The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets (25 page)

Winnie stopped by the front door. “I'm going now,” she said. “It's been an interesting day. Let's get together soon.”

She confused him. At first he wanted to just say goodbye. Watching her go would be a relief. But why was she leaving? She opened the front door. The screen door was crooked; Mary had pulled it off the hinge or something. Damn her.

“No,” he said.

“Thank you so much,” Winnie smiled at him. “See you soon.”

She had one hand on the doorjamb. She used the other hand
to give him a little wave. She was waving at him? He dropped the bowl and slammed the door shut. He had to, he had to, and he caught her hand. She howled. She could not get it free. He held the door closed. She would have to ask him.

“What do you want?” he said and he meant so much more than opening the door, or her hand or to leave. He wanted her to be happy, he wanted to give her everything she wanted so she would stay. “What?” He had to yell to be heard over her shrieking. “Tell me.”

“Open the door,” she cried.

He opened the door, she pulled her hand free and he yanked her back and knocked the door shut. She balled up her other hand and hit him in the face. It surprised him and it hurt and before she could do it again, he grabbed both her hands and squeezed.

She screamed. “My hand!”

“I thought we were friends.”

“Let go!”

“Be quiet,” he said. “You promised me—”

“Let go of my hand!” She stopped screaming. “Please.”

Her hand, the one that got stuck in the door, was darkening, purple and black rolling in like spilled grape juice across a tablecloth. It made him angry to see it. She was so damn stupid. He squeezed a little harder. “Now we have to clean up more mess.”

He tried to push her to the floor. She stumbled, but remained standing.

He gestured to the spilled bowl of dirty water and vegetables. “Now clean that up!”

She faced him. “Why should I?”

She was his helper. She was his friend. He could smell the soup and the dishwashing soap and something else from the hallway, something disgusting like piss and shit mixed with
ammonia. Like the port o' potties at the carnival. Winnie's face was red and angry and ugly. He held her purple hand in his sweaty palm. Lacy would not be happy when she saw her mother. But it was not his fault. Winnie had done this to herself. Lacy would have to understand.

Oren closed his eyes. He tried to call up the image he had of all of them around the dinner table. Of the three of them smiling and laughing together. He forced his breath to slow, the picture to come. Lacy had her hand on his. Lacy's eyes were shining. He offered her a glass of wine and she refused. Then she blushed, shyly, and leaned forward so her breath moved the candlelight. “I'm pregnant,” she whispered to them both. “I'm going to have a baby.”

He opened his eyes. He had Mary in the back room. He had Winnie in front of him. There was dirt on the carpet. But soon it would not matter. Soon, they would all be together. In his mind's picture, he added Mary and a new boyfriend for her at the table. They would be a happy family. He tried to smile at Winnie.

“It's okay,” he said. “We're getting to know each other. Don't worry. We'll all be together soon.”

Lacy drifted toward the music room. She was late for orchestra. But was there something else she should be doing? She held her phone in one hand and her flute in the other. Then she stopped. She had left her locker open. She had not even closed the door. She turned around and headed back down the hall to her locker.

Two girls walked toward her. They stared at her so strangely. Lacy blushed. Could they tell she was not a virgin anymore?

An image of Buster spun into her mind, and the scary gang guys, and a little deformed glass dog. Buster's bed and room. The smell of his pillow. His finger inside her.

One of the girls put a hand on her arm.

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Maybe you should go to the office.”

“Why?”

The girls exchanged a glance. There was something really wrong with her; Lacy could see it on their faces.

“Come on,” one girl said.

“We'll take you,” the other one said.

Lacy recognized them. Younger girls, ninth graders. They were best friends, always together.

They each took an arm and pulled her toward the office. She was afraid to go. She had lost her virginity and now she was sick or something because of it and everyone would know. She
wanted Buster to come pick her up right away, but he had lost his cell phone. The office would call her mother—and Winnie would be so disappointed in her. When Buster came later to get her and she was gone, he would be so sad. He would think she didn't like him anymore.

Please don't call my mother, she thought. I can't let them call her.

“I'm late.”

She pulled her arms free, turned and ran to orchestra.

“I want to go home.” Winnie whispered, but every damaged bone and muscle, every nerve, even her blood was screaming, “I want to go home.”

It was all she wanted. Home. With the damn dog, the dirt, her daughter. Oh God, Lacy. Lacy. Lacy. She closed her eyes and leaned her face against Oren's chest, just above the scoop neck of his undershirt. His skin was damp and cool. His sparse red hairs tickled her cheek. If only his body would listen—not his mind, but his body—he would respond. His heart would hear hers crying and reach to it.

“I'll take you with me,” she said.

She could take him home with her. They would stand together at her kitchen window and stare out at the hazy Los Angeles sky and the ugly telephone wires. Together they would go to the foot of the stairs and yell at Lacy to get up for school. He could hear them argue about vegetables and cigarettes and homework. She would teach him to fold the laundry—just so—and together they would open Lacy's bottom drawer to put the clean clothes away and together they would sigh at the chaos inside. He could be with her at home. She found his hand and held it. When Lacy was a baby, her fingers curled around Winnie's pinkie and her grip was so strong. She nodded against Oren's chest. She wanted to bury her face in her daughter's pillow and breathe in her smell, the vanilla oil and the watermelon
shampoo and even the smoke, but also the baby girl she had been. Still there. Still there.

“Oren,” Winnie said, her voice muffled against his chest. “I lied to you.”

“What a surprise.”

“I was scared, I'm sorry. But listen, listen, I have to go home. My daughter, she's not all grown up. She's young. She needs me.”

Oren took a deep breath. He didn't mind her sweaty cheek against his skin or even holding her hand. His other hand gently patted her back. He was so glad she was telling him the truth. It was the beginning. Now she would confess all the terrible things she had done to Lacy, the abuse, the punishments. He had her promise, now he would hear the truth.

“Tell me,” he breathed.

“She doesn't live far away. She lives with me.” Winnie stepped away from him to look into his face. “I'm her mother. She's just a girl.”

“Not so young,” Oren disagreed.

“She's a child.”

“She's eighteen.”

Winnie shook her head. “I never said that. Lacy is only sixteen. A baby. So much younger than you.”

But instead of being moved, Oren frowned and all his features went dark. His eyes grew smaller, his lips disappeared. Anger rolled in like a cold front across his freckles.

Winnie backed further away. “I'm sorry I lied to you. I was scared you'd hurt her.”

“Hurt her?”

“You were probably very grown up at sixteen.” She desperately tried to soothe him. “Capable. Independent. She's not. She's young for her age. Maybe she's not as smart as you—”

“How old is she? Tell me the goddamn truth.”

“I swear to you she is only sixteen. She won't be seventeen until April. She's in tenth grade.”

“I thought her birthday was in August. I thought she was a Leo.”

“Why did you think that?”

It seemed he didn't know as much about her as he had implied. He was so confused. Winnie wondered if he had kidnapped the wrong mother. Poor kid. He turned away from her. She saw his hands clench into fists and relax, clench and relax. He was taking deep breaths. He was trying to control himself and she wanted to touch him, to tell him she recognized his effort and appreciated it. He was hardly any older than Lacy. Just a boy in over his head. “Oren?”

He turned and exhaled. “I can do that,” he said slowly and even proudly. “If all you want is to go home, I can give you that. You'll be home tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “Maybe later tonight.”

He gave her a strained little smile. She closed her eyes. She could not bear it. If he was lying to her, she did not want to see it in his eyes. If he was not lying, she did not want to see that either. Kindness as painful as another injury.

“Come on.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Forty-five minutes more and everything will be cleared up. Everything.”

Fucking bitch! Oren screamed to himself. She had told him she was eighteen. She had told him her mother was cruel. She had told him nothing but lies. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Even her birthday was wrong. He told her he had always been attracted to Leos and she'd said her birthday was in August. His dreams evaporated like sweat in the breeze—the cold, shocking breeze of truth. Fuck her. She was too young for him. He called up his picture and saw them sitting around her mother's dining room table. He and Winnie were drinking wine while Lacy was drinking
soda pop. The only thing she leaned forward to whisper was, “I got an A on my history test.” He could take her out for an ice cream cone. That's what he could do for her. A balloon and an ice cream cone. Maybe a ride on the goddamn merry-go-round.

He should just open the door and let Winnie go home. Or he could take her back to the car place. Her car was probably done by now. He could take her out someplace nice for lunch and apologize. She was fine. She looked bad, but it was hot in the house, people always got sweaty when they came over. She tried to smile at him. She swayed on her feet and he reached out and caught her arm to steady her. Fuck! He had nothing to apologize for! It was Lacy! Lacy. She had to get her butt over here to his house and apologize to both of them.

He took out his cell phone. He dialed. She was in orchestra, of course. Her cell phone was off. He sent her a text. “Hey, Baby.” Baby was sarcastic, but she was probably too young to get it. “Come over to my place. Do you know how to drive?” He could not help the anger. He took a deep breath. “Call me for directions.”

It was obvious Winnie did not know what Lacy had been saying about her. Poor Winnie. She was good and nice. She wanted to go home and help that bitch of a daughter. If she only knew. Wait until she found out. Wait until Lacy showed up and Winnie learned what a lying sack of shit her daughter really was. He stepped forward and pulled her to him again. Her forehead was slick against his chest. It made everything hotter to have her against him, but he was sad when she stepped away.

“I told you what I want more than anything in the world.” She smiled at him. “I was honest with you. Tell me, what do you want? What is this all about?”

Nothing. That was what all this was about. But she did not need to know that yet. He could be honest in another way. “I
want you to like me.”

“I do,” she said, “I do like you.” Then her eyes closed and she started to go backwards. He had to catch her to keep her from falling.

“I'm sick,” she whispered. “What's wrong?”

She slid out of his grasp and melted to the floor until she was crouched there. She bent forward and held her stomach.

“What is it? What?”

“It's my hand,” she said. “Can I have some ice?”

“Yes. Yes.” That was easy. That he could do. Her little hand. She had left her hand in the doorjamb and he had to close the door. She should have known better. “Ice,” he said as he pushed into the kitchen.

Cookie looked at him and bobbed his head. It was almost frantic, the bobbing, up and down, up and down.

“Not now,” Oren said.

Cookie bobbed and turned away from him.

“Please. Not now.” He could not stand it if Cookie was mad at him. It would be just too much. He tapped Cookie's tail. Cookie swished it out of reach. “C'mon.”

Cookie's tail went back and forth. Pissed off, Oren could tell, and jealous. Usually when Oren was home all day, he spent a lot of it with Cookie. He tried to stroke Cookie's head, but Cookie turned and snapped. Oren pulled his fingers back just in time.

A wind began in his ears. The room seemed to be spinning, everything spinning inside him and outside.

“Stop it! He shouted to Cookie, to himself, to the room. “Stop it.”

He put his head between his knees. The room slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He stood up and felt the rush of
the blood dropping to his belly. He was getting better. He could control himself. Ice. He was there for ice and Cookie could just go fuck himself.

“Fuck you,” he snarled. His throat closed. He had never sworn at his friend before.

He filled a clean dishtowel with ice cubes and pushed the door open. Winnie was not there. His stomach lurched. Just when he thought he could trust her. He opened his mouth to shout her name and then he saw her. She was sitting on the floor just behind the door with her back against the dining room wall. She had not gone out the garage door, or back to the front door. She was relaxing against the wall. She was waiting for him.

“Ice,” he said to her.

Winnie opened her eyes and looked at Oren. Her kidnapper. She had to remind herself he was a kidnapper. He had gotten ice wrapped in a dishtowel for her. She reached for it with her good hand. He knelt beside her.