by Janet Goss
“Oh. In-law stuff. Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll back off.”
I was much too sad to hear him say it, but I commanded myself to feel relieved.
And I was, in a way. But oh, how I wished we had never stopped kissing.
“On one condition,” he added.
I raised my eyebrows.
“We continue to collaborate.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Oh—and one other thing,” he said, reaching across the booth to retrieve the paper bag he’d been carrying. “You have to let me give you your present.”
I’d been dying of curiosity from the moment I’d laid eyes on the bag, but Billy had managed to make me forget all about it over the course of half a drink. Now, as he pulled out a flat rectangular package, I began to speculate anew: Was it a picture? A mirror? One of his framed puzzles? That would be a bit gauche, actually.
I untied the ribbon and fumbled with the tape on the wrapping paper. “This was really sweet of you,” I said, hoping the contents inside were nice, just not too nice.
Then again, what could compete with the key to the brownstone?
“It’s kinda strange,” he said. “I saw that in the window of this antique shop in Allentown, and I just—I don’t know, thought it would appeal to you. Don’t ask me why, though.”
I pulled the last piece of tape off the paper. It was a picture; I was looking at the back of a framed canvas. I turned it around and gasped, nearly dropping it from shock.
“Oh my god,” I said. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
I redirected my gaze to the portrait in my hands: a spectacularly one-dimensional, very badly wrought beagle.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PLAN C
“He must have seen that German shepherd painting you brought home at Thanksgiving,” Elinor Ann said.
“That’s just it. He didn’t see it. Before I got on the bus, I slid it down the inside of my duffel bag, which I never opened in his presence—and no, I didn’t use the bathroom during the ride, and you’ve got a lot of nerve suggesting he’d go through my luggage!”
“I didn’t say a thing about him snooping!”
“But you were thinking it, weren’t you?”
“Well, kind of,” she admitted. “But what other explanation could there possibly be?”
According to Billy Moody, innate compatibility. I was so transfixed by his Christmas gift that he had to wave his hand in front of my face to get me to look up.
“I have over a dozen dog primitives hanging on my bedroom wall,” I said once he got my attention.
“No way.”
“This is… astonishing. What made you buy it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just… looked like you.”
I gave the painting a quizzical glance. The beagle was so flattened, it appeared to have been run over by a tank. And its ears had been embellished with purple smudges to create a shadow effect, which one should never attempt unless one is Francis Bacon. “Gee. Thanks a lot,” I said.
“That’s not what I meant. For whatever reason, it seemed like the kind of thing you’d appreciate. And based on what you just told me, that’s true.” He grinned and edged closer. “Maybe it’s proof.”
“Of what?”
“Of how instinctively well I understand you. You know, I’d really like to see those other dog paintings sometime.”
“What a surprise.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m free all evening.”
I pushed up my sleeve and carefully inspected my watch. “You don’t have a very good memory, do you? I seem to recall your saying something about backing off less than five minutes ago.”
“Changed my mind.” He kissed me again. “Come on. Let’s go over to your place.”
It would be so easy to say yes, to take this beautiful boy home for a test drive. And if I were still Billy’s age, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
But I hadn’t been his age in a chillingly long time. “You know how I’m going to answer that.” I stood and reached across the table for my jacket.
Billy reached for his. “Tell you what—New Year’s Eve is just a couple of days away. How about then?”
“I have plans.”
“I had a feeling you were going to say that.” He kissed me for what I swore would be the last time that night—no, ever. “Well, you know how to reach me if your plans fall through.”
If I were a more religious person, I might have concluded it was God’s decree that Billy and I get together when my New Year’s plans fell through.
Hank called the morning of December 31. “We got a problem,” he said.
Panic set in immediately. Had he seen me kissing Billy in front of the gay bar? If so, what was he doing out on the coldest night of the year—and, more important, would I be able to convince him I had a doppelgänger who lived somewhere in the vicinity of Thirteenth Street and Avenue B?
“It’s Dinner,” he said. I covered the receiver to mask my sigh of relief—and then the meaning of his words sank in.
“What’s the matter?”
“He ain’t eating. He wouldn’t touch his apple last night. I got up early to give him breakfast, but he wouldn’t have nothing to do with that, neither.”
“Maybe he’s just… going through a finicky phase?”
“That ain’t how it works,” Hank explained. “Pigs don’t not eat. Pigs eat till they explode, long as you keep feedin’ ’em.”
I had a roommate like that sophomore year. “So what do you do now?”
“He’s probably got pneumonia—it’s real common in winter. I hate to have to cancel our plans tonight, but I’m heading down to Mullica Hill, New Jersey. That’s the closest vet I’ve found who can work on livestock.”
It sounded strange to hear Hank refer to his pet as livestock. By now I’d come to regard Dinner as a morbidly obese puppy. “Do you need me to help you get him in the truck? I can be there in ten minutes.”
“It’s real sweet of you to offer, but I can walk him in. And I really got to leave right away. The sooner he’s medicated, the better. I sure am sorry about messing up New Year’s.”
He must be telling me the truth, I thought. It’s been nearly a week since we’ve seen each other. Or is this yet another lie?
I shrugged. For the time being, all I could do was believe him.
“Just make sure Dinner gets better,” I said.
“We been through this before. I reckon he’ll come out of it in a day or so.”
“That’s a relief. So… I guess we’ll just have to celebrate the new year when the two of you get back home.”
“Sounds good. And thanks for understanding. I’ll miss you, Dana.”
“It won’t be long.”
Just long enough for thoughts of Billy Moody to gambol unchecked through the treacherous fields of my subconscious, I silently added before hanging up.
Not that I had any intention of getting in touch with Billy Moody. Of course I didn’t. I would spend my evening painting. What a creative, self-sufficient—dare I say feminist?—way to start the new year.
“You are not getting in touch with Billy Moody,” Elinor Ann said.
“Of course I’m not!” Even though I had come up with several brilliant clues for our color-blind-themed puzzle, and it was probably imperative he receive them immediately. “What makes you think I would do such a thing?”
She just laughed. “So, what are you doing instead?”
“Staying in. You?”
“Going out.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“Not really. I’ve got a chauffeur. Eddie’s soccer coach and his wife are having an open house over in Macungie, and Cal thought it sounded like fun.”
“I still think you should consider it a positive step. You know—going somewhere new, expanding your circles…”
“I guess. Plus I decided this was as good a time as any t
o test out my new coping strategy.”
“Which is…?”
“Act As If. I read about it on the Internet. If I Act As If I’m not suffering from panic disorder, then I can leave the house—which proves I don’t have panic disorder, which is what I’ll tell myself the next time I have to leave the house.”
“Ingenious.” Briefly I wondered if the strategy would work with Billy Moody. If I could just manage to Act As If I found him physically repulsive…
I would be headlining on Broadway, acclaimed as the greatest actress of my generation.
“Let’s just hope it’s the cure I’ve been searching for.” She paused. “So, Dana?”
“Mmm?”
“I hate to ask, but… what about Dinner? Think he’s really sick?”
“That’s an awfully elaborate excuse to get out of a date, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, sure, but I was just thinking—well, what if Hank has to have an end-of-calendar-year session with his parole officer or something?”
“Will you stop? Hank’s not a criminal. I’m sure he’ll be home tomorrow—with his medicated pig.”
Besides, parole officers don’t work on national holidays, do they? I thought to myself after we’d said goodbye.
I rummaged halfheartedly through Vivian’s assortment of hats, ultimately pulling out a plum-colored mini-porkpie with rhinestone trim. I’d been working at a blistering pace over the past week. One more canvas and my sixteen-painting grid would be complete.
But speaking of grids, maybe I should just fire off a quick email to Billy with those last-minute clues I’d thought of.
No, you shouldn’t, I admonished myself, securing the canvas in place on my easel.
My brain became engaged in an excruciatingly boring debate for the next hour or so, with a back-and-forth consisting of two words:
Billy.
No.
Billy.
No.
Billy, Billy, Billy.
No, no, no.
Obviously the only way to get any work accomplished was to email him and be done with it. Besides, the puzzle would be even better with the addition of one more grid-spanning, twenty-one-letter clue, and “The Green-Nosed Reindeer” filled the bill perfectly. And if Billy happened to ask why I was still home at eleven o’clock on New Year’s Eve, well, I simply wouldn’t answer him. Let him assume I’d dashed it off mere seconds before leaving the house at one minute past the hour.
His response landed in my in-box so quickly, I could be excused for surmising he really was as devoted to me as he alleged.
Until I saw the words “Automated Response” in the subject line and read the email:
I am out of town until January 6, with only sporadic access to the Internet. I will respond to your email as soon as possible, and in the meantime, Happy New Year and thank you for your patience.
W.W.W.
Huh?!
I sat at my desk, rereading the message several billion times before concluding that his sudden departure was attributable to one of two scenarios:
In the first, he had been summoned to Allentown—but not to ring in the new year. His flurry of emails over Christmas proved he had virtually unlimited access to the Internet at his parents’ house. Therefore, a family member—perhaps the grandmother given to knitting hideous snowman sweaters—was on deathwatch.
But how would Billy—or anyone else, for that matter—know the exact date of her impending demise? And wasn’t January 6, Epiphany, the traditional end to the Christmas season across America?
That was when I had my own epiphany.
One of his clients—no doubt the trophy wife of a Wall Street megastar—had cajoled him into tutoring her nubile twin daughters at their Aspen chalet when her husband ceded his seat on the family Cessna in favor of remaining in town to pursue a hostile takeover of Exxon Mobil.
The nerve of some people. The unbridled nerve.
I picked up my paintbrush with renewed fervor and approached the canvas as if my life depended on it. Which, of course, it did. If I didn’t stay busy, images of Billy Moody schussing down slopes flanked by golden-haired sylphs—not to mention their well-preserved MILF—would eat away at my brain until there was nothing left but a smoldering nub of hostility.
I worked methodically, roughing out the porkpie hat and pig silhouette as noise from the street escalated in advance of midnight. It was strange Hank hadn’t yet called with a progress report. I’d tried his cell phone hours earlier, but it had gone straight to voice mail.
“You have to get better,” I said, addressing the beady eyes staring back at me from the center of the canvas. Maybe for this portrait I’d put a thermometer in Dinner’s mouth to memorialize the emergency. The old-fashioned kind, with mercury inside…
The phone rang—finally—and I lunged for the receiver.
“How is he?”
Click.
I looked at the clock: twenty to midnight. My mystery caller was early this year. He usually waited until a quarter of.
I had barely hung up when it rang again.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“It’s me,” Hank shouted over the roar of what sounded like the Indy 500. “Sorry I’m calling so late. I only just now found a 7-Eleven with a pay phone and a clerk who was willing to give me a mess of quarters.”
What year was this—1962? And since when did the state of New Jersey suffer from a dearth of convenience stores?
“I cut out so fast this morning, I didn’t have time to juice my cell,” he explained. “Forgot the charger, too.”
“I see,” I said, instead of, “How does a veterinarian manage to run a business without a functioning telephone?” which had been the first response that had sprung to mind. “Uh, did you call earlier? Like, two minutes ago?”
“Sure didn’t. Is… everything okay up there?”
“Of course. What about down there?”
“It’s pneumonia, all right. The doc wants to keep him overnight, but said he ought to be good to go by tomorrow. So I checked into a Motel 6, grabbed a nap, got me something to eat, and I been trying to find me a phone ever since.”
“I’m glad you did,” I said, instead of, “How does a motel chain manage to retain their clientele without in-room telephones?” Why was I finding it so hard to believe he was telling the truth? If I broke with tradition and made a resolution for the coming year, perhaps it should address my overly suspicious nature. “And thank god about Dinner.”
“I’ll say. He’s—”
A recording came on requesting a deposit of sixty-five cents to continue the call.
“Shoot. I’m a nickel short.”
“What’s the number?”
“Ain’t one. It’s scratched out. Listen, Dana—happy New Year, okay? I’m freezing out here in this here parking lot. I’ll call you tomorrow when I get back to town. And I l—”
The phone went dead.
“I l—?” What was that supposed to mean? “I listened to the radio on the drive down”? “I lunched with the president”? “I left my heart in San Francisco”?
“I love you”?
Whatever the sentence, it would be at least twelve hours before I’d hear the end of it.
By now only minutes remained of December 31. It was time to compose my annual New Year’s statement of purpose.
It was a ritual I’d picked up from my father, who, in a rare reference to spirituality, described it as an offering. “It’s not a resolution. It’s a kick you give yourself in the ass,” he’d explained. “And don’t worry, kid. God ain’t listening. You don’t go to hell if you blow it.”
This year I knew exactly what declaration I wanted to make. I’d been thinking about the wording all evening while I worked on Dinner’s portrait. Now I addressed the canvas in front of me, uttering the sentence aloud:
“Allow me to develop my talent without obstacles.”
It was a fine wish for the coming year; one I’d be wise to heed. In the half a lifetime between c
ollege and the present, I’d squandered an awful lot of time dating the wrong men and entering letters into the little white squares of crossword grids.
Then again, Billy genuinely seemed to believe I had a flair for puzzle themes. I had no reason to doubt his judgment. Besides, he was so incredibly…
“Without obstacles,” I reiterated, bonking myself on the head with the end of my paintbrush for emphasis.
Just then, a frenzy of noisemakers and shrieks erupted on the street. Puny, who had been lolling on the counter keeping me company, leapt from his perch in terror, scattering my can of brushes and upending my palette facedown on the floor in his haste to find safety under the bed.
I turned over the palette to discover a riotous Rorschach of color. At first glance, the image looked like a vengeful old crone—Hannah, perhaps.
Of all the nights my best friend decides to battle panic disorder, it had to be this one, I thought, grabbing a sponge and a roll of paper towels. I immediately felt guilty when the phone rang a few minutes later. If that was Elinor Ann on the line, she hadn’t lasted very long at the open house in Macungie.
“Hello?”
“What the hell are you doing home? I was expecting to leave a message.”
All of a sudden, December 31 didn’t seem nearly as lonely as I’d made it out to be.
“Long story,” I said. “And I could ask you the same question.”
“You know I hate New Year’s.”
“Oh, right. ‘Amateur night,’ you always called it.”
“Good memory.”
I could hear the clink of ice cubes in the background. “Still drinking Jim Beam?”
“I stand corrected. Great memory. So… what are you up to?”
“I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.”
Ray chuckled. “Guess there are worse ways to see in the new year.”
Okay, I thought. He’s got to be the mystery caller. He obviously heard the anxiety in my voice when I picked up just before midnight and checked back to make sure I was all right.
“So, where’s this boyfriend of yours, anyway?” he wanted to know, further confirming my suspicions. “Aren’t the two of you supposed to be out on the town on a night like this?”
