“Of course,” The Man said, smiling. “I trust your judgment. I’ll give it a whirl.”
Anyway, on Night 8, we were so sure it was going to be an eighth book, and we were totally OK with that, but we were puzzled as to what book would be so oblong and yet pancake flat.
Turned out not to be a book at all. Rather, she’d bought him a top-of-the-line laptop to replace the running-on-fumes laptop on the table by the window.
As much as he’d loved all the books, he was deeply touched by the thoughtfulness of this: she’d thought to do for him what he hadn’t thought to do for himself.
They went to the bedroom to celebrate their joy over their gifts, making the sounds they always created when they were happy and making the smells they made when they were super happy, putting him in an even better mood, which turned out to be a good thing, because after that, it was time to go to his parents’ place.
I’d naturally assumed we’d all be going together, but as they put on their winter coats while I panted eagerly by the door, The Man explained.
“I’m sorry, Gatz,” he said, “but my mom just isn’t a dog person. In fact, she’s not a pet person at all, and my father’s no better.”
What kind of person doesn’t like pets? I thought. Not even a hamster? And how did you get to be so wonderful with me if you come from people who are bad with pets? And how come I’ve never even met your parents?
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” The Woman said.
“Trust me, it is.” The Man turned to me. “Sure, you could come anyway. But I promise you, you’d just be made to feel uncomfortable, out of place. You’re better off staying here, and we can tell you all about it when we get home.”
I didn’t like to be left on my own too much—I always wanted to go with if at all possible—but something in his suddenly grim expression kept me from insisting on going. So, I stayed. Whenever I got bored or lonely, I chewed on some sneakers, but not egregiously so.
I assumed they’d be gone for hours—we’d watched a lot of holiday movies together on the TV, and celebrations in them seemed to go on forever—but in a surprisingly short period of time, they were back.
“I told you,” he said, throwing his coat down. It was the first time I’d ever heard him use such an admonitory tone with her. Plus, “I told you so” is never a good look for anyone, even when it’s true.
“I know,” she said, taking it well. It seemed like, rather than being offended and defensive, she just wanted to make it better for him. “And you were absolutely right. I shouldn’t have insisted we go.”
“What kind of a mother says to her author son: ‘When are you going to write another real book?’”
As they talked more about it, I was able to suss this much out: The Man’s mother had loved his first book, although he insisted he was pretty sure that was only because it gave her something to brag about; in fact, he was further sure she’d never read it, except maybe quickly to make sure none of the characters resembled her. But then with each new book he had published, she’d tell him it wasn’t as good as the first, it wasn’t real.
“What kind of person does that?” he said.
I could totally empathize, although for me, I was still stuck on: What kind of person doesn’t like pets?
Then came a lot of “I know, baby” from The Woman, followed by a lot of “I’m sorry, I should’ve listened,” and finally, “It’ll be better when we go to my parents’ for Christmas, I promise.”
But we didn’t go to her parents’ for Christmas, emphasis on the we, not that year. By the time Christmas rolled around, it was apparent The Man was still so family-shocked—the relationship version of shell-shocked—from their brief sojourn with his over Hanukkah, he was all familied out for the year.
“The thing is,” she said, “childish as it may sound, I’ve never been away from my family for Christmas. I’m just so close to them . . .”
She let the idea trail off.
But it wasn’t allowed to trail off there for long, because almost immediately he rushed in to fill the silence with: “Of course you should still go see your family! Please don’t stay here on my account. And, before you can say anything, I don’t mean that in a passive-aggressive way at all.”
I could tell he didn’t, and I was sure she could tell too. It’s impossible for The Man to fake anything. Sometimes, he might be better off if he could, but he just doesn’t have it in him.
“I want you to go,” he insisted, truthfully. “I would never want you not to have the holiday you deserve, just because of me and my hang-ups.”
“If you’re sure,” she said.
“Absolutely,” he said.
So, when the time came, she went, with promises to be back late Christmas Day night. But—surprise, happy surprise!—on Christmas Day morning, as we were eating our breakfast and reading the newspaper, we heard the key turn in the lock.
“Surprise, surprise!” she said.
“What are you doing back early?” The Man asked. “Was it”—he paused, as though remembering times with his own family—“bad?”
“Of course not!” she said. “It was wonderful. I got to see everyone and spend time with them all, but then this morning, after we opened our presents, I realized I was missing you both too much, so I came home early. I hope that’s OK.”
OK? It was more than OK!
We three were all in agreement about just how OK it was as we rolled around on the floor together, laughing.
So maybe The Man hadn’t gone to The Woman’s family with her.
The Woman was OK with this.
I was OK with this. We’d had our eight nights of wonderful presents earlier in the month and our beautiful menorah that The Woman had bought with its colorful fast-dripping candles and bright flames. And now we had our tree that could’ve come out of an advertisement and that we’d decorated with great love and good humor, even when it took a while to get the lights to light—honestly, I thought our tree could rival the one they showed on TV at Rockefeller Center, even if ours was a little smaller.
Menorah; tree.
The Man; The Woman.
Me.
All of it a perfect fit.
All was right in the world.
Chapter Nine
One year and two months ago . . .
The holiday season had rolled around again, still a joyous time, what with the scarves, the books, the toys. The tree was looking good, and the menorah remained untarnished.
But after the fiasco with The Man’s family the year before, it was decided they’d just go to The Woman’s family this time. I curled up on my fluffy doggy bed, accepting of the need to sometimes be left behind, but then The Woman called to me from the doorway.
“Come on, Gatz. Time to go.”
“But won’t they mind?” The Man objected.
“Of course not,” she said. “Who could mind Gatz?”
Right? That’s what I say: Who could mind Gatz?
And her parents, in their fancy high-rise apartment, didn’t mind me, not even when we exited the penthouse elevator straight onto the plush white carpeting.
“Shouldn’t we do something about his feet first?” The Man said, worried.
But as he bent to wipe off my paws with the handkerchief he kept handy for those times we entered stores that didn’t look immediately ecstatic to see us, a stunning woman of a certain age with a martini glass containing a beverage that matched the color of her impeccable magenta suit hurried over on stocking feet, waving him away.
“Don’t worry about that,” she dismissed, followed by: “Gatz! Oh, I’ve so longed to meet you. I’m just glad you’re finally here!”
Let me tell you, I was the hit of the party.
The Woman’s parents; her two brothers, their wives and kids; other assorted guests—no one could get enough of good old Gatz
. Even when, in my enthusiasm at being the center of such a large group of attention, my tail accidentally knocked a Baccarat crystal bowl of cocktail sauce all over the pristine white carpeting, no one seemed to mind.
“Don’t be silly,” The Woman’s mom said as The Man frantically tried to sop it up. “If the house cleaner can’t get the stain out, we’ll just get a new carpet. Really, it’s no problem.”
I could tell it wasn’t, for her. But The Man? I could tell he was still bothered by it and, well, everything else.
Everyone tried to make him feel welcome; they certainly made me feel welcome. They asked him questions about his work. And these weren’t the kind of stupid questions writers get asked all the time, the ones I knew The Man hated, like “Where do your ideas come from?” and “What are you working on next?” when you’d just finished a book; I mean, come on, give a guy a break—we’re not making widgets here. Nor were these just pro forma, we’re-being-polite-but-we-really-don’t-know-what-we’re-talking-about-nor-do-we-really-care questions. Well, of course these people asked great writing-related questions—they all knew and loved The Woman, and The Woman was an editor, for crying out loud!
And oh, how they did love The Woman.
It was apparent in everything they said and did. And almost instantly, I felt like they loved me too.
I was sure they’d love The Man as well, if only he’d let them; if only he’d meet them, never mind halfway, even if he met them a hundredth of the way, they’d be all in.
But he just couldn’t do it.
Oh, he was polite enough, answering every question—but they were minimal answers, with minimal enthusiasm, everything minimal.
If I could have, I would’ve screamed at him: Try! Why can’t you at least try?
But he just couldn’t. Certainly, he wouldn’t, didn’t.
In the end, we were the first to leave the party, The Woman making our excuses as we went, blaming it on herself: “So much going on at work . . . this monster book to edit . . . wish we could stay . . .”
When we got home, it was apparent the evening had taken a lot out of The Man.
“That took a lot out of you, didn’t it?” The Woman said, always a sharp observer.
“It did,” he allowed, grabbing himself a beer. “I told you, I’m not good at social things.”
OK, buddy, I thought, this is the part where you add, “But I’m so sorry and I’ll try to do better. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. I’ll really try to do better.”
But he didn’t.
She acted like she didn’t mind that we’d left early. I acted like I didn’t mind that we’d left early.
The menorah, the tree.
Him, her, and me.
It was still a pretty good Christmas.
Chapter Ten
Two months ago . . .
I’d be lying if I didn’t say the glow had gone out of the holidays, just a little bit.
Oh, we still had the menorah, still had the tree. But this year, instead of multicolored candles for the menorah, they were just one color—blue—and instead of standing straight in the menorah, they tended to list to the side, listing so hard that a lit one even toppled over once. It probably would’ve burned the whole place down if I hadn’t been vigilant; if I hadn’t barked with all my doggy might as soon as I saw what was happening, barking loudly until they finally came running.
As they doused the small flames with water, I thought: You should’ve been watching. You both should’ve been paying better attention and Couldn’t you have just doused the flames on the table but somehow kept the candles lit? Couldn’t you have saved it? I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to let the candle flames go out naturally.
If the Hanukkah candles were all askew, the Christmas tree fared no better. Some of the ornaments couldn’t be found, and this year, when the lights wouldn’t immediately light, no one took the time to stay on the job until success was achieved. They just didn’t bother.
Half-assed candles; half-assed tree. The Man and The Woman feigned enthusiasm, but I could tell neither was invested in the process anymore.
It didn’t help that he’d bought her eight scarves this year, which, as they say, is a scarf too far—even I could see that—and two of the scarves were the same, just in a different shade.
But that was OK! Things still could’ve been OK, because if they were at least feigning, it meant they were still trying, on some level. It will all work out in the end, I thought, until . . .
The Man was sacked out on the couch; The Woman out of sight in the kitchen, just a disembodied voice. Me, I was keeping a wary eye on things from the bedroom doorway.
“Two years ago,” The Man said, “you insisted we go to my family.”
“I don’t know if ‘insisted’ is the word I’d use . . .”
“Fine. You’re the editor.”
“That’s right. I am the editor.”
“Fine,” he said again. “Last year, you persuaded me to go to your family.”
“‘Persuaded’ doesn’t strike me as accurate either.”
“Whatever.”
Wait. Did he just whatever her? Oh, this was bad, very bad. Sometimes, it’s impossible for two people in a relationship to come back from an ill-timed whatever. It’s a well-documented fact.
Sure enough, deadly silence from the kitchen, only broken when The Man said:
“How about this year, we go to no families? Would no families work for everybody?”
Oh crap, buddy. I put my paws over my head in disgrace. It would’ve been better if you’d just let the silence go. It would’ve been better if you hadn’t broken it. Don’t you know by now that it’s better to keep silent and have everyone think you’re a fool than open your mouth and confirm it? I mean, I love you, man, but come on: Surely, even you can see that this is not the route to go right now, can’t you? So let’s all take some deep, calming breaths and—
BANG! A kitchen cabinet slammed, the cabinet obviously not doing the slamming on its own. And with that startling slam, I lifted my head from my paws, on high alert now.
“Spending time with family during the holidays,” The Woman said, causing me to swivel my head toward the kitchen, “it’s what people do.”
The way she bit off those last four words; the steel in her voice—oh, this was all bad, very bad.
“Well,” The Man said, indicating himself with a hard thumb jab that seemed pointless since The Woman wasn’t there to witness it, just me; I mean, why make the effort?—“not this people!”
Even though she was far away in the kitchen, I could hear her sigh—perhaps she no longer found his awkwardness charming; and I sadly confess that, in the moment, I wasn’t finding him as charming as usual either—but if he heard the sigh too, he gave no sign as he continued.
“And while we’re on the subject . . .”
Not “while we’re on the subject,” I groaned inwardly. I’d seen people “while we’re on the subject” other people on TV before. It never ends well. It only adds fuel to the fire.
Sure enough, the implied threat of “while we’re on the subject” was enough to draw from the kitchen The Woman, looking angrier than I’d ever seen her, as The Man swung his legs down, rising from the couch.
“And while we’re on the subject,” he repeated, now that she was in the room with him, “do we really have to go to your company’s holiday party or your friend’s New Year’s Eve party this year? Do we have to go to any parties together, ever again?”
“No,” she said, still angry. “We don’t.”
“Good,” he said, visibly relieved.
“We don’t ever have to go to parties, or anywhere else together, ever again.”
“Wait. What?”
I was right there with him. Wait. What? Let’s not get carried away here . . .
Her angr
y energy swiftly turned to sadness as she spoke again.
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”
“Like what?” he said. “I told you what I was like from the beginning.”
“You did,” she admitted, still sad.
“But you thought, what, that you might change me?”
“No, not that, never that. I guess I simply thought that you’d eventually want to change. For me . . . for us. That you’d be happy to compromise and happy going out, going to parties—at least sometimes—because it meant being with me.”
“I love being with you. I’m happy being with you.”
She smiled at that, if only just a little smile, perhaps thinking that he was going to go somewhere else with this.
But he didn’t.
“The thing is, though, I don’t need anyone else. Just you. And Gatz.”
And back to sadness, a deeper sadness as she said, “That’s the problem. I love you, but I need other people too.”
“And what does that mean?” The Man demanded, still in angry mode, still not getting it, still not seeing how precariously we were teetering on the edge here.
Come on, guys! I wanted to bark at them both, vehemently. Let’s just take this thing down a notch—two notches even! We’ll all just calm down, have a seat, and—
“I think it means,” The Woman said slowly, “we’re over.”
As though he’d been slapped, The Man looked instantly shocked, devastated.
We were over? How could we be over?
Chapter Eleven
Later that same day . . .
It’s amazing how quickly disaster can strike. One minute you’re there living your life, happily drinking champagne from your doggy bowl, chasing your tail under the stars, the world your leftover piece of turkey, beautiful horizon as far as the eye can see. The next thing you know, there’s an iceberg right in front of you and—bam!—your unsinkable ship is going down, all is lost.
I know because I saw it on Titanic.
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