Prosperous Friends

by Christine Schutt

So the talk bumped down stairs — from books, to the book, to The Marble Faun, to Italy. “We didn’t tell you about Rome, did we?” So Phoebe began with a fennel dish. Their last best moment in Rome came down to food. “You remember, Ben? That place we found in the book?” The fennel dish she ordered was to start; it came hot in a little ramekin with Parmesan, raisins, and something else. Pine nuts? “I meant to remember. It was so good. The only reason we didn’t gain weight was because we walked miles every day, starting early in the morning.” The streets were washed and cool then, and the jasmine — that was everywhere — didn’t overwhelm them with its scent.

  “When we were in Rome, it rained most of the time, but we did a lot of walking,” Isabel said. “We walked over six miles one day from the Spanish Steps to the Protestant Cemetery to see the poets’ headstones — and that was just in an afternoon.”

  “You went with Fife,” Ned said.

  “So?”

  Phoebe and Ben had been in Rome for a wedding. A wedding in ivories and greens — deep, and deeper. The ceremony was in the afternoon on a formal lawn, cypress trees, hedges, a goldfish pond. Greek classic — the bride looked like Aphrodite in a generously pleated, high-waisted gown; in her hair, a wreath of ivory flowers, the same in the bouquet. The light was salmony. Orange made small appearances everywhere all night — orange being the bride and groom’s favorite color.

  “A favorite color,” Ben said.

  “We don’t have one,” Phoebe said, “if you’re wondering.”

  “Look!” Isabel said, real surprise in her voice, surprise and something else — delight? She was on her knees. “Look what I found in the grass,” and she held out her palm.

  “What is it?” Ned asked.

  Ben looked closely into her cupped hands. “A baby mouse,” he said, “at least that’s what I think it is.”

  “Awful! Get rid of it,” Phoebe said.

  “I can’t do that.”

  Ned looked again and saw that the pink knob was, yes, probably a mouse, a hairless runt, jostled from the rodents’ wagon-train retreat. Why leave the nest at all, he wondered, but that the afterbirth that slicked the nest might have drawn predators — who knows? “You could put it there,” Ned suggested to Isabel.

  “What?”

  “Under the tree over there, next to the roots, cover it up with leaves. Its mother might come back.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  He watched as Isabel took the infant mouse into the house. Phoebe stood to follow. “I’ll go,” Ned said, and he started after Isabel, calling her name. “Isabel?”

  Inside, Ned watched as she turned her side of the room, the guest room, into a close, incubated space.

  “What are you doing?” Ned watched as she moved the decorative bedside lamp and put in its place the desk lamp with the arm bent low so the halogen might gently warm him — him?

  “It’s a rodent, for God’s sake.”

  “I need an eyedropper,” she said, “and some warmed-up milk. No sugar,” she said.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “Use your first-aid kit. I’m going back outside.”

  But Phoebe and Ben were carrying the picnic, or what was left of the picnic, inside. Ben was going into town to get charcoal; Ned intended to stay near the mouse emergency, but in the end he stayed near Phoebe. On the screened porch, drinking rum, he sat with Phoebe while his wife ministered to a mouse. Upstairs in the guest room Isabel was squeezing milk onto the pink knob’s face or its anus — drowning what was already dead? He confessed it saddened him that he and Isabel were past caring about appearances.

  “Stop fretting,” Phoebe said. “Come with me. You haven’t had the tour.”

  Phoebe walked him through the oldest parts of the manse she had married; a bricked-up fireplace accounted for one of the chimneys in what could have been a breakfast room off the summer kitchen—Imagine, two kitchens! — so many rooms and so many of them unused. No, Phoebe had never thought of marriage in terms of sets of china; she was a bit overwhelmed. “But I love it,” she said. “More of everything — look!” He pressed against the old glass and saw the barn from the workroom window. “Yes,” she said, “the barn.” But first the summer kitchen and its narrowing to the fix-it room made greasy as a pipe for all its use.

  “Not here,” she whispered. Her lipsticked lips against his ear. “Here,” she said, and the newly married Mrs. Benjamin Chester-Harris threw up her arm as she might toss away a hat, and she was his old flame again, Phoebe, a sly shepherdess — hardly dumb — in Ned’s arms in yet another room of indeterminate use but for chairs and windows and there, as abruptly situated as a closet, a bathroom only big enough for elves.

  “My God!” The sink — for a child? — came to Ned’s knees.

  “Quick,” Phoebe said.

  *

  Sometime in the middle of a dreamless night, Ned woke to Isabel crying into a towel she held over her face. He thought he had been gentle enough, wishing her good night, and quiet enough when he finally came to bed, so that to see her awake now—“What’s the problem?”—awake and at the jagged end of crying, trying to catch her breath, to speak, to say, “Nothing, nothing’s the matter.” She yawned and yawned until, visibly composed, no longer out of breath, she said, “I’m not crying over you if that’s what you think. You can do as you please.”

  If the rodent wasn’t dead then, it was dead by morning. It was gone from the room, the bedside table cleared, and the lamps returned to their rightful places; Isabel, fully dressed, sat composed in a chair, reading a book on terror. Breakfast with the host and hostess was equally sedate. The New York Times was on the table, a bowl of grapes, cheeses, salami, hard-boiled eggs, and bread.

  “I’m still in Italy,” Phoebe said.

  In the car, Isabel remarked on Phoebe’s ass. Salami and cheese are not the breakfast foods she should be having. So the cheerless drive home began.

  *

  Why not compound defeat was Ned’s response two weeks later, when he came home to a blind dog of uncertain age, a shih tzu mixed with something, so sick upon rescue, Isabel had thought to return him, but it was too late now with the dog in her lap and the loft’s lights dimmed. She was smiling in the corner near her desk where she had made up a crate. She had sprayed her own perfume onto the fleecy mat, so the dog might know her.

  “If it makes you happy,” he said. Met with a dog less alive than a stuffed one and just as pliable, Ned could only say, “If this is what it takes, if it makes you this happy.”

  She said it did make her happy although she did not sound convinced. Isabel held the dog close — spoke softly to him about going to bed. The scene was dismal, and Ned sighed to see the dog let himself be fitted into the crate. Then for a while it seemed the dog was awake. Hard to tell. Ned had yet to get too near the crate.

  “I almost forgot. Doggie bag!” he said and held up the dessert he had ordered over lunch. “I didn’t eat it and Carol never finishes hers.” Carrot cake, wrapped separately, and crème brûlée, skidding in its container: two of Isabel’s favorite sweets.

  “I thought you just had lunch with Carol,” she said. “Why were you having lunch with Carol?”

  “Why do I always have lunch with Carol?” was the answer he gave even as he saw Phoebe ask the waiter, please, could he make a doggie bag?

  Now Ned put the desserts out on separate plates. “We could do this for dinner.”

  “I don’t have anything else in mind,” Isabel said.

  So they drank red wine and shared the carrot cake—“So good,” Isabel said — and she came around the table and kneaded Ned’s shoulders.

  Her being nice made Ned feel guilty about seeing Phoebe — God knows, not Carol — but when he remembered the blind shih tzu and the fact of Isabel’s touching him after cold dinners, no dinners, silence and silence, it annoyed him.

  “Thank you for letting me foster this dog,” she said, and she kissed his cheek.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You sound t
ired.”

  “I am.”

  Her joyless “All righty.”

  “What is it now, Isabel? Huh?”

  The grunting of the disgruntled; they’re both too tired to fight.

  Later, they lay in bed listening to the dog’s wheezy breathing. “Will you help me?” she asked. “If we could just do this one thing together, I think. . ”

  He could hear in her voice that she was as lonely as he was, but for answer he could only say her name, “Isabel”—an equivocal answer at best.

  *

  Ned saw the dead eye, a pink glistening marble, and the other an otherworldly blue, cataracted, scratched. The dog was in pain and made the most tormented cries. The head doctor whose name came first on the board though he wore blue jeans and a checked shirt and eschewed a white coat, the head vet came in to see if the younger vet attending the dog, a pale girl with a tiny face and enormous eyebrows, had applied a topical anesthetic. Ned didn’t understand her answer, but he liked the skinny boy in the green outfit, even though the green outfit suggested he was only a helper, an assistant — not a real vet. The head vet looked as if he should be fishing whereas the helper was doing the difficult work. He was holding the dog, and over its screams he was joshing, calling the dog “BK,” an upbeat endearment, a twist on Brooklyn, the name the pound had given this desolate being because the blind shih tzu had been found in Brooklyn on Neptune Avenue, a stray.

  Then the girl vet poked out pellets of impacted crap, which explained the dog’s great thirst. Unplugged, BK wagged his tail for the first time since Ned had known him.

  But a week later, the vet informed them that BK’s blood indicated the start of kidney failure. More tests were necessary. And the very next morning, Isabel carried BK back to the vet where she was given new pills for the dog on top of the other, and Puralube ointment, an ocular lubricant for the cataracted eye. In the loft BK mostly slept.

  “Peanut butter,” Ned said, and he proffered the dog a dollop of Jif stuck with pills and in this way learned how easy it was to give BK his medicine.

  “What next?” he asked.

  “I think the dog is deaf.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe dim then.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, deaf.” And she lifted him, a soft sack of something living — (Ned saw the dog’s face only once; full side, eye open, the opalescent, not the red.) Isabel set the dog to stand on the floor and turned him to face the wall, which he did in a sweet dumb trance that wasn’t broken by the sound of the vacuum or tin bowls banged together. BK didn’t hear; the dog didn’t turn around.

  The dog died, he crossed the Rainbow Bridge, but before that, Ned took him every day for a week to the vet’s in a precautionary manner; hopeful — well, and desirous of the veterinarians’ company, especially the boy in the green operating duds although the boy really wasn’t a boy, only his sweet exuberance marked him as a boy.

  “It looks to me as if you’d owned that dog for years,” the boy had said that first visit.

  Ned liked the boy but the vet’s office was dirty and preposterously small. The two examining rooms were the size of a closet. In one, another young assistant — in green, blue, white duds? — was eating lunch off the step-on scale. She had made a plate out of the hamburger’s wrapping — but to eat in the same room where dogs sneezed and cat parings black as a mechanic’s flicked into space and landed on the step-on scale, where even now the assistant was craning to catch the mayonnaise leaking from one side of a hamburger so big it had to be a Whopper. The vet they had found was unsanitary. At the checkout station, desultory biscuits decomposed in a jar — shit. What was he doing here with the dog in his arms, handing the dog over, when he really wanted to be talked out of it or into it, but the fucking vet, the one who belonged in Montana braining trout with rocks, was in a rush and he jabbed the sedative needle in and the dog yelped and then yielded up himself.

  Why didn’t Ned turn away from, take the dog away from, but he walked out and for a moment, yes, a moment, he was free!

  Now, days later, what he couldn’t quell was the horror of his turning away from a messenger, surely a god in disguise — the old lady who had stopped him on the street just as he had turned away from the dog groomer’s and decided on the vet, the old lady approached and in a voice full of tears asked, “May I pet your dog, please?” She said to the blind dog, “Oh, I had one like you.” She said, “Oh, so wonderful. Aren’t they wonderful? Isn’t he wonderful?”

  “He’s blind,” Ned said.

  “Oh,” she said with a shrug, “that happens.”

  “He’s also deaf.”

  The old lady said, “But he can feel, can’t he?”

  *

  “Who?” he asked.

  Phoebe held up a finger and spoke into the phone in her soberest voice about looking at the Schumacher. Ned didn’t know what would be looked at, but he wasn’t interested enough to ask was it a faucet or a couch?

  “It never ceases to amaze me that people live like this,” he said when he had Phoebe’s full attention.

  She wondered that he had never been to the apartment before. “Are you sure?” She swiveled in her chair and inventoried her in-home office. “Doesn’t any of this look familiar?”

  He started to say, “Aside from the mess, but no. No,” he said, and then he saw the familiar photograph of the cottage on the bluff overlooking the Menemsha Harbor. “Martha’s Vineyard,” he said. Sea glass in the soap dish and Phoebe’s dormered bedroom, close, churchy, hot. “I remember.”

  “I should hope so,” Phoebe said. “I’m going in July — we are.” She said, “Now, what can I do for you, sir?”

  “For starters?”

  “For starters,” Phoebe said, “I’m very much my own woman today.”

  “No clients?”

  “Not today. Not unless I decide to see the Schumacher — patterns,” she said, “material.”

  “See me,” he said. “I put the dog down today.”

  They had the afternoon to themselves and could, given overcast weather, guiltlessly cavort through most of it. How better to spend the time? For years, he had been impersonating a disciplined writer, putting off pleasure until the cocktail hour — so why not now run his hand along her check, touch her collar bone, her breast. .?

  “Why’d you stop?” Phoebe asked.

  “I go about my business so glumly.”

  “This isn’t getting you down,” she said and her merry expression when she tugged at him made him smile.

  When had Isabel stopped smiling?

  *

  Back at the White Street loft he saw Isabel sitting on the floor next to the shih tzu’s empty crate.

  The empty crate brought back the anguish of that morning, the empty crate and the fleecy bedding, the tin bowl of water, the water slopped onto the floor as if someone had just been drinking from the bowl, as if the dog were still with them and not, as Ned remembered, remembered all too easily and readily, not a helpless animal on his side, wide-eyed — that blue marble Ned had seen for the one and only time — not an animal relieved. Relieved? Who would wish to be relieved of his aches, small and large, if it meant death? Relieved of being purely a heart without the distraction of sight and hearing, just a beating heart. Ned’s own was beating in his ears.

  “I’m sorry,” Isabel said.

  ”I need to be happy more of the time,” he said, making as if to rub his nose, smelling Phoebe on his fingers.

  “We both.”

  But having been happy for most of the afternoon, it was easier for him now to go over to the crate and collapse it. He put the fleece into a plastic bag to be washed separately, and he took up the water bowl and the food bowl and washed them at the sink. He gave Isabel the tube of lavender incense sticks and told her to light one or two—“Clear the air,” he said — but he was muddled by discovery of a stuffed toy, just a shape really, like a scepter with ears, Isabel’s purchase in her willfully blind expectation that the blind dog
would play fetch. Where to put the fucking toy? Didn’t they know a deserving dog or two? — theirs, a childless, dogless marriage. Maybe someone had cats?

  “Why not a cat next time?” he said.

  “I don’t want a next time,” Isabel said. “I’m poison.”

  The White Street Loft, New York, 2004

  If a street had seasons, White Street was early spring, too colorless, hardly sentimental, no budded touches, nothing risen but March, secular and cruel. To think she had lived on this street for almost two years when the plan had been to rent the loft for six months, meanwhile look around to buy, get permanent. Oh, what was she doing? Shaking her bag for the sound of her keys to get into the loft quickly. The space was dark, though known, and she ran through it to where the oven hood shone holy. Weirdly overheated, she ran cold water over her wrists. “Too much excitement,” she said aloud to herself, and felt the water’s sting and wondered if, when Ned came home tonight, she would tell him about Clive Harris calling.

  But why do that? G, remember G? But this was different. G was no more than a punk girl in a bedsit; whereas Clive Harris, well, Clive Harris was older, established, a painter with a following. He came from money and had kept it. Think of James Merrill, James Merrill, a patrician poet of the last century—“a relic,” a classmate had said although Isabel found him attractive. Those artists with their attendant wives, partners, mistresses, muses, observing summer’s gyre in inherited homes on islands and coasts — that was the sweet life, wasn’t it? James Merrill in a documentary wore a white bathrobe, or was it a kimono? The taut cords in his thin neck pulsed when he spoke in his aristocratic voice. To admit to being transported by the sound of his voice — was she elitist and out of date? Maybe, probably. But why tell Ned of Clive except to stir in him some feeling for her as at the beginning, when anything was possible. Then if he so much as caught her staring at him — the book she was reading no more than a fan — he often put down his own book and went to where she was sitting and put his head in her lap.

  Relief not to be hungry at all but rather pleasantly distracted by the body’s other parts. Nipples, for example, hers prickled, and she touched herself and leaned into the corner of her desk, and she played — the way she remembered as a kid, skipping little words over the placid future: ram, cat, slut, cunt—rubbed against the corner of her desk. If Clive were only a woman was a thought that was pleasurable.