The Stager: A Novel (24 page)

The door from the basement opened directly into Bella’s stunning if chaotic kitchen. Cleaned up, it was the sort of kitchen that would have merited a spread or, like her living room, a come-hither centerfold in
MidAtlantic Home
. Among its amenities was a Sub-Zero refrigerator with a glass door, generally an elegant design feature, but in this case not such a good idea: you could see fingerprints all over the glass, plus you could peer straight into the jumbled mess inside. The rest of the kitchen was outfitted with the full orchestra of gleaming, high-end stainless-steel appliances: a restaurant-grade Viking range, a Miele dishwashing machine, a refrigerated wine rack, soapstone countertops, a mosaic of glass tiles for the backsplash, and the perfect, elegant touch of a crystal chandelier. The distinctive beadboard cabinetry was recognizable as almost certainly the work of one of the magazine’s advertisers. Or, rather,
former
magazine.
Former
advertisers. It was breathtaking. Was I so shallow a person that what I envied most about Bella was not her beauty, or her almost unfathomable success, or the fact that her marriage had endured despite the disrespect Bella had shown the institution, or her obvious wealth, or her daughter, or her possession of both my pig and my bed, but her kitchen?

No. But. Still. This all seemed blatantly unfair. It wasn’t as if Bella even cooked! Back when we’d been friends, she’d had trouble using a can opener, and I’d once had to talk her through microwaving a cup of instant soup. Expensive finishings didn’t mean this kitchen was quite ready for prime time, however—it was as cluttered and overly lived in and in need of staging as any of the other rooms in this place. The countertops were jammed with at least a half-dozen high-end small appliances. Was there a personal barista who made cappuccino in the mornings? Was there so much puréeing going on here that the Sorkin-Jorgenson family required not one but two fourteen-cup Cuisinart Elites? Also on display were so many canisters of breakfast cereal it seemed she might be running a bed-and-breakfast. All of this would have to go.

With the rabbit in my arms, I opened the door to the enormous refrigerator, not just grimy with fingerprints but streaked with what was clearly the wrong sort of cleaning formula. I then pulled out the vegetable crisper to see if there was any lettuce I could give the animal, assuming its digestive system wasn’t fried. No lettuce, but I found a bag of wilted carrots, and pulled one out. I wasn’t sure if I needed to wash and peel it first. I decided probably not. I offered the carrot to the rabbit, but it didn’t so much as blink. I tried to insert the carrot in the animal’s mouth, but it wouldn’t unclench its teeth.

I heard voices, and to say that my heart stopped would not technically be to employ a cliché, because I believe that, for a moment, it actually did, and I thought I might faint. Before I could catch my breath and announce my presence, two people, a young girl and a young woman, moved toward the kitchen.

She looked just like the girl in the portrait, except that she was a few years older and now a little on the heavy side. She was clad in a field-hockey uniform and holding a stick. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and affixed with a ribbon, and she had bold blue eyes. Maybe I was projecting this, but she looked to me like a girl who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted from this world, and who would consequently smash you over the head with her hockey stick to get it.

The young woman carried with her the pleasant scent I’d detected in the downstairs bedroom. They were discussing the amount of homework in the child’s backpack, and how long that would take to complete.

I was on the verge of squeezing out the word “hello,” but before I could speak, the girl spotted me and for a split second we locked eyes. She looked at me like I was an ax murderer, or someone who knew the extent of her mother’s capacity to lie. The girl charged at me and screamed the name “Dominique”; the rabbit fell from my arms. The young woman came in behind her and began to scream, too. We all stared at the animal, inert on the floor.

PART III

POOLS OF LIGHT

LARS

In the fine print of the five pages of warnings that accompany the Praxisis refill is the following disclaimer: “In extreme cases, the first-person narration may be told as a story within a story, with the narrator appearing as a character in the story.” I don’t know what this means, but it doesn’t sound good.

Like a neurotic who begins to twitch just hearing about the existence of Tourette’s in the world, I realize this is precisely what’s happening to me—I’m stuck inside my own story and I can’t get out.

“Lighten up, man,” says Dominique, pulling on a Marlboro Light. He scratches his head with his foot, demonstrating an impressive, if unsurprising, limberness, and generates a couple of perfect smoke rings. It has not previously occurred to me that my rabbit might smoke, and his voice, too, is utterly unexpected—not just that he has one, but that he speaks with a slightly Southern accent, and in a frankly grating tone.

“I know it’s bad … It was bad for me, too,” he says. “That’s why I had to get out of that house.”

“It’s a nice house. And we treated you well. Sure, maybe we could have done a better job, but I mean, we did our best. We fed you, we tried to cuddle you. We put little toys in your cage. Let’s be honest—you weren’t a very good pet.”

“Oh,
please
. Let’s not go there, okay? I mean, I get that you guys aren’t bad people. You’re just …
people
. Self-absorbed, stuck in your worldview, unable to think outside the box. That’s all I’m saying.”

Hay and grass, plus the fecal smell of fresh mulch, mingle with the incongruous aroma of fresh-baked sugary things. My stomach rumbles. I’d had dinner on the plane, but I’m still hungry. Losing six hours means I really need dinner twice. Or is it the opposite? Maybe I ate twice but should’ve eaten only once? The math is confusing, especially in my current state; plus, these kinds of complicated logic problems have never been my strong suit. Have I mentioned I was a tennis star once? A whirling dervish in Tretorns? The only math I’d ever needed was to count my cash. Anyway, it hardly matters; whatever time it is in whatever country I’m in, I’m hungry, and I have the sense that here, in the dark, in a field, there will not be a stewardess bearing a tray of food.

It’s a beautiful night, with clear stars and a slim crescent moon. I stick a piece of straw between my teeth and, staring up at the sky, I try to identify the constellations, which is difficult without my glasses. I fumble through my pockets and realize it’s possible that I’ve lost them along the way, probably back at the pharmacy, when I took them out to read the literature that came with my Praxisis. But I’m not going to stress; I’ll take the rabbit’s advice. I’ll lighten up, go with the flow, shed my angst, and pop another pill.

To Dominique I say, “I thought you were … French. Also, I thought you were … I hate to say it and don’t take it the wrong way, but I was under the impression you were dead.”

“Just because you gave me a French name doesn’t make me French. If you’d named me Kyung Don Park, it wouldn’t make me Korean. If you’d named me Veronica, it wouldn’t make me a girl. If you’d named me Honda Odyssey…”

“Okay, I get it. Fair enough, and many apologies. I really don’t remember how you wound up with that name, but I assure you it wasn’t my call. Nothing in that house is ever my call.”

“Oh, poor self-pitying you! But you’ve got no one to blame except yourself for that, man. No one is making you stay with your controlling, cheating wife. But back to my problems—lest I remind you that you wanted to name me Thumper?”

“
Me?
No! That was Elsa!”

“Yeah, but you backed her up. I mean, I probably could have lived with Thumper—at least it’s not pompous. Still, you might have lobbied a little harder for something strong and masculine. My dignity was at stake.”

“I have no memory of this debate.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Your brain is fried, my friend. And you let your wife run the show, so let’s face it, Dominique was a fait accompli. Fancy a spot of tea?”

“You are one asshole rabbit. But I guess we already knew that about you. I assume the tea part is a joke. Unless you have a kettle out here in the middle of wherever it is we are.”

“I can make that happen for you. And I’m not an asshole rabbit, I’m a fucking
wonder
rabbit, my friend. There are many things you don’t know about me. Many things you don’t know about the world, for that matter. You’ve been too lost in yourself, Lars. It could be a television show:
Lost with Lars
. Tonight’s episode would begin:

“Suburban streetscape at night, quiet but for a single taxi, from which our protagonist emerges. He moves with difficulty, obese, arthritic in the knees. He stands before his front door, his shirt untucked, scratching his head, looking extremely confused.”

“As I was saying, you are one mean rabbit. Could I at least point out that I’m not obese? Also, I don’t have arthritis. I blew out my meniscus on the left and…”

“Well, you can have some editorial input, I suppose, given that it’s your story and I don’t want you to sue me, but I think that, clinically speaking, I’m really sorry to say it, you’re obese. I’m just talking facts, Lars, so don’t take it personally. Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled programming: I’m not big on the narrative device of having characters talk to themselves, but in this case it might be unavoidable. We have some problems of exposition, so we need some way to let the audience know that the door to your house—well,
our
house, right?—has been painted a different color, and then, when you turn the key in the lock, you’re even more confused because it fits, but when you look inside, everything is different. You’ll have to say something like ‘Wow, this door used to be the color black! And what happened to my beloved painting? This is my house, but it no longer looks like my house!’ And then you can do something physical to emphasize this, like maybe look confused or scratch your head or … what else do humans do? Maybe put your finger on your chin and raise those furry things above your eyes.”

“My eyebrows?”

“Yeah, those. They need a trim.”

“I don’t want to be mean, but that’s all pretty clunky and forced. I think you want the dialogue to sound more natural. Maybe try using some contractions? My father was a writer, so I know something about this.”

“Yeah, everyone’s a critic! But you try it. It’s a lot harder than it looks. Also, we’ll have to find a way to let them know that Lars is a wreck already. Backstory is hard to weave in, but you can do little, subtle things to convey that he can’t hold down a job, his wife is worried sick about him, and he’s totally stuck.”

“Two interjections, if I may. First of all, I can hold down a job, it’s just hard to find one right now. You know, the recession, the financial crisis, sequestration, all those problems with mortgages, houses underwater, banks failing, high unemployment—don’t you follow the news?”

“Yes, we all know how that impacts the tennis world.”

“Well, it does, in a way. Have you heard about a trickle-down economy and other economics stuff? Or is your little rabbit brain unable to understand such financial complexities?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that millionaires can’t afford their country clubs.”

“It’s true. I was giving private lessons for a while, you know. Maybe that was before your time.”

“Ah, so your students couldn’t afford you anymore?”

“Well, it wasn’t that. It was more my knee. If I can’t play, how can I be an effective teacher? And sidebar point—I’ve just picked up some construction skills. When we move to London, I may apprentice as a roofer. Hey, what’s that strange noise? Are you okay? Are you choking on something?”

“No, sorry, it’s cool. That’s just me being amused. You might not know this, but rabbits can’t really laugh. Just the idea of you doing manual labor … Sorry. Actually, I am choking. I need another sip of tea.”

“You have a mean streak, did you know that? Really, what did we ever do to deserve this sort of treatment from you?”

“Okay, seriously, let’s not have this conversation. It’s not going to lead anywhere productive.”

“If you weren’t my pet, if it wasn’t for Elsa, I might pick you up and strangle you.”

“It’s possible, you know, that I’m already dead, so if the spirit moves you…”

“Don’t push me. But if I may back up, in my own defense I’d just like to say that I have a lot going on in my life right now. I’m in the middle of moving, and I’m dealing with some major things.”

“Okay, that’s great. Very helpful, very deep. So we need a way to convey, instantly, that this guy is, like, not only completely paralyzed but in total denial about it. He can’t seem to extricate himself from a lousy situation, because he won’t even admit that he’s in one to begin with. It’s clear to everyone around him that his marriage is killing him, almost literally, and he really needs to get away and reboot, but he can’t. Or he won’t. I mean, any other man would pack his bags and go climb a mountain, or enlist to fight a war, or go on a rampage, maybe kill his two-timing wife, put her body parts in the blender, or just do something totally radical…”

“So you’re proposing I put Bella in a blender?
That’s
your solution?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth. I’m just saying the guy, if you want the audience to root for him, needs to have some sort of epiphany and finally take action. And maybe this guy—by which I mean the fictional you, the superhero you (not actual schlubby, pathetic
you
you)—is on the verge. Maybe, when he arrives at the house on this particular evening, it’s the turning point. You are supposed to begin a story like that, with a sort of
why now
. You know, like on Passover, when you say, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

“Are you Jewish?”

“Three of my possible fathers were. What? Don’t look so shocked! There are a lot of things you don’t know about me. But this is not about me.”