The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets (26 page)

“That looks bad.” He sounded concerned.

Her hand was swollen and red where it wasn't darkly bruised. The knuckles seemed out of order somehow, crooked. It throbbed and to look at it made her sick to her stomach. The ice felt good, a little shocking, but good, good, good. She smiled at Oren gratefully. “Thanks.”

He sat down beside her.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“I'm expecting a call. And then we'll get this all straightened out.”

The ice numbed her hand; her stomachache subsided. She took a deep breath and exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax and her toes to uncurl. If she rested her head against the wall
carefully she could avoid the bump on the back. Then her head didn't hurt either. She was grateful for the absence of pain.

Most of the time we don't notice it, Winnie thought. Usually people are unaware of feeling fine. But then something hurts or something is broken and out of joint and it is all we can think of. Bad tooth. Headache. Broken heart. The pain adjusts everything we see and do, the colors are muted, the air thicker and it is more work to breathe and move. People curl around a hurt—she could always tell when someone was in pain. The rejected, jilted girl at the bus stop, head down, chest collapsed. The athlete at the end of his run pretending his bad knee wouldn't end his career. The unemployed woman at the grocery store counting her change. All of them with their shoulders hunched over as if waiting for the next blow.

And then it leaves. Through drugs or time or healing or change of circumstance we wake up one morning and the pain is gone. Winnie remembered the exact day, the very moment, when she realized her heart was mended. It was thirty-nine and a half months after Jonathan had left her, one o'clock in the afternoon, and she realized she had not thought of him once that day. She had taken Lacy to school, done some errands, eaten a tomato and cheese sandwich, and not until she was throwing in a load of laundry did she remember that her heart was broken. But it wasn't anymore; the ache in her chest was gone. She could think of Jonathan and Jessica together without wanting to double over. She did not feel like singing and dancing, she was not particularly happy, and her problems were still her problems, but she was not in pain. And that was enough.

Now it was enough to sit here with Oren and have nothing hurt. She knew she was in trouble, bones were broken in her hand and she probably had a concussion, but for this single pain free moment she could think clearly. He was beginning to trust her. He had left her alone as he went for ice. Something was not working
with his plan and he was confused, worried. He seemed angry about something, someone who had let him down. That other woman had shown up unexpectedly and now she was passed out in the back, most likely tied to the bed as she had been. If Winnie could get to her, she might be an ally. They would be two against one. Oren, poor kid, was over his head, out of control. Yes, poor kid. Just a kid. She would help him—as soon as she got out of here and some place safe—she would find him help.

She eyed the bump in his pocket that was his cell phone. Unlikely she could take that from him. She would not attempt to get out the front door again; she had tried that too many times. But maybe the garage door again. The button to open it was just inside. She imagined the little girl who had lived here once long ago going out to play, calling to her mother, “I'm going bike riding.” The mother would want her home for dinner, but she would be happy to see her go too. Go away but never leave, the dilemma of motherhood. The girl would run out that door, flip the switch and the big door would lift. She would leap onto her bike and pedal away, her T-shirt flapping in her version of freedom.

Cookie was scratching again. Winnie watched Oren turn angrily to the kitchen door, then force himself to calm down. Cookie was the thing he cared about most. Cookie had to be her way out of here.

“Cookie,” she said. “How did you learn about taking care of Cookie?”

Oren's face relaxed. “I've read books, I've talked to experts. I go to the reptile shows.”

“Other people have iguanas?”

“I'm president of the Iguana Keepers Club. We have about sixty-five members. Monthly meetings.”

“Wow. You're the president.” It was working. Whatever was worrying him was drifting away.

“I know the most,” he said proudly. “I'm the guy they come to. People don't realize how much work it is to take care of an iguana. It is not an easy job, oh no. Did you know, for instance, you must never feed them iceberg lettuce? Never. Almost no nutrients and to an iguana it's like crack cocaine. It's that addictive. Honestly, they'll stop eating anything else, get malnourished and die.”

“Wish I found iceberg lettuce addictive—instead of chocolate.” Winnie tried to laugh. “What's his favorite food?”

“Kale.” But then Oren sighed. “Right now he's not eating much. He's not happy.”

“He's lonely.”

“Exactly. He needs his girlfriend.”

“Everybody needs somebody.”

Oren smiled, a genuine sweet smile, and nodded. “You are exactly right.”

Winnie struggled to turn to him. It made her dizzy and nauseated, but she smiled back at him. “Let's go buy his girlfriend. Right now. You have the money.”

He nodded. He was buying it, going for it.

“Think how happy Cookie will be. You could start breeding iguanas. You could probably make a lot of money, right? How many babies do they have?”

His face slipped and slid from open to shut. “Money. This is not about money.”

“I know that. I was just thinking—”

“Don't think,” he said. “I will do the thinking.”

He stood up and turned his back to her. He stared up at the ceiling, cottage cheese flecked with sparkled. He looked down at the white carpet. Up at the ceiling, down at the carpet. Up and down, up and down. Rocking his head. Fists clenching and opening. Trotting a little in place. Winnie knew enough to tuck in her feet and stay quiet.

Lacy took her chair behind the three other flutists. Once she had been a soloist, on her way to first chair, but not any more. At the beginning of the school year she decided it wasn't cute or interesting to be a music nerd and had stopped trying. She was last chair now.

Shit. She had forgotten her music. She had gone to her locker and gotten her flute and her cell phone had rung. She had answered her phone. Lacy stood up. Her neighbor's music fluttered to the ground.

“Watch it.”

Ms. Ingram was on the dais with her baton raised. She scowled at Lacy. “What now?”

“I—”

Ms. Ingram had been one of Lacy's favorite teachers since seventh grade. She was nice and funny and pretty, even though she wore stretch pants with elastic waists and long sweater vests. She had short dark hair and brown eyes and her skin was olive toned like Winnie's. Something about Ms. Ingram reminded Lacy of her mother.

“I—” she said again.

“Are you sick?” Ms. Ingram's voice was soft with concern. “What is it?”

Lacy knew she had disappointed her. Ms. Ingram had worked hard with her, told her she was talented and she would
help her get into college, and Lacy had blown it. Ms. Ingram had heard her making fun of orchestra in the hall. She knew Lacy had stopped practicing and ignored her flute, the one thing she had always loved. Now Ms. Ingram didn't like her anymore.

“I'm sorry,” she said to Ms. Ingram. “I'm so sorry.”

Ms. Ingram came off the platform. She was walking up to Lacy, right through the orchestra, pushing music stands and students aside. Her eyes looked liquid, like melted chocolate that Lacy could fall into.

“I know,” Lacy said, “and I'm sorry. So terribly sorry.”

“Catch her!” Ms. Ingram shouted.

Catch what? Lacy had time to puzzle and then the ceiling slipped sideways and she fainted.

Jonathan woke on his bed. The house was quiet. He stretched and smiled; he loved napping. His stomach growled. He hoped the leftover Chinese food was still there, that Jessica hadn't thrown it away. She hated the white boxes in the fridge. She couldn't stand anything disorganized, or used, or messy. Not like Winnie.

“Oh, shit,” he said aloud.

He sat up and looked at his watch. It was too late to go back to the house; rush hour cross-town traffic was murder. Well. She was the one who had lost her cell phone and his lawyer was right, it wasn't his problem. He stood and stretched again. Lupe and her daughter had probably left so he could eat his Kung Pao Chicken right out of the box and put his feet up until Jessica got back.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He had seen Jessica's beige slippery nightgown lying across the bed and lain down beside it for just a moment. He intended to go to Winnie's and confront the cell phone thieves, but Jessica's nightie felt so good against his cheek and it smelled of her and the sex they'd had that morning. He felt a little guilty for going to Winnie's and holding the nightgown made him feel better, like playing—paying?—tribute to Jessica. He would go, but first he would caress her silky nightgown and think about how beautiful she was. His penis pushed against his jeans. This is what Jessica did to him. It was all her
fault. He closed his eyes. He reached down inside his pants. It reminded him of early mornings before high school, the rough cotton of his underwear against the back of his hand, the soft skin under his fingertips. Like a high school boy, it would not take long and then he would just lie there for a moment and then he would go.

But he fell asleep and now it was too late. He thought again about the voice on her phone and decided it was a child, a young teen at most, not a member of a cutthroat band of thieves. Winnie was fine. He knew it. They were still connected, he was still tuned in—if anything happened to her, he would know. He got up and went to the bathroom. The size of it never stopped impressing him. Two sinks. Two toilets. Two showers and a tub. All in beige marble. Jessica loved beige. She had all kinds of words for it, taupe and eggshell, cream and fawn and mushroom. She said it was classy. He supposed she was right.

His cell phone rang. He flushed the toilet and went to get his phone from the pocket of his discarded shorts. “Jonathan Parker.”

“Mr. Parker. This is Mrs. Campbell, principal of Lacy's school. Your daughter has fainted.”

Jonathan staggered. Not Lacy. Drugs? Pregnancy? “Why? What happened?”

“We're not sure. The paramedics have been called.”

“I'll be right there.”

“We can't seem to locate her mother.”

“She lost her cell phone. I'm in Beverly Hills, but I'll get there as soon as I can.”

He knew he should have gone over there. He knew it. Not for Winnie, but for Lacy. He had been tuned in, but he wasn't listening. That was just what Jessica always said: the messages come, but we're not home to receive them.

Oren was beginning to really like Winnie's skin—so dark and smooth next to his freckles. Her face was pretty too, even sweaty and pale from feeling bad. He liked her big brown eyes. She got up from the floor stiffly, like an old lady for some reason, but he still thought she was a nice looking mom.

“Let's go,” she said again. “Get Cookie that girl.”

It was great that she seemed to like iguanas so much. He had been instrumental in other conversions to “Herp Fan,” as new members were called in the club. But it was too late to go. Lacy would call soon. Maybe tomorrow they could all three go together. Oh right, he remembered, and then we can take Lacy to the petting zoo.

He picked up a lank of Winnie's dark hair. “Your daughter doesn't look like you.”

“No,” Winnie answered. “She's tall and blonde and beautiful.”

“You're pretty.”

“Not like Lacy. She takes after my mother, the movie star, except for her hair. It's incredibly curly. I love it. She hates it. She has ringlets like Shirley Temple.”

Another lie. Lie after lie. She didn't even have straight hair. “Is she really blonde? Not from a bottle?”

“A true blonde.”

“She must strut that stuff around, right? Showing off to the
boys at school?”

“No. God no. She thinks guys don't like her. She has no idea how beautiful she is. Plus, as I said, she's young for her age. I mean, other girls have babies at sixteen; I don't think Lacy has ever been kissed.”

Another lie from the bitch. There were men, supposedly, pursuing her all the time. She had told him she was experienced. She had said she was eighteen and had not been a virgin for two years.

“Are we going to the reptile store?” Winnie asked.

“Do you know your daughter is a big, fat liar?”

Winnie turned to him and a flash of pain erupted behind her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

He shook his head. He looked at the ground. His hands curled into fists. Winnie stepped away from him. Now the pain filled her head, then her back and then her hand. The ice wasn't working anymore. He put a finger in his mouth, gnawing at the nail. His other hand opened and closed. She shuffled farther away from him. What did he mean saying Lacy was a liar?

And all at once, like a piercing high note in the middle of the cacophony, it was clear to her. Lacy. He was doing this with Lacy. No. For Lacy. No. Because of Lacy. She had seen the laptop in his room. The screen he had quickly hidden when she entered, the momentary glimpse of a girl with white blonde hair. She had heard Lacy's ring tone on his phone. He had to wait until five-thirty to call. He had to wait until she was out of orchestra. No. No. No.

“Lacy!” she burst. “Is this about Lacy? Is that why I'm here?”

He nodded.

“Tell me right now what's going on.” She stamped her foot and waves of pain undulated through her. “You tell me right now or I swear to God I will kill you.”