The Tiger Catcher

by Paullina Simons

  Julian hung his head.

  “About Ava . . .”

  It was true, he’d been avoiding Josephine’s mother. The woman had got it into her head that Julian—who was about to become her son-in-law—was actually her son-in-law. She treated him as if they were fellow sufferers, travelers in grief. She called him bi-weekly, even in London, and when she couldn’t reach him, which was all the time, she would call his mother and engage her in trying to find him.

  “She asked about you at Christmas,” Zakiyyah said. “She wanted to know if you got her shortbread.”

  “Yes. I thanked her for it. Didn’t I? I meant to.” Julian had given the shortbread to Mrs. Pallaver and her unmarried daughter. When would this ordeal be over. “Are you still at Normandie?” he said, to change the subject, to say something.

  “Yes, because it wasn’t Normandie’s fault.”

  Oh, for sure, it wasn’t Normandie’s fault. Julian ground his teeth.

  “It wasn’t Normandie’s fault,” Zakiyyah said, “or your fault, or Ava’s fault, or Poppa W’s fault.”

  “Really? Not even his?” said Julian. “Because . . . no, fine. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” How about your fucking fault. “Do you know what you’re having?”

  “Or my fault, Julian.”

  “Do you know what you’re having, or what.”

  “Julian, look at me.”

  He would not.

  “Poppa W wanted me to tell you how sorry he is,” Zakiyyah said gently.

  “So he keeps saying.”

  “But you keep not hearing.”

  After he got out of the hospital, Poppa W came to Julian’s apartment, Zakiyyah in tow, to explain, to apologize. He tried to save JoJo, he said, he really tried. He was so sorry. Blah. He loved her. Blah blah. They had a thing once, but it was over. Blah blah blah. Julian endured it catatonically, the weepy nonsense from an urban street soldier who lived and worked in a crack castle. But still—to think that Julian had been in a foursome instead of a twosome. Hard to accept. Hard to accept a lot of things.

  Couldn’t Zakiyyah see how much Julian didn’t want to talk about it? How much he didn’t want to talk about anything. And yet . . . “When you called her mother to rat her out about our wedding,” Julian said, “did you do it to save her, too, like Poppa W? To save her from me?”

  “I called her mother because I was worried sick about her!” Zakiyyah exclaimed. “Oh—I can’t do this with you again, Julian. I just can’t.”

  With amazing self-control, Julian pushed away from the table and stood up, leaning down into her upset face. He wanted to throw the table through the stained-glass window. “Then why do you keep bringing it up every five seconds?” he said through his teeth. Every five fucking seconds. That’s how close to the surface it was, his outrage.

  He felt a soothing palm on his back. Ashton stepped between them, glancing at Zakiyyah for a mute second, then turning and smiling at Julian.

  “I tried, Ashton!” Zakiyyah said. “But you saw—he’s impossible.”

  “And yet it’s his birthday, so we’re going to cut him some slack.” Ashton’s hand remained on Julian’s back. Unlike Zakiyyah, Ashton was a pro at the manly comfort, at the open-palmed thump. “You still haven’t looked at the menus? That’s it, I’m ordering whatever I feel like for the both of you. You’re gonna eat it and you’re gonna like it. Come and help me, Jules.”

  As always, Ashton took care of things. He dragged Julian away, ordered bar food—Cornish pasties and steak and kidney pies and salads—and paid for it. While they waited, he drank lager like it was water. Ashton could always hold his liquor. Said it was in his DNA. He got it from his mother’s side. Gin flowed through her veins when she carried him, and now it flowed through his.

  “I’m going to have a stern talk with that Riley of yours for foisting that woman on me,” Julian said.

  “Give her a break. She’s trying to help you.”

  “Which one? And she’s not.”

  “Both of them.”

  “She’s not. Trust me.”

  Ashton breathed a long hard sigh between the swallows. “Why are you still torturing her? Can’t you see she’s mourning, too?”

  “She had to come all the way to London to feel better?”

  “Why not? You did. You’re not the only one who lost something,” Ashton said. “Mia was Z’s closest friend. So stop the blame game. Recall what Mike Nichols said and shut up. Nichols is your life hack, Jules. Did you forget your very first newsletter? It was about him.”

  Mike Nichols:

  Born in Berlin.

  Fled Nazi Germany.

  Related to Einstein.

  Became a comedian.

  Won more Tonys

  Than anyone else for directing.

  Owns four hundred Arabian horses.

  Has four marriages, three divorces.

  Exit quote: “Cheer up, life isn’t everything.”

  Mike Nichols’s Riddle on Perspective and Blame:

  Premise: A lonely woman, whose husband is always away, begins an affair with a man who lives across the bay. In the middle of one night, she and her lover have a terrible fight, and he throws her out. She takes the ferry back but is robbed and killed by the ferryman, who throws her body overboard.

  Question: Who is to blame for the woman’s death? The husband, the boatman, the woman herself, or her lover?

  Julian finally had an answer to a question. “Fuck Mike Nichols,” he said.

  ***

  While they were waiting on the food, and Julian was catching up with his brothers, Zakiyyah sat down across from them. Tristan and Dalton misinterpreted their brother’s glare and moved to another table.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “And yet . . .”

  Reaching across, Zakiyyah patted his hand as if she’d just learned to pat. Two slaps, like a bear, missing his hand completely on the second go. “Ava really needs you to call her, Julian.”

  “It’s on my list.” He hid his clenched hands under the table.

  “She asked me to ask you something.”

  “She asked you to ask me?”

  “Yes. Because you never return her calls. She wants the necklace back.”

  “What necklace?”

  “You know what necklace,” Zakiyyah said. “Mia’s crystal.”

  “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Ava needs it back,” Zakiyyah repeated. “She’s become convinced it’s the key to everything.”

  Julian raised his eyes. “I got to keep four things from Mia,” he said in a stone-cold voice. “The crystal, the beret, which was mine to begin with, and two books. So three things really. Ava got everything else. So you can tell Ava that I told you to tell her I’m not giving the necklace back. It will never happen.”

  “She said she’ll give you something in return for it. Some of Mia’s baby pictures. Her high school diaries. Video tapes of her performing at Coney Island.”

  “No, thanks,” Julian said. “She’s haggling with me through you? Why does she want it anyway?”

  “Ava says without the crystal, she can’t find her.”

  “What?” Julian stared into Zakiyyah’s face, suddenly at full attention. “What did you say? Find who?” His legs went numb like he was falling.

  “People keep seeing Ava wandering around Brooklyn,” Zakiyyah said, “and when they ask what she’s doing, she says she’s looking for her child. She says she’s sure Mia’s still out there somewhere.” She glanced behind him. “Food’s here. But I know—crazy, right.”

  Could Julian vanish? Fall through the floor and disappear? He didn’t look up, couldn’t muster even a glib reply.

  ***

  They pushed the round tables together. Riley put Julian between her and Ashton. As the others ate and drank and chatted merrily, Julian, who wasn’t hungry or chatty, just drank, and while he was thus occupied, a million miles away, Nigel said, “If women are so much sma
rter than men, why do they wear shirts that button down the back?” and everyone laughed except for Julian, and then Nigel, encouraged by the laughter, told a limerick. On the boobs of a barmaid in Sale, were tattooed the prices of ale, and on her behind, for the sake of the blind, was the same information in Braille. Everyone guffawed again. Was it just him? Julian had never been great at ignoring assholes.

  Not to be outdone by Nigel, Riley said to no one and everyone, “Hey, did you guys hear about the note I found under the cash drawer at the Treasure Box? On a scrap of pink perfumed paper someone had written, ‘I want you to fuck me till I die.’” Riley laughed, flinging around her flouncy hair. “Isn’t that hilarious?”

  A hush fell over the ale-infused crowd. No one could tell if Riley was joking. Julian glanced at Ashton and quickly stared into his uneaten bangers and mash. Nigel roared with laughter. “Well done, mate,” he said to Ashton. “But can I ask a stupid question?”

  “Better than anyone I know,” said Julian.

  Nigel har-de-har-harred. “How did you reply?”

  “I politely declined,” Ashton said. “Frankly it seemed like too much effort.”

  “Ashton is nothing if not polite—and lazy,” said Riley.

  “Relax, Riley,” Nigel said, “didn’t Julian work there, too? How do you know the note was even meant for Ashton? Maybe one of Julian’s bits of stuff left it for him—”

  Julian shot up from the table. A still sitting Nigel echoed a slow beery whoa, Ashton a fast beery whoa, his hand covering Julian’s fist.

  “Calm down,” Nigel said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Julian said.

  “Try smiling once in a while.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

  “Whatever,” Nigel said. “Obviously, I was just joking around. Of course, no one wants you to shag them, Jules.” He howled with laughter.

  “Everybody’s a comic these days,” Ashton said. His face showed nothing. “Nigel, shut the hell up. Jules, come on, bud, sit.” Standing up he forcibly lowered Julian back into the chair with the downward pressure of his hand. “Truly this is the land of no mercy,” Ashton said, draining his pint and throwing Riley a scolding glare, as in why are you starting more trouble.

  “Your favorite playwright, Tennessee Williams, wrote that love is nothing but a four-letter word,” Riley said to Ashton over Julian’s head. “That’s why.”

  “Now that’s funny, Riles,” said Ashton.

  The rough topic was changed to more genteel ones about work and new cars, to the best running shoes and L.A.’s empty reservoirs, to the stupidity of avatars and a recent earthquake that made everyone start nailing their furniture to the floor, and to the sightings of superstars.

  Julian, too, tried to join in the conversation. “Hey,” he piped in, “did you hear about the former Miss Venezuela who went from being a top model to spending the last fifteen years of her life living on the streets? Her body was just found in a Caracas park.” The table reacted poorly; Julian didn’t get why. They had just been talking about famous people! Julian tried to catch Ashton’s eye, but his friend’s crystal blue gaze remained in his vanishing beer. Let’s have another round, Ashton said. Surreptitiously Julian checked his empty wrist and when he looked up, they were all eyeing him with a drunken mix of concern and pity, all except Nigel, who couldn’t care less.

  “How you doing there, Jules?” Gwen said.

  “Don’t ask him umbrella questions, Gwen,” Ashton said. “Ask him how he’s doing today. The more specific the better.”

  “I’m doing great today, Gwen, thanks for asking.”

  “Julian, darling, have you been to a therapist?” That was Riley.

  “He’s got a cot in the corner of the shrink’s office at the walk-in clinic,” Ashton replied for Julian. Ashton always acted as if he knew everything. Mr. Fantastic. Mr. Razzle Dazzle. Tonight, he razzle-dazzled their friends with fake knowledge of Julian’s progress in the art of mourning. “Yes, he’s been to a shrink. He’s even been to a priest.”

  Zakiyyah perked up. “What did the priest say?”

  “The priest asked him where his faith was,” Ashton replied, winking at Julian and raising his glass. Julian raised his in reply. Ashton was always full of joy, always happy, always smiling. How could you not love an open face of someone always smiling. Julian looked away, the vision of another open smiling face cutting him up like razor wire.

  “The priest was right,” Zakiyyah said. “Julian looks and acts like a man who’s lost his religion.”

  What could you possibly know about it, Julian was about to say, but she looked so sad that he kept quiet.

  “Julian’s also been to a faith healer,” Ashton said, “and a fortune-teller. He’s tried—you don’t mind, do you, Jules—he’s even tried electroconvulsive therapy to rid himself of painful memories.”

  “Did it work?” Riley asked with uncommon interest, as if considering it herself.

  “It did not,” said Julian.

  Zakiyyah wanted to know what the fortune-teller had offered.

  When Ashton became reticent, Julian prodded. “Ash? What, the cat got your tongue? You’ve told them everything else. Go on, tell Z what the fortune-teller said.”

  “She was a gypsy and she didn’t know what she was talking about,” Ashton said.

  “Why do you even bother going to fortune-tellers, Jules?” Riley said. “To empower and optimize yourself, you should practice a cleansing regimen, like I showed you.”

  “Oh, but I don’t go to them,” Julian said. “That implies continuity. Ashton and I were walking down King Street, and one flagged us down.”

  “And told you what?”

  Julian was amused at the pained expression on Ashton’s golden face. The conversation had taken a turn Ashton resented. He wanted to convince their friends that Julian was doing everything he was supposed to, but the gypsy didn’t fit into Ashton’s neat narrative about Julian’s alleged progress.

  “She said the time had not yet come for the Lord to act.”

  There was a confused pause.

  “What does that mean?” Riley said. “Act how? Do what?”

  “How should I know?” Ashton said.

  “You didn’t ask her? Ugh. Julian, what did she mean by that?”

  “Ask Ashton,” Julian said. “He seems to know everything.”

  “It’s a sin to go to fortune-tellers,” said Zakiyyah. “They practice the dark arts. Black magic.”

  “Z is right,” Riley said to Julian, rubbing his forearm like he was a genie lamp. “You must keep doing other things that help. Have you tried earthing, like I suggested?”

  “You want me to walk barefoot in London?”

  “What about an irrigation colonic?”

  “Riley, Jesus, please,” Ashton said.

  “You please,” she said. “I know you don’t believe in it, but it really helps.”

  “I don’t believe in irrigation colonics?”

  Riley twisted Julian’s face away from Ashton and to herself. “Ignore him, Jules, and listen to me. Your body must be cleansed and strong, and I promise you, your spirit will follow. How much weight have you lost? Are you drinking too much? It’s so easy to do that here, look at Ashton, and it’s not good for you. All that yeast running rampant in your body. It’s not healthy. You should be drinking a gallon of pure filtered water. You can add lemon to it for alkalinity. It’s important for your body to be alkaline, Julian, to heal properly. And you should go for a walk every day. Have you been getting any fresh air?”

  “Oh, yes, Riley,” Julian said, patting her and struggling up. “That’s one thing I’ve been getting plenty of. Fresh air. Will you excuse me?”

  ***

  Upstairs in the men’s where it was a little quieter, there was a sign above the mirror that said, “No wonder you’re going home alone.” Motionlessly Julian stared at his reflection.

  As he was coming back through the second-floor gallery, he overheard them t
alking about him down below.

  “He looks terrible,” Riley said. “I’ve never seen him like this, not even when it first happened.”

  “He was in shock then,” Ashton said. “Now it’s worn off.”

  “Ashton, he must’ve lost thirty pounds,” said Gwen.

  Forty-seven, Julian wanted to correct her. Super featherweight.

  “His eyes are bugging out of his head,” Gwen continued. “He’s sweating, and when he does speak, he sounds unhinged. He’s worse than ever, Ashton. What’s happening to him?”

  “You know what’s happening to him.”

  “But why isn’t he better?”

  “I don’t think he’s been to a shrink,” said Zakiyyah.

  “Well, it’s a National Health shrink,” Ashton said dryly.

  “He needs more shock treatment, if you ask me,” Nigel said.

  “No one’s asking you,” Ashton said.

  “Jules should’ve never come here, Ashton,” Tristan said.

  “Trist is right,” Dalton said. “Our mom’s upset with you, Ash. Why did you have to get him a job in London? He’d still be in L.A. if it weren’t for you.”

  “Yeah, where he was doing great,” Ashton said impatiently. “Shrink, drink, drugs, leeching, cupping. London, L.A. It’s all the same. He just needs time.”

  “But he’s had so much time!” said Gwen.

  “Mia’s mom is not doing well either,” Zakiyyah said, in defense of Julian.

  “But that’s her mom!” said Gwen. “No one expects a mother to be doing well.”

  “He’s changed, Ashton,” Riley said. “He used to be such good company. Better than you in some ways. But there’s something wrong with him. We all see it, why can’t you?”

  “You think I don’t see it?” said Ashton.

  A heavy silence followed.

  “He won’t get over her on his own,” Zakiyyah said. “He needs someone new.”

  “I’m working on it,” said Ashton.

  Another unhappy silence followed. “He doesn’t need you, Ashton,” Zakiyyah said. “He needs a woman.”

  “Zakiyyah’s right, Tristan is right,” Riley said. “He should come home.”

  “Should, ought to. Says who?” Ashton said. “He’s a grown man. He makes his own decisions.”

  “Like you, big guy?” said Riley.