sides. The pack and I had been walking for at least an hour before I thought of Betina. I felt guilty realizing I hadn't worried about her all this time and decided to turn back. I picked up the pace and soon we had arrived back at the creek crossing. As I stood, trying to remember which rocks I'd hopped across the first time, I saw a tall woman purposefully striding along the trail on the other side of the creek. She was carrying something that looked like a dollhouse and, as I pondered what anyone would be doing carrying a dollhouse on a hiking trail several miles deep into the woods, she gracefully hopped from rock to rock, crossing the creek in three bounds.

“Hello!” she said brightly.

“Hi,” I said back. She was very pretty. Tall with long blond hair. Dressed sensibly but not cheaply. There was something familiar about her.

“What beauties!” she said, bending down to pet Harvey. “Oh, and aren't you exquisite,” she added, delicately patting the top of Arturo's head.

I worried that the nervous little dog would bite her out of fear, but he seemed in awe of this leggy woman who was, I realized, carrying a gingerbread house. This was really no better than a dollhouse on the scale of appropriate things to carry on a trail. And I kept waiting, as the woman and I chatted about the dogs, for her to explain why she was carrying such a thing. She did not volunteer this information.

“What are you doing with a gingerbread house?” I finally asked.

“Oh,” she said, looking down at it and smiling, “I'm taking it to the lean-to up the trail.”

“Ah,” I said. Her explanation was even more bizarre than the act of carrying a gingerbread house, but now I was stunned by the realization that this leggy, gingerbread-house-carrying woman was in fact Ava Larkin, the movie star. I don't know why I hadn't put it together sooner. It was common knowledge that she owned a beautiful farmhouse on Rabbit Hole Road. I just hadn't expected to find a certified movie star striding down the trail. And she wasn't acting like a movie star. Not that I really knew what movie stars acted like. Alice briefly dated one. He had worn a baseball cap and sunglasses everywhere he went and that was about all I had determined about him before my daughter broke it off when he professed his love.

“I'm Ava,” Ava Larkin said after we chatted for a few more minutes.

“Yes, I just realized who you are. I'm Kimberly Hunter.”

“Nice name.”

“You too.”

Ava Larkin decided to abort her mission of transporting the gingerbread house to the lean-to and instead accompanied the dogs and me back toward the trailhead, gabbing away. Maybe she was starved for company. Maybe she had to stay locked up in her house on Rabbit Hole Road lest lunatics accost her. Whatever the case, she was easy to talk to. She loved dogs, animals of all kinds, she said. She was a Buddhist and had a regular yoga practice. She was, essentially, standard Woodstock fare. Except for the movie star part.

She was only in Woodstock a little while longer then had to fly to Canada to work on a film.

“Some asshole who wants to fuck me is directing,” she said. Her pretty, pale face suddenly hardened, the blue eyes narrowed, and the astonishing cheekbones looked like they'd hurt you. It was odd to hear her suddenly using strong language; she'd seemed so gentle and mild-mannered.