The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets

by Diana Wagman

  “Really?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” Winnie said from right inside. “I promise.”

  He put his hand on the doorknob. He would open the door and they would hug and then together they could wait for Lacy. He would make sandwiches.

  But then there was a knock on his front door.

  A sharp quick knock and he heard a spiky, high voice from outside, “Helloooo?”

  “Shit.” Oren grimaced. He did not need this now. It was Mary from work. She was a pain in the ass. Hadn’t calling him been enough? She was cute, but she was always after him. Always calling, always wondering where he was and what he was doing.

  “Oren?” She was shouting so the whole neighborhood could hear her. Her stupid squeaky voice. “Are you okay? It’s me. Oren?”

  He had to answer her. She would not go away until she saw him. He cracked open the front door and she instantly started talking.

  “Well, well, I guess you really are sick. You look awful. You look all sweaty and weird.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, the locked screen between them. She was dressed for work, black pants and a pink and fluffy shirt he liked. It was too small or something. He liked the way the buttons gapped.

  “I just need to sleep,” he said.

  “I brought you some soup.” She held up a white deli bag. “Chicken noodle.”

  He nodded. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  He liked her strawberry blonde hair and her little blue eyes. She had a face like a pug dog, all smushed up together. He could see up her nostrils and her mouth was usually open and wet. She was plump and he liked that too, the feel of her on top of him, the flesh against his bones, the way he could put a finger between the rolls of fat around her middle. It was warm. Soft.

  “I’m contagious,” he said to her.

  Her eyes narrowed, almost disappeared in her plump face. Her lips contracted and wrinkled as if a drawstring had been pulled tight. “Let me in. Is that woman still here?”

  She rattled the handle on the screen. That was what he did not like about her. She was bossy. All the women in his life were bossy. Even Winnie told him what to do and she had no right. Only Lacy had asked his advice. He slammed his fist against the doorjamb. Lacy! Now it was her turn to learn a lesson.

  “Oren. Answer me.”

  He bent his head. One of her marshmallow hands held the doorknob. The other clutched the bag. “What?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “No,” he said. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Oren.” She shook her head. Her blue eye shadow sparkled in the afternoon sunlight.

  “I’m sick. I have to go.”

  He was closing the door when Winnie started banging on her door and yelling. Oren was shocked. They had come so far. They were so close. Why did she want to get out now?

  “Help me! Help! He’s locked me in. Help me!”

  Mary tapped her fat little foot. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Nobody. Nothing.” Winnie kept yelling. He would go back there and kill her. That’s what he would do.

  “Open this door, right now.”

  “Go away.”

  Winnie was screaming. “Please! Help! This is not a joke! Help me!”

  “What have you done?” Mary’s words were clipped and precise, disapproving, like a schoolteacher or worse, a mother.

  “I said go!”

  Oren tried to shut the door, but Mary was strong. She ripped the screen door open and with the other fat hand pushed back the front door. She nudged him aside with her substantial hip, deli bag trembling in her furious fist, and started walking to the hallway.

  “It’s a friend,” Oren told Mary. “She’s just fooling around.”

  He reached for her, but she shook her shoulder out of his grasp. There was nothing for it. He grabbed both her arms, but she outweighed him and pulled herself free.

  “Oren Baines, I am going to see that woman. You can’t stop me.”

  But he had to. He launched himself and wrapped both arms around her ham hock thighs. She fell forward onto the floor hard with a woof and a fart. The soup flew from her hand and hit the wall. It spilled through the bag onto the goddamn white carpet. Oren had had enough. He kicked her in the stomach.

  “Shut up!” he screamed at Winnie, at both of them, at Cookie scratching, still scratching, scratching. “Shut up!”

  Mary, fucking Mary, was fucking everything up.

  “Oren?” She rolled over on her back and looked up at him. “What is going on with you? Are you okay?”

  Her little mouth was in a pout. Her cheeks were pink. He liked her. He really did. When it was over he would do something nice for her and she would be sad he had found someone else, but she would understand. He took his deep breaths.

  “Please,” he said to her. “Just go home.”

  Winnie shouted, “Please! Are you there?”

  He ignored her and offered Mary a hand to help her up, but she yanked him to the floor and scrambled up on top of him.

  “You’re insane,” she croaked at him. “Who is that woman?”

  “Get off me. Get off!”

  She refused to listen. She kept crawling, crawling like a scorpion up his body. Her fingernails scratched his neck. He punched the side of her head. She grunted and kept coming. She lifted her head to yell at him and he punched her throat, up under her chin. There was a snap and she stopped clawing. He lifted a leg and kneed her in the gut. A little spit up came out of her mouth and he pushed her off, desperate to keep her saliva from touching him. She rolled to her back. She was scratching at her throat. Her eyes were as wide and blue as he had ever seen them.

  “Mary?” he said.

  Her mouth opened but she would not speak. He saw the throw up in her mouth; he could smell it mixed with the spilled chicken soup. She coughed and sputtered and then her eyes fluttered closed and she was quiet.

  Sleeping, he told himself. She is sleeping. Or maybe she had bumped her head. She just needed to rest. Like Winnie, she would rest. He couldn’t lift her, but the carpet was soft and he dragged her back to the room with the bed. He had been so smart to put Winnie in the collection room—almost as if he knew this would happen—he would need this room with the bed. He was smart. He was doing fine. As he lugged Mary past Winnie’s door, she called to him.

  “Oren? What’s going on?”

  He did not reply.

  “Who’s there? Oren? Is that you?”

  At least she was asking for him.

  Mary did not stir as he pulled her into the bedroom. He tried to lift her, but he could not get her up on the bed. In her sleep she was even heavier than usual. She did not smell clean. Maybe she had peed her pants a little when she fell. He didn’t want to, but he had to leave her on the floor. He covered her with the blanket, tucking it in around her arms and hips. When she woke up she would know he had tried to make her comfortable.

  He sat back on his heels and looked at her. He liked her, but he loved Lacy. He was sorry it had happened, sorry for Mary, but she would find someone else. Her face was a funny color. She needed to rest.

  Winnie tried to listen through the wood. She heard a body being dragged along the thick, plush carpet. It made a gentle woosh, like a brush going through her hair, a sound only she could hear.

  “Oren?” she called to him. “Oren!”

  No answer. She shivered, frozen where she stood. Perhaps the girl had hurt him. Maybe she was another criminal, in on it with him and angry at the way he had done things. Now there would be a new person in charge. Not Kidney, but someone else. Women were most cruel to other women.

  “Please be okay,” Winnie prayed.

  She heard the other bedroom door close and she knew no one was coming to save her. Not that girl and not Oren. She backed away from the door and went to the window. There was a tiny crack of air along one seam. She pressed her face against the wood and gasped at the cool air coming in. She had never before realized how wonderf
ul a breeze could be. An orange tree was blooming nearby and she actually smiled breathing in the sweet fragrance. It was early in the season for orange blossoms, but there had been rain and the tree in her yard was budding too. She wanted to see it bloom. She wanted to live that long. The air helped her to breathe, to think. The street was quiet now, but a neighbor had to come home eventually. She would break the glass and call to him. For now, she would wait. She would be quiet and not let Oren hurt her again. She kept her face against the crack and breathed.

  The door to the room flew open. Oren’s hair was a mess, his face flushed.

  “Winnie. Winnie, can you help me?”

  “What?

  He took her by the hand and pulled her out into the hall. The carpet was dark with what looked like chicken soup. There were carrots and noodles and bits of celery soaking into the white fibers.

  “What do I do?” He was frantic.

  “Club soda—do you have club soda?” She had no idea if club soda would help, but maybe.

  “Ginger ale?” he asked.

  “No. Water then. Bring me water and dishwashing soap. Don’t worry. We’ll get it up.”

  He ran to the kitchen. She was on her hands and knees picking up shreds of chicken before she realized what she was doing. Helping a kidnapper clean his carpet. She sat back. Oren came running with a dishtowel, the roll of paper towels, soap, and a cereal bowl of water.

  “Okay,” she said and shook her head. She had missed her chance to run for the front door.

  “My uncle is going to kill me.” He sounded like a kid who had broken his mother’s favorite vase.

  “This is your uncle’s house?”

  “He lives in Arizona now. I rent it.”

  “And you put in the carpet.”

  “He got a discount, but my uncle paid.”

  “It’s good—definitely stain resistant. Look.” The soup was coming up, the brownish color changing to plain wet. “If you let me out of here, I’ll buy all my carpeting at Carpet Barn. I’ll carpet my entire house.”

  He exhaled. His hands were trembling. His fingernails were bitten down to nothing. Each fingertip was irritated, swollen around what was left of the nail. Like red dough puffing around the edges of a cookie cutter.

  “Who’s in the bedroom?” Winnie tried to keep her voice casual. “What happened?”

  “A girl I know. She’s not my girlfriend. Just from work. She came by. She wouldn’t leave. She fell.”

  “You mean, like I fell?”

  “Exactly.” He looked relieved. “Hey, and you’re fine.”

  Winnie smiled at him. He did not even know he had hurt them. He could not see how terrible he was. Something was missing in his brain. It was a chemical thing or a gene or a chromosome that was wrong. It was growing up in a carnival with a violent dad and a nonexistent mother. He was hopelessly damaged. He was just a boy and he would never be right.

  When Winnie was nine, she and her mother had spent the weekend at the island home of a famous director. Winnie had been forced to play with his daughter. The girl had blue eyes and dimples. She had long legs and wore frilly girlish clothes. She was everything Winnie was not.

  “Come outside on the patio,” the girl said proudly. “Watch what I can do.”

  Winnie expected a one-handed cartwheel, something she had been attempting for weeks, but the girl squatted on the hot, flat cement next to an anthill. For a moment she and Winnie watched the ants going about their business, scurrying in and out. The girl whispered as if the ants could hear her.

  “Okay. Watch.”

  With her thumb, she crushed the back half of ant after ant, leaving their front legs to scramble. They could no longer get anywhere, but they did not die. They tried to crawl, to stay in line, to continue on their journey.

  “Look how they try to get away. Look how they stay alive. You do it.”

  Winnie had refused and the girl had laughed at her. When Winnie went out on the patio after dinner that night, the ants were still there. Some were even still alive, still trying to crawl away. Winnie ran to her mother. The girl told her father that Winnie had pinched her. Daisy was furious and sent Winnie to her grandmother for a long, long time.

  But Oren wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t smash her legs so he could watch her try to crawl away. She ran her hand over the nicks on her arm, felt the fresh scabs. He didn’t mean to be violent. He bit his lip as he scrubbed the carpet. He looked so worried. He needed a hospital, not a jail cell. That’s what she would tell the police when she was saved. He’s sick, she would say. He needs help.

  Oren finished and handed the cloth to Winnie. The carpet was wet, but it would be fine. He smiled at Winnie as she wrung the cloth out into the little bowl. It was wonderful of her to help him and she was right, the carpet would not stain. They had solved the problem together. They would get along very nicely when they were family, when he was her son-in-law as good as a son.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Something had changed in her face. She smiled back at him with an energy he had not seen before. He grinned at her. Carefully, he picked up the bowl of dirty water.

  “Get the soap and the rag,” he said to her. “Follow me.”

  Gingerly he carried the bowl down the hall, with Winnie walking right behind him. They were a team. They had cleaned the carpet. He had saved her from Kidney. She was coming around. Yes, she had yelled for Mary, but he could not blame her for wanting to come out of that room. He never went in there. Not even to dust like he was supposed to. As they reached the living room he turned to her, “I’m sorry that room is scary. You know, some of those things aren’t even real.”

  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 i
t 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.”

  27.

  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.