Love Love (17 page)

                     
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1 1/2 cups of dry food

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

             
   
QUICK WALK—NIGHT

                     
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take her out so she can pee

Her control-freak brother, doing what he did best. At the beginning of each line item was an empty checkbox. Did he actually expect her to take a pen and make a mark as she completed each task? If so, he could just shove it.

Granted, the last time Judy house-sat for him, there was an incident. Snaps ended up peeing in the downstairs bathroom because Judy had forgotten to walk her that afternoon, which was totally bullshit because
she hadn't forgotten, she'd simply chose to delay it a little because it was the season finale of
Lost
and she had to watch the clips episode before it because there were a gazillion characters and more side plots than all the daytime soaps put together, and as for the finale itself, she couldn't miss even a minute because if she did, the show's title would become even more apt.

“What, you think I'm gonna screw up again?” Judy asked.

“No,” Kevin answered, “of course not,” and now his voice shifted again, this time to that of a placating big brother. These sheets of paper weren't just a collection of stupid checklists but also a time machine. Throughout her adolescence, those empty squares were always ready to report some future failure of hers. Kevin and her dad were the ones crafting these checklists and sticking them on the fridge, a happy fruit-shaped magnet clip (winking apple, grinning banana, laughing pineapple) holding up a clean white page with bold black letters, announcing chores that had to be done, family trips that necessitated preparation, groceries needed for the coming week.

She tossed the stack back on the counter, the sheets fanning out.

“You don't have to use them if you don't want to,” Kevin said. He picked them up and piled them straight again.

“It's like you expect me to fail.”

“You're reading way too much into this. I just want to make sure you take care of Snaps.”

“If people expected more of me, I would give more of myself. It's a two-way street.”

“Well, there was that accident last time . . .”

“See? That's all you remember. How about the fact that for the other six days, I was a spectacular success? Isn't that worth remembering?”

Snaps sauntered in, a stuffed duck in her mouth, because Judy had raised her voice. She remembered Kevin telling her how Snaps always appeared whenever he and Alice argued, almost as if she wanted to referee the verbal bout, though to Judy, the dog hardly looked like an official, circling twice and plopping on the rug underneath the breakfast table, peeking up at Judy and Kevin with doleful eyes. She let out a long, heavy sigh. If anything, Snaps looked sad and tired, like an old lady sitting at a bus stop. Kevin probably hadn't noticed since he lived with the animal, but Judy could see how much his dog had aged since the last time she'd seen her, her muzzle almost entirely white now, a shaky stutter in her hind legs.

“How long do German shepherds usually live?” Judy asked.

“What the hell kind of a question is that?”

“Jesus. Never mind.” With her luck, Snaps would probably keel over dead while her brother was roaming the streets of San Francisco.

He squatted down and gave the back of Snaps's head a good scratch, and the dog lifted her chin in bliss. She might not have that much longer to go, but she sure knew how to enjoy life. Maybe in the week Judy was going to stay here, she could pick up some tips from the old dog.

“So you're all packed up?”

“Just about,” Kevin said. “It's been a while since I went anywhere.”

“You used to go away all the time,” Judy said. “When you were playing those satellite tournaments.”

Kevin rose and walked over to the garbage can. His fingers were laced with dog hair. “Can you brush her? Just a couple of times will do.”

“I don't know,” Judy said. “It's not on the list.”

Kevin gave her a look that took her back, an impatient, exasperated raising of one eyebrow he used to level on her when they were kids. It made her happy to see it.

“You remember those trips I took?” he asked. “I only signed up for three of them. To give you an idea how long ago that was, satellite tournaments don't exist anymore. They're called Futures now.”

“Futures,” Judy said. “I like it. Sounds more hopeful.”

“If you win.”

She watched him add last-minute toiletries into his suitcase: an electric shaver with its cord wrapped around itself, a bottle of Pert Plus shampoo, a half-squeezed tube of Aquafresh toothpaste. She had to laugh.

“What's so funny?” Kevin asked.

“That's what you used when we were kids, the same exact brands.”

He shrugged. “If I like something, I stick with it.”

Her brother did have a knack for sticking with things. It was how he became such a good tennis player, staying out on the courts for six, seven hours a day to practice, hitting the balls until their fuzz wore off, downing gallons of water to stay hydrated during those scorching summer days. After high school, she'd seen him play twice, the first time at Penn State, where he handily beat his opponent on a muggy morning for the state title, a guy tall enough to play professional basketball. But
the second time, at an indoor satellite tournament in Pittsburgh, it was a completely different story. Kevin lost in less than an hour to a bald man, a wily veteran who'd stuck around just to screw with the kids' chances, at least that's what it seemed like to Judy. The guy didn't hit half as hard as Kevin but he knew the angles, and the number of times he lobbed a ball just out of Kevin's reach—it was as if she were seeing two completely different games being played. She wished there was something she could do beyond clapping and hoping.

Kevin was now upstairs, his footsteps creaking the boards above. This was what she got for coming early to pick him up and drop him off at the airport, all this useless waiting. But she'd wanted to give him the right impression, that she would take care of his house and his precious dog in his absence.

“Snaps,” she said, who was lying on her side with her legs stretched out, the epitome of relaxation. The dog looked clumsy getting up from her repose, and one of her limbs made a knuckle-cracking sound, but still she putt-putted her way over and sat up straight.

Judy stroked the back of Snaps's head and stared into her milky brown eyes. She'd seen on a PBS program that petting a dog lowered your blood pressure and made you live longer. It seemed like bunk, but as she sat and felt the softness of Snaps's fur on her palm, she noticed the repetition of the motion itself was like a mantra, and then there was the immediate feedback, too, that something Judy was doing was very obviously having a positive effect on a living creature. Still, a dog was a lot of work, but a cat like Roger's? Momo never needed to be walked and he went to the bathroom by himself. She would ask Roger about his cat when he'd come over later for dinner. Tomorrow made it a week since their first date, but it felt as if she'd been with him for much longer. Was that good or bad?

Snaps broke away from her and bounded to the bottom of the staircase, her tail wagging. Kevin appeared moments later holding what resembled a palm-size tennis racquet, except without strings.

“I knew I'd forget this,” he said, finding the bag of toiletries in his suitcase.

“Your good-luck mini-racquet charm?”

“It's my tongue scraper,” he said, examining the green plastic object under the kitchen lights. “That's weird. I never thought it looked like a racquet.”

“When did you start scraping your tongue?”

Kevin said nothing and slipped the device into his bag.

Alice, of course, and Judy wished she hadn't asked. These are the gifts we're left with when our loved ones leave us—a tongue scraper for Kevin, a press pot for her. Before Brian, she'd brewed her coffee with a coffee maker, but after he showed her his French coffee maker, she never went back. Now she couldn't imagine making coffee without pressing down on that plunger, and she was sure Kevin would never consider his mouth clean without having his tongue scraped.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said. “I saw Alice.”

He froze. “When?”

“Monday. At Wegmans.”

“Oh,” he said, and he brought both of the zipper handles to the top.

“You saw her in the morning, and I saw her in the evening.”

He looked away, embarrassed. “So you spoke with her.”

She wanted to tell Kevin that Alice was moving to Boston, but she couldn't do it. It was the way he was standing there, holding on to the handle of the suitcase, almost for support.

“She's not seeing anyone,” Judy said.

“Is that what she told you?”

Her face got hot. “What do you mean?”

“In her office, there was a picture on her computer, with some guy. Some Eurotrash asshole.”

“That doesn't mean . . .”

“Oh, please,” Kevin said, and he yanked on his suitcase. “You didn't see the picture. They weren't pen pals. Come on, we're gonna be late. I can't believe she'd bullshit you like that.”

Judy followed him out and didn't know what to say. Maybe it was better that he was now angry at Alice. At least this is what she told herself to stave off the guilt.

He shoved his suitcase into the trunk and got in. The car was cold, her breath fogging up the side window. She cranked the engine.

“It doesn't surprise me she lied to you,” Kevin said. “She probably just wanted to get away and do her shopping.”

“Oh,” Judy said. “I see.” Though she didn't see.

“She never really liked you. Or anyone in our family. Or me, for that matter, obviously.”

Judy knew Kevin was just angry, but his words still hurt. Alice never liked her, probably complained about her behind her back after all those holiday get-togethers. Judy could see it, Alice prettily sitting
on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair and telling Kevin what a screw-up his little sister was, how annoying it was that she had to sit next to her and listen to some sorry story in her stupid life.

“Fucking bitch,” Judy said.

“Right on, sister.”

She slammed on the accelerator hard enough to sink them both into their seats.

J
udy parked the car at the curb of Terminal C, the passenger drop-off section of Newark Airport. Kevin yanked out his suitcase and gave her a quick hug.

“A week and a day from today,” he said.

“Okay,” she told him. She couldn't help but think of the last time she was here at the airport, with Brian. She'd kissed him, he'd waved good-bye, and then she never saw him again. The more she tried to fight the tears, the more she cried, so she stood in front of her departing brother and just let herself weep as cold rain fell.