Joint Custody

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  He was actually running himself quite ragged, which I was all for, calling out questions to The Woman, like “Which spoon goes with the salsa platter?” and “Where do you keep your cheese?”

  I took particular exception to the latter question. The matter of where The Woman chooses to keep her cheese should be her business.

  She seemed to answer all his stupid questions calmly, but I decided to trot over to the living room just to make sure. While tone of voice can be a great indicator of mood—certainly, The Man’s said enough times that he wished he could read tone in emails and texts—there’s nothing to replace seeing firsthand the accompanying facial expressions. I’d just bet she was rolling her eyes at his culinary ineptitude, like, Wow, what a loser—that’s the last time we invite him to Book Club!

  But when I joined her in the living room, I saw that . . .

  Huh.

  She didn’t look turned off by the loser at all. On the contrary, she looked positively tickled.

  “Where do you keep the fruit spoons?” New Man called out.

  “Fruit spoons?” The Woman called back.

  “You know. Spoons for fruit.”

  Her eyes twinkled some more as she placed an elegant hand over her mouth, apparently hoping to stifle a giggle and not being wholly successful at it. Then she rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen, presumably to put New Man out of his misery.

  I tell you, I’d have liked to put him out of his misery . . . permanently and not metaphorically.

  I trotted after her.

  Once in the kitchen, she opened a drawer, removed a simple spoon, and extended it toward him.

  “Here,” she said, laughing, “is a spoon. I’m told it can even be used for fruit, making it, technically, for at least part-time in its life as a spoon, a fruit spoon.”

  New Man nodded, embarrassed.

  “Right,” New Man said, “right. Also . . .”

  He moved a platter of tortilla chips from the counter to the island in the center of the room.

  “Nachos?” he said, like nachos were some great sphinxlike “mysteries of the Universe” question just begging to be answered. “How do I make the nachos? Is there a certain way you’d like them made?”

  “Well, I usually get some cheese. Toss it on. Melt it.”

  New Man nodded earnestly. “Hmm, very interesting. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”

  “I suppose,” she said, “you could reverse it.”

  “Reverse it?”

  “You know, melt the cheese first, then toss it on? But if you do that, you wind up with a cold chip. And who wants a cold chip in their nachos?”

  “Right,” he said, still earnest. “No cold chips here. Warm is good for nachos.”

  She laughed, smiling up at him, and immediately, the dead-earnest expression fell away. It was as though he could see for the first time that she’d been teasing him, maybe just a bit.

  She looked up at him, eyes sparkling.

  He looked down at her, eyes sparkling.

  Thank God the doorbell rang right then!

  That broke whatever spell had been between them, but just for good measure, I nudged my snout at the backs of her knees, propelling her toward the front door in order to let her guests in. Hey, it’s not polite to keep people waiting!

  “I’ll be right there!” she called out.

  “Melt the cheese, melt the cheese, melt the cheese,” I heard New Man mutter to himself behind us, back to being earnest again.

  Oh, forget that guy! I thought, actually able to do so, as I raced past The Woman in my eagerness. Did I mention how much I love Book Club? I bounded into the foyer, scratching at the door as The Woman reached from behind me to open it.

  Sometimes, they arrive separately. But on this occasion, they all got there together.

  The Blonde!

  The Redhead!

  The Brunette!

  “Hi!” they all said at once.

  “Hi! Welcome!” The Woman said back.

  She greeted each of them as I curled my way through their legs, happily sticking my tongue out at her friends, who were my friends too. They, in turn, bent down to pet me, greeting me like I was the one they were there to see.

  Which, on some level, you gotta admit, is probably true.

  There were a lot of squeals of “Gatz!” as though it had been far longer than the few weeks since we’d seen one another. I guess some special beings always warrant a hero’s welcome and I have always been one of those special beings.

  But then into our happy grouping of four women loving on the Gatzer, he had to walk in and spoil it.

  The smell was what alerted us to his presence first—the insanely beatific aroma of melted cheese, to be exact. Apparently, New Man had figured out the fine art of nacho making, and there he was, steaming platter in hand.

  Who could resist?

  It probably didn’t hurt that, after they made their way into the living area and he gently set the platter down on the coffee table, he greeted each of them individually, like he was so happy to see them.

  Well, who doesn’t like a happy greeting?

  It occurred to me for the first time that he actually must’ve met them all before this, during those times he visited The Woman at the office for things having to do with his book. But I supposed this was the first time they’d all been together in a more social setting, outside the office. And that if they’d been impressed with him before— all that “bestselling author” hoo-ha—they were even more impressed with him now, what with his kitchen towel draped casually over his shoulder and stuff.

  Feh.

  Anyone could feign being genuine, engaged, and kind for a little while. I seriously doubted he could pull it off for much longer, certainly not the whole night.

  “Why don’t we get started?” The Woman suggested.

  “I have to say,” The Redhead said, “my partner Mikaela is totally jealous of this evening. She considers herself to be one of your biggest fans.”

  More feh.

  I dutifully parked myself in the corner, glaring surly eyes at New Man as he continued to impress The Woman’s friends, offering the platter of nachos here and there before scurrying off to the kitchen, returning soon with a bunch of platters he juggled with ease.

  You’re really making yourself at home here, aren’t you? I thought. Well, I wouldn’t let myself get too comfortable if I were you. But since I’m not you, I’m me, I’ll make myself as comfortable as I damn please.

  New Man set his successfully juggled platters down on the coffee table, the eyes of the admiring group upon him.

  Not my eyes, though. My eyes were not admiring in the least. I attempted to make my own version of a very familiar human gesture to illustrate this, pointing my paw at my eyes before turning the paw a one-eighty toward New Man—I’m watching you, pal, at all times—but for once, no one was paying any attention to me. Not even The Woman.

  New Man took his spot in the middle of the couch, right between The Woman and The Blonde.

  “So,” The Woman said, clapping her hands together, a mischievous gleam in her eye, “who read the book this time?”

  What was she talking about? Was there something different about “this time”?

  All around the circle, there were excited affirmations and a lot of head nodding.

  Huh.

  I was an old Book Club hand, so I was well aware of the fact that, even when you’re talking about a group of people who work in publishing—for joy, not glory—it’s still rare when everyone’s read the book.

  But the reason for this soon became apparent.

  “What a treat!” The Brunette gushed. “To have the author of the book we’re discussing here! I mean, I know we’ve already met at the office . . .”

  This was disappointing on more than one l
evel. If they were talking about one of New Man’s books, he’d be the focus of all their attention all night long. But also? I’d never known The Brunette to gush about anything before. Honestly, she just wasn’t the gushing type. And yet, on she went, adding:

  “And what a tall glass of water you are!”

  And then, in a gesture I seriously hoped she’d look back on with great embarrassment when she rose the next day, she made a claw out of one hand, clawed at the air in his general direction, and let out a noise that sounded something like, “Mmmroar!”

  New Man laughed along awkwardly, but not without kindness, although he did look a bit uncomfortable at being the focus of so much attention. Thankfully, The Blonde was having none of it. This was book-discussion time, and The Blonde, in my experience, takes her books seriously. Almost scarily so. Almost as seriously as she takes her wine.

  “Although I’m usually more in favor of the reader-response school of lit crit,” The Blonde began, “I’m sure we would all love to hear your personal insights.” She leaned forward so far, in her effort to get at those insights, she almost fell out of her chair. “Could you talk a bit about your choice of thematic love and worship throughout the arc of the mail carrier? I don’t want to be elitist, but I’d never before considered mail carriers to be tragically romantic heroes.”

  “But Anthony Trollope worked for the Post Office,” The Woman pointed out. “You know? The author of The Chronicles of Barsetshire? And about a million other books.”

  New Man looked at her appreciatively.

  “Gosh, yes,” New Man agreed. “Trollope was insanely prolific. Do you know, he used to get up ridiculously early each morning and knock out thousands of words—thousands!—before heading out to his day job at the Post Office?” New Man shook his head in admiration. “I wish I could do that. Me, I’m a late-night writer by nature, which means I’ve had the whole day to let self-doubt creep in before sitting down to work. Although sometimes, I do the staring-at-the-blank-page thing for so long, it actually is ridiculously early the next morning before I hunt-and-peck out my first new words.”

  The assembly, except for me, pooh-poohed his modesty. They were all sure, even if I wasn’t, that whenever he wrote he was brilliant.

  “I suppose, though,” New Man added, looking mildly embarrassed, “I should’ve bothered to reread my book, and I would’ve, had I known there’d be questions about theme and character arc.”

  “You can’t remember your own book?” The Redhead asked.

  “It has been a minute,” New Man said. “It was my first, and sometimes, it feels like a different person wrote it—do you know what I mean?”

  Maybe a different person did write it, I hoped. Maybe he’s one of these plagiarists you hear so much about, I’ll find a way to expose him, and—

  “I completely understand,” The Brunette said. “That’s exactly how I feel every time I get a new pet snake.”

  The Woman and New Man made eye contact, bonding over the beautiful strangeness that has always been The Brunette.

  “I buy them,” The Brunette continued, “and they die and I buy them and they die. But you know? Every time I get a new pet, I feel closer to God.”

  Like a boa constrictor with a new mouse, they took a beat to digest this latest oddity.

  “That’s really beautiful,” New Man observed at last.

  I couldn’t tell if he was sincere—I kinda hoped, for his sake, that he wasn’t—but even I had to admit, it was a kind thing to say. He was making an effort to “meet someone where they are,” as the saying goes.

  I also had to admit that he probably wasn’t a plagiarist. He probably simply meant to express something The Man was always saying: that for a writer to go back and read his or her earlier work, that way madness lies.

  The Brunette blushed at New Man’s remark. I rolled my eyes, just because. And The Blonde took a deep breath, no doubt gearing up to take another deep dive into New Man’s debut novel from long ago.

  The night went on, with New Man continuing to interact with each friend where they were.

  They were all laughing; they were all charmed.

  They, not I.

  The Brunette was evincing a heretofore unseen side to her personality, a touchy-feely side that seemed to compel her to reach across and lay a hand on him somewhere, anywhere, whenever she was making a point.

  The Redhead seemed the most overtly respectful, casting occasional looks The Woman’s way, no doubt seeing the same thing I was seeing: that The Woman was content to simply sit back and watch the others talk to him.

  Even The Blonde, who could be a handful in her own way, was won over as he hit all the right novelist beats for her, miraculously suddenly remembering his own work and reciting whole passages of it to her at her prompting.

  Hell, he could even do accents well.

  Anytime The Man read his own work out loud, when he got to a part where he’d need to voice a woman, he always flubbed it. The voice would always come out high and vaguely insulting. I knew he wasn’t like that, that he didn’t mean it that way. Some people just don’t have a solid impersonation gene.

  But this guy?

  He raised his voice too, but he never went too high with it, so it never came off diminishing or condescending in any way.

  But enough of that. The others were all content to compliment his strengths. I certainly didn’t have to add to that chorus.

  Not too long after they’d finished the most thorough examination of a book that Book Club had ever witnessed, The Brunette moved away from the group, dancing by herself in a chilled-out manner to the jazz music playing, a thankfully empty wineglass in her hand.

  “You know,” The Brunette said, “this is the best part of Book Club. I love the books—your book in particular is genius—but this is the best. We’re analytical with books all day at work, you know? We rarely get to let loose like this!”

  Dancing by yourself to softly playing jazz music didn’t meet my personal definition of “letting loose”—which tended to involve flying objects and me running around like a furry little maniac—but hey, knock yourself out.

  The Blonde clenched the stem of her wineglass, swearing under her breath, a tightening fist away from snapping it in anger.

  “I swear to God,” The Blonde said, “you push me to the edge.”

  Whoa, who lit her fire?

  But here’s the problem with The Blonde. Give her a third glass of wine or—perish the thought—a fourth, and you always run the risk that irrational anger will be the end result. And then, when that happens, look out, because—hoo-boy!—the non sequiturs really start to fly. Who knew what she meant by that last remark? In the moment, I wasn’t sure she even did.

  The Redhead gently pried the wineglass from her grip, and The Blonde immediately gave her a grateful smile that was a tad sheepish.

  Hey, we all need to be cut off sometime.

  You’d think New Man would be put off by all of this . . . strangeness. Certainly, it could get awkward the next time he saw them at the ol’ office. And yet, he didn’t seem put off by it at all, not any of it. On the contrary, he seemed as thoroughly charmed by The Woman’s work friends as they were by him. And while I’d thought earlier in the evening that anyone could feign being genuine, engaged, and kind for a little while but that I seriously doubted he could pull it off for the whole night, here he was doing it. Could I have been wrong about him? Could he actually be genuine, engaged, and kind? Oh puh-leeze.

  I shook my head at him, my glare intensifying into daggers.

  At the very least, he could react like a normal person would. Couldn’t he see how odd this group was?

  Come on, pal—run for the hills!

  But did he take my advice, delivered by mental telepathy?

  No.

  Instead, he started to stand, lifting an empty wine bottle off the cof
fee table.

  “Why don’t I grab another bottle?” he offered.

  Before anyone could respond to this, The Blonde piped up again.

  “Here’s something I’ve been wondering,” she said, and it was anyone’s guess if she was feeling angry again or was simply being intense. “Is there any . . . downside to all this . . . success?”

  New Man appeared to respectfully give the question careful thought before replying, “Well, there is that one stalker . . .”

  “Wait,” The Woman said. “You have a stalker? How did I not know about this?”

  But before that could be explained, The Blonde dropped her wineglass, and, well, you really can’t leave wine all over the rug.

  Paper towels were grabbed, cloth towels were grabbed, advice was shouted about the wonders of salt: not good for rubbing in wounds unless you’re into S-M, but great for getting out wine stains.

  After that was attended to, The Woman reached for the empty bottle New Man was still holding.

  “You’ve already done so much,” she said.

  And that’s when reaching turned to touching, her hand making physical contact with his, their eyes locking.

  “I’ll get it,” she added, giving a slight tug on the bottle, the hand-to-hand contact thankfully separating once the bottle had wholly been transferred to her hand. Though I could’ve sworn I saw the lingering trail left by their parting fingers in the air, kind of like an LSD trail. Not that I do drugs. The Gatzer is firmly antidrug. But I’m no provincial. I know all about hallucinogens. I’ve seen Go Ask Alice. I’ve heard the Jefferson Airplane song.

  New Man seemed to slightly blush as she maneuvered past him, his eyes watching her walk until she disappeared into the kitchen.

  It struck me then that while New Man was all self-confident suaveness with the other three, The Woman made him nervous. It was like he cared what she thought.

  The Brunette was too caught up in her jazzy dancing and The Blonde too caught up in her notes on the book to take notice of anything beyond “intellectual pursuits,” but The Redhead saw what I was seeing, observing the sparky interaction between New Man and The Woman.