Joint Custody

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “Is everything OK?”

  New. Man.

  When I’d seen him briefly earlier, I hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. I’d been too busy glaring at him. But now I saw he was bare chested, the bottom half of his body covered with loose light-blue pants that appeared to match the top The Woman wore. Pajamas. They were sharing the two halves of a pair of pajamas. How much worse could this get?

  Everything was not OK! How could she not see that he wasn’t The Man?

  “Yes,” she said. “Gatz just knocked over his food.”

  The Woman was still too busy chasing after stray bits of food to notice New Man’s nervousness, but I did. He swallowed, hard, and then a light mist of sweat broke out over his upper lip.

  I stared up at him, wondering what he was up to.

  New Man cleared his throat, swallowed again.

  “I hope this doesn’t seem too sudden,” New Man started.

  He nervously glanced down at me, but I certainly wasn’t about to offer him any support. Whatever this was, he was on his own.

  “It’s just that,” New Man went on, “I don’t want to wait until the book comes out at the end of the year. It feels right not to wait, and . . .”

  New Man’s hand disappeared into a fold in his pants, and that’s when I realized for the first time that the garment had pockets.

  New Man started to pull a small box out of his pocket, and I zeroed in on that half-emerged box, panic rising as he said, while The Woman looked up from her project on the floor:

  “I hope you both will agree to—” New Man started.

  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

  I lunged at New Man, knocking the box across the room before she could see it, nearly knocking New Man over too in the process. He may have outweighed me by about eight to one, but I was mighty in my panicked fury.

  But if I was mighty, New Man was instantly enraged.

  “Gatz, what are you—” The Woman started to say, only to be cut off by New Man shouting.

  “YOU STUPID DOG!”

  Silence.

  The Woman and I stared at New Man, wide-eyed and in shock. To his credit, New Man looked shocked too. Ashamed, even. For a long moment, we all just froze like that.

  “What was that?” The Woman demanded to know.

  “I don’t know,” New Man said, crestfallen. However he’d envisioned his day going, it hadn’t been like this.

  You and me both, pal.

  “But I thought you liked dogs,” The Woman said, a hesitation entering her voice.

  “I don’t dislike dogs.” New Man hesitated, squirmed, delayed. “But I avoid them whenever I can.”

  The Woman stared at him in disbelief, and I stared at her.

  “What?” she said, sounding a little angry and a little betrayed, but also very, very sad.

  New Man gestured at the tiny scar beneath his eye.

  “When I was little,” he said, “I was attacked by one.”

  “You told me that was from a fall at the park,” The Woman said, eyes narrowing.

  “I lied,” he said simply.

  The Woman swallowed, digesting his admission.

  “I want to be OK with them, but,” New Man said, a boyish wistfulness in his eyes, “I never really got over it.” He paused. “It was an English mastiff.”

  Seriously? That was pretty much the largest breed out there!

  I pictured a tiny junior version of New Man, like the photos from his childhood lining his hallway. I pictured that little kid squaring off against an English mastiff.

  In the moment, I couldn’t fault him for being scared. I’d have been scared too!

  “But Gatz isn’t an English mastiff,” The Woman objected, somewhat exasperated. “Look at him: he’s so little!”

  “What can I say?” New Man shrugged, not indifferently, but rather, philosophically. “It’s a fear. No one said fears have to be rational. They’re fears.”

  The two stared at each other, wordless, knowing what they now knew.

  As for me, my brow furrowed as I disappeared into my head, wondering:

  How did I miss all this? How did I miss them growing a relationship so big that he’d bought her a ring and was going to ask her to marry him? When did it—

  Realization dawned then, as a series of imaginings came at me, filling in the blanks.

  On a Sunday night, she’d have dropped me off at The Man’s. On Monday, she’d have gone in to work only to find New Man waiting outside her office. A smile blazed across her face.

  Nighttime, a weeknight, her place, maybe a week later: More laughter, more pages, rising contentment and joy. That night he came to her place for the first time. Lots of working, but also living. And laughing. So much laughter.

  Lots of Chinese takeout containers around too, the definition of human fun.

  She brings me home on a Friday, spends the weekend with me. But after that one time he came on his own and the other time he came to Book Club, he never comes on the weekends again. But as soon as I’m gone . . .

  Somewhere in there, the tension grows too great, the tension of being unable to be together, and she hands him off to The Blonde, so The Blonde can become his editor, so The Woman is ethically in the clear and then they can . . .

  As soon as I go back to The Man’s on Sundays, New Man returns. Maybe they open a bottle of wine, talk over books and writing, someone lets their hand linger on the bottle too long. They both stare at the bottle.

  They both stare at each other.

  “Why do you think I always say I’m busy on weekends?” New Man said, drawing my attention back into the room.

  I could almost see the hearts broken on the floor.

  “I knew if I came to your place again,” New Man continued, “he would terrorize me.”

  “Terrorize you?” she said, skeptical.

  “Yes. Whenever you’re not in the room, whenever you’re not looking, he’s always growling at me and . . . doing hostile things.”

  “Gatz isn’t hostile!”

  “He has been. To me.”

  The guy wasn’t wrong about this, but I certainly wasn’t about to validate him.

  “But if you don’t like being around dogs,” The Woman said, “if you don’t like being around Gatz, how can this work? How can we ever work?”

  The words hung in the air.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A little later . . .

  We left the way we’d come, on the grand elevator, only this time we were going in the other direction, taking the long way down.

  And this time, there was just the two of us.

  Back at the apartment, with nothing left to say, The Woman had quickly gathered up her things. New Man had tried to plead with her, like it was the most important thing in the world to him, and in that moment, I truly and one hundred percent respected him for the first time: the idea that he’d fight hard for what mattered. But when he could finally see there was no point and that he was only making her sadder, he let her go. He didn’t want to make her sadder; he didn’t want her to be sad at all, and I could respect that too.

  Now we stood side by side on that elevator. She was back in her own clothes, a toothbrush sticking out of her bag.

  She looked more worn down by life than I’d ever seen her, her clothes wrinkled, her eyes red.

  Me, I couldn’t help but be relieved. What a narrow escape!

  Having completed our elevator ride, once we reached the revolving front doors, I bounded outside into the bright, shiny day, excited, waiting for her to join me on the sidewalk.

  I turned to her, my tongue hanging out, and all the elation went out of me.

  There was a teardrop on her lower lash, threatening to fall. And then it did fall as she crumpled down the side of the building.

  I’m not saying she wa
s a wreck. The Woman is never a wreck. But she did look defeated.

  I put my front paws in her lap, licking the tears from her face, and she smiled at me.

  “Thank you, Gatz,” she said.

  She placed her beautiful hands on the sides of my face and stared into my eyes.

  “You’re always there for me,” she said. “I love you.”

  She kissed my forehead and stood, shaking it off.

  “Let’s go get breakfast,” she said.

  A little pep back in my step, I trotted happily beside her.

  It was all going to be OK. She’d get over it. He was never The One.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  One week later . . .

  The Man was hunched over the laptop that sat on the round table by the window, tapping away furiously.

  Me, I was chewing on my tail, staring off into space, deep in thought, contemplating the mysteries of the Universe.

  OK, so maybe only the chewing-on-my-tail part is true.

  The Man gave out a happy sigh.

  Wait.

  The Man’s sighs were never happy!

  The Man leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen, a look of euphoria washing over his face.

  Wait. Happy? And euphoric?

  “The end,” The Man said, sounding stunned. Then: “THE END!”

  My brows furrowed. Geez, I hoped The Man wasn’t going to turn into one of those guys you see on street corners screaming about Armageddon at passersby. Sometimes, I’m a passerby, and that always wigs me out.

  “Gatz!” The Man exulted, raising his arms in YES! mode, “I finished my book!”

  I dropped my tail, shocked.

  Book? He wrote a whole book? How did I miss that?!

  Just as I’d done the previous week at New Man’s apartment, envisioning what must’ve transpired between New Man and The Woman over the past few months whenever I wasn’t around, I now envisioned what The Man must’ve been up to; again, whenever I wasn’t around.

  The Woman drops me off and leaves. The Man flops down onto the couch to watch TV.

  Days and nights pass. The cycle repeats. I’m dropped off by The Woman, The Man hangs out with me during the week, The Woman comes back to pick me up.

  Eventually, one time when I’m gone, The Man ventures over to the laptop.

  As the days and nights pass, whenever I’m gone, he watches less and less TV in the middle of the day. He dresses a little better, real pants instead of sweatpants, like he’ll be more upbeat about the writing if he’s more upbeat about his appearance. He eats less and less pizza for breakfast—a sound body is a sound mind.

  Slowly but surely, his days and nights become committed to writing on his computer—the work has always been so important to him—and he looks almost . . . happy.

  Before long . . .

  My mouth was agape as I turned my attention back to the room.

  Well, goddamn.

  While I wasn’t looking, The Man wrote a whole book.

  And now The Man was on the phone, about to burst with the excitement of it all.

  “Come over!” he told whoever was on the other end. “I’ve got something to show you!”

  I’m not sure how long we waited after that. An hour? Two? All the while, The Man tapped nervously on his knees. I felt lucky he didn’t play knick-knack on his knee, although it’d have been nice if he’d given the dog a bone while we waited.

  Knuckles must’ve barely grazed our door and The Man was jumping out of his seat and bounding toward the door, throwing it open.

  It was The Editor.

  Normally, I’d be unhappy to see him there, since we did not get on, but The Man was so excited to have him over, so I figured: What the heck? I could be gracious.

  “Hi,” The Editor said. “You—”

  But before The Editor could utter another word, The Man was herding him into the apartment, with barely a “Hi” back, and straight over to the computer.

  “What?” The Editor said. “I don’t even get offered a lousy beer this time?”

  “Not today,” The Man said, placing his hands on The Editor’s shoulders and forcing him down into the chair The Man usually occupied behind the laptop.

  The Editor seemed about to object, and I couldn’t really blame him—no one likes to be manhandled, unless you’re into that kind of stuff—but then something on the screen caught his attention, and all was silence from that quarter.

  The Editor read.

  The Man paced.

  The Editor read some more, The Man paced some more, leaving nervous energy all over the room.

  For hours, it went on like that, The Man breaking off his pacing upon occasion just long enough to look over The Editor’s shoulders, see where he was at.

  Through it all, I watched them both.

  You might not think it fascinating to watch someone watching someone else reading, but I was totally gripped. Watching the eyes of The Editor dart back and forth, it reminded me of my favorite TV sport, tennis, and I found my eyes darting back and forth too. I just love the thwack, thwack, thwack of a good tennis match, and I just know in my heart that Rafael Nadal must love dogs.

  Hours later, the light had disappeared from the sky. Previously, The Editor’s eyes had gone back and forth quickly, moving like a really zippy old-fashioned electric typewriter, like he couldn’t wait to get to the next part. But now his tracking eyes had slowed considerably, like he was savoring, like he didn’t want what he was doing to ever end.

  By now, I was nearly asleep on the couch, eyes at half-mast but still observing. The Man was hunched over the couch, knee tapping, staring into space.

  I think we both sensed the energy in the room shift at the same time.

  The Editor stared at the screen for a long moment, eyes unmoving, and then slowly he closed the laptop.

  At the click, we both jumped to our feet and paws, respectively, looking at The Editor. We were expectant. We were damned nervous.

  The Editor took a breath.

  A part of me wished he’d hold it forever, and not out of any lingering animosity toward him. What if I was wrong? I’d been wrong a lot lately about things. It used to happen so rarely, like almost never, but lately I’d been on a bad streak. What if I’d been reading his body language all wrong? What if he wound up being as disappointed in this book as he’d been in the one The Man wrote after The Woman moved out? The Man had handled that crushing disappointment once—could anything worse happen to The Man than literary disappointment? Losing The Woman, sure, or losing me. But outside of those two things, nothing affected him more, and I doubted he’d survive such a blow a second time.

  “It’s—” The Editor started to say, only to have The Man cut in with an eager:

  “Get you a beer?”

  “Now you’re offering me a beer?”

  “Or water,” The Man said, more eager still. “Or, hey, how about an entirely different beverage? A beverage that’s neither beer nor water? Whatever you want. I could even go out, hit the local bodega, and—”

  I knew what The Man was doing. He was delaying what he’d begun to worry might be the inevitable. The Editor must’ve known it too, because he held up a hand to stanch the flow of what would undoubtedly be a litany of every beverage known to man and, once The Man finally closed his mouth, intoned the simple words:

  “It’s good.”

  Ah, mercy.

  I felt the sweet relief wash over me, and I know The Man felt it too. Who is to say who felt it more keenly? Of course, it was his book, so you’d think he’d feel it more deeply. But when you love someone, really love them, their pain is your pain. And so, their relief at avoiding pain becomes your relief too.

  “There’s a lot of pain here,” The Editor said.

  Pain: it seemed to be one of the themes of the day. />
  “But it’s not at all surfacy,” The Editor qualified, using what I was sure was not a technical term; I was sure Max Perkins never used surfacy. “Unlike with your previous effort, this doesn’t come off at all self-indulgent. It’s got a lot of heart, and everything in it feels so real, so true.”

  A weight had clearly been lifted off The Man’s shoulders. The Editor hadn’t finished, however, because then he added the incredibly healing words:

  “This is the best thing you’ve ever written.”

  The Man released a breath, the exhale carrying away with it so much that had been wrong since she left him.

  “I guess I’m still a writer after all,” The Man said with a confidence I hadn’t seen in, maybe ever.

  “You’ve always been a writer,” The Editor said, going on to speak words that won me over once and for all. “The best writer I know.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Minutes later . . .

  There was the sound of the front door closing, footsteps walking away.

  After delivering his verdict, The Editor didn’t tarry, not even staying an extra minute when The Man offered again to get him a beer.

  “Just because you’re brilliant,” The Editor had said, “it doesn’t mean I’m going to start drinking Budweiser with you.”

  In what felt like a past life, I’d have been offended by this, on The Man’s behalf. But The Editor had made The Man so happy—happy!—and I couldn’t fault him for a thing. Everything was jake with us now.

  The Editor gone, The Man collapsed onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling, mesmerized by the wonder that is the world.

  As quickly as he collapsed, though, that much more quickly did he leap to his feet.

  “Let’s celebrate, Gatz!”

  After all this time, we had our routine down pat, so soon we were down the street in the doorway to our favorite watering hole, prepared to make our grand entrance. The Man had on a fresh ball cap, and I’d done my best to groom myself with my tongue. If you ask me, that’s the one thing cats have over us dogs: they self-groom perfectly. I guess it’s because they’re just so bendy. Me, I need regular baths to get at the hard-to-reach spots I sometimes miss.