"About the ramp, the fence—"
Dr. Lozano glanced around, apparently looking for Lulu, and saw that she was well away from us, trailing Ambrose as he watered and fertilized rare tropical plants. "Yes, yes." His voice was low and hurried. "I will pay for them. Whatever she wants. Lulu … that dog …" He shrugged and shook his head, seemed as if he would say more, and then did not. "Just take good care of her, all right? She has had … an unusual life."
I was somewhat discomfited by this; it seemed almost as if he were giving her away in marriage. "I'm gay."
He nodded. "I realize that."
"But—"
"I am just saying that if anything … unusual … happens, or you want to call, my phone number is on my card."
We amended the lease to ensure that her father would also pay to put things back as they were should I request this at the end of Lulu's sojourn with me. Her last name was Thibideaux; I supposed that her mother had taken back her own name and bestowed it on her daughter. Dr. Lozano would also cap the stillborn lap pool. I couldn't help but think that I ought to run the changes past my own attorney, but I was too lazy and relieved to have the empty space in my life, and the deficit in my bank account, filled.
Dr. Lozano and his excessively thin daughters got into their black Lexus, which shone so dazzlingly that it made an excellent mirror. Dr. Lozano shook my hand through the window and started the car. Lulu sat alone on the lawn, leaning against the gumbo limbo tree, holding Ambrose and absently stroking his tiny head, staring into space.
· · · · ·
Lulu's mother was from Louisiana, where she had returned with her darling child after the now-ancient divorce to drink and heap invective upon her ex-husband in relative luxury, no longer required to party and dance strenuously, long into the night with hundreds of close Cuban relatives, to the din of loud, nostalgic boom-box salsa and the wearing, insistent rhythms of mambo. She much preferred Cajun fiddles and Cajun patois. After twenty single years, she had still not recovered from the overwhelming stress of her brief marriage. Lulu faithfully called her every Wednesday night. She spoke in low, ever-more-drawling tones over her cellphone, curled on the art-nouveau couch in the living room after turning off The West Wing without even asking me if it was all right. After two weeks, I took to watching it in my bedroom while smoking a cigar. "They were like oil and water," Lulu told me, with unusual and dispassionate brevity, speaking of her parents' separation.
Twenty years of living in rural Louisiana had given Lulu a certain cultural uniqueness. She had an unfortunate penchant for tear-jerking country music, and there I drew the line and made her realize that she could not fill our shared space with it no matter what the lease said.
She had a striking collection of handmade boots and went line dancing at least once a week, leaving Ambrose in my care, as she so often did, after kissing and squeezing him and telling him how sorry she was to leave him. Early in the mornings, unless it was windy and the thrash of palm fronds interfered, I was awakened by Ambrose's emergency canal-exiting lessons. "Over here, honey, come on, that's right, climb on up, ooo, ooo, that's okay, I've got a nice warm towel right here, baby. Good, good, here's the bacon, sweetie, here's the bacon. Mmm, good, isn't it?"
After the first week, she could no longer study in her room, since it was, she said, "too distracting," being strewn with books and clothing, so she took over the living and dining rooms. She also used my shower so as not to disturb the rescued snapping turtles she installed in the soaking tub, complete with coral rocks on which to pull their bodies out of the chlorinated water, which I was sure wasn't good for them.
She had an annoyingly lively contingent of friends and had several over at least once a week for dinner, though I quickly discerned that she had no steady boyfriend. "No," was all she said when I inquired directly, which seemed slightly unfair since I had answered her question regarding my state of coupledness in anguished detail. But for a second her face was so vulnerable and open I thought that perhaps she was experiencing a religious conversion.
After the first gala dinner, I insisted that the kitchen be returned to its previous condition before she retired. This, like other, similar, insistings, she usually ignored, so that the haven of my tiny but classy black-granite 15,000 btu's/hour cooktop kitchen with infinite indirect lighting options was not a pretty sight when I made my midnight chamomile tea, which rather negated the soothing aspects of my ritual. Mercifully, none of her crowd could stand country music, either. They preferred jazz. As they laughed and drank in the dining room at the glass-top table, she occasionally called, "Evan! Sweetie! Come join us! Stuart wants to meet you!"
Actually, I had exchanged a few words with Stuart and found him disturbingly interesting. There was electricity that surprised me when he squeezed past me in the kitchen once, and he seemed kind as well as knowledgeable about tropical plants; he collected botanical prints and once brought a beautiful portfolio of waiting-to-be framed palms. But I generally claimed that I had to work, though Lulu referred to it as sulking, especially when I closed my office door because scenes of Charles and me entertaining our friends rose vividly. I had a deposit from her father, and he always paid the rent a day early, so the passive-aggressiveness of which Charles had often complained had my permission to blossom into exotic forms which surprised even me. I had dreams of feeding Ambrose the small dry turds he regularly left behind the potted monstero delicioso in the corner of the living room, and even considered smearing its poisonous fruit with chopped liver to encourage him to take a bite. His sharp barks, surprisingly throaty considering his size but always delivered with staccato zest, were incessant and annoying, and he snapped at the ankles of the clients whom Lulu informed me I should not be seeing in my home due to zoning.
I began to long for at least some silent, private mourning instead of being subjected to Lulu's frequent lectures about "getting over it." Briefly, I considered selling the Fiestaware. Its appraised value was fifty thousand because of a few extremely rare pieces. I decided against it. The bright shapes held too many memories. The rare Red Mixing Bowl looked so vibrant next to the Turquoise Carafe. And I'd have to pay a lot in taxes.
It was, in fact, tax season, so I was buried in work, but one night I drove across town and down Las Olas Boulevard, turned south on AIA, pulled into a rare free parking space at the beach, and took a long, fast walk down the broad concrete esplanade flanking the beach, ignoring the skateboarders, in-line skaters, and bicycles whizzing past in the twilight.
A chilly wind buffeted the beach. The lights of posh restaurants glowed across the street, where the al fresco tables stood empty. Cruise boats left Port Largo a mile south with the precision of planes taking off from a busy airport, one moving out from behind the massive rock jetty every ten minutes, mad, happy, glowing cities hauling their willing prisoners further south on twilit seas toward whatever their warped tropical fantasies might be. They slept in windowless coffins and emerged sartorially six times a day to stuff themselves with sterno-warmed food, prisoners of a strange, claustrophobic fantasy which I could never fathom and in which I never wanted to participate, despite Charles's urgings. I wondered if Charles and his lover, who could surely afford a window and even a private lanai, might be on one of them, escaping the bleak cold of winter Miami when fronts like this one pressed farther south than tourists believed was possible. I walked until I was weary. I wondered if I should sell the house and move back to Boston. But it was not a good time to sell.
I stood on the near-empty beach and opened my cellphone to call him.
After moment, I flipped it shut and returned to my car.
· · · · ·
The first time I had a hint of deep weirdness was a month after Lulu moved in. Ambrose could easily scramble up the dock ramp; I had given myself permission to smoke a lot of cigars in revenge for the dog, the house was a wreck, and Lulu took it upon herself to regularly berate me for my continued attachment to the idea that Charles might someday return. One
evening she told me he had called twice earlier in the day, desperately demanding some of the Fiestaware—in particular, the Cream Soup Bowl, which I knew had lately tripled in value, but she took it upon herself to tell him that a deal was a deal, buddy. "I told him that. A deal is a deal, buddy. Live with it. Move on. Get your new rich honey to buy you one. You made a big mistake when you left this guy, Charlie." She recounted the conversation with great passion. Her cheeks flushed. "You would have just groveled and given it to him. I know it. And don't you darecall him back." She was a Cajun-Cuban superhero, fighting injustice. All she needed was a cape. Life with Lulu was chaotic, but it was distracting, which I counted on the black side of the ledger. With great difficulty I followed her advice, feeling not at all stronger and wiser, just afraid of looking foolish, which seemed just as bad as giving in to the need to hear Charles's voice.
One Wednesday evening she came home clutching a piece of paper. I was watching The West Wingfrom my favorite and most comfortable chair in the living room, having kicked a path to it through piles of books and papers, but my high hopes for an undisturbed evening were dashed when I heard her key in the lock. I tried to concentrate on not missing any lines, but as usual, Lulu seemed to absorb all of the light and sound in the room and reflect it back in wacky splendor.
She knelt, an interesting bit of acrobatics considering her short skirt and high heels, and Ambrose leaped into her arms, licking her face all over as she smiled and closed her eyes in a close approximation of bliss.
"Come on, love. I found one."
The fact that she could stand up with that dog in her arms, the paper clutched in her hand, and her heavy leather bag on her shoulder without wavering was a testament to her sense of balance.
"Where are you going?" I asked, muting the commercial, just to be sociable.
She walked out the door quickly without answering and closed it behind her. I sensed, though, that it was not out of rudeness. She had not even heard me.
Over the next month, I found that I had my Wednesdays back, but for some reason I was less than pleased. Dinner night was moved to Tuesday, and Stuart smiled at me if I happened to emerge from my office, but I ignored my growing interest in him and nodded distantly as I passed. Charles became more and more enshrined in my mind, and I was still hoping that he would tire of his new life and come back after his fling. I dreamed about him, and caught myself opening the Fiestaware cabinet, taking out the Cobalt Coffee Pot or the 8" Ivory Vase, Excellent Condition, and remembering the day when we had found each piece. Every one of them was a different adventure.
"You are afraid of a new relationship," Lulu told me one evening as we shared supper outside by the canal just before the mosquitoes would appear, as they did promptly at six. It was during a lull between fronts, but it was still chilly enough for sweaters. Several bromeliads were in bloom, brilliant pink cones with tiny purple buds, and I had massed the pots near the table on the brick patio. She picked at the bones of the whole red snapper she had fried, whose remains lay on a platter in the middle of the table, puddled in a delicious sauce which was an odd cross between Southern and Tropical that she had put together quickly in the kitchen. Which I would clean. She dumped the remainder of the black beans and rice on her plate and embarked on them, dropping a steady stream of fish scraps and beans onto the bricks for Ambrose. For some reason she seemed much happier than when she had first moved in, and I supposed that this happiness gave her the energy to further interfere with my life.
I just shrugged at her suggestion. "What difference does that make?"
"You should swallow your fear and leap. I've seen you looking at Stuart. He's a wonderful soul. He couldn't hurt a fly. He is so compassionate and caring and interesting that I have personally been frustrated that he insists on being so very gay." Now it was her turn to shrug. "But these things are hard to change."
"Impossible," I said. "I tried, you know. I almost got married once."
"Really." Intense interest filled her eyes. And sudden tears which glimmered but did not fall. "What happened?"
"We came to our senses. I realized that I was just trying to make my parents happy, and she was sure that she could change me. I was only nineteen."
"Oh. I can understand that. I got married when I was seventeen. It made me extremely happy, didn't it, Ambrose?"
An enthusiastic bark, which I interpreted as, another piece of snapper, please. Lulu's face lit up as if she were Cinderella and the prince had arrived with her favorite, elusive sling-backs from the forties.
"What happened?"
I could tell that she was measuring me for trust and that I failed.
"I am just telling you that Stuart would be perfect for you. He loves orchids, Fiestaware, Jadite, and he is a stockbroker and makes good money. He plays the piano, and he is insufferably well-organized."
"How can I resist?" I was getting a little weary of her insistence. I prefer romance to blossom. At least, that's what I told myself, though if I had examined my feelings I might have seen that the seed had been planted, and it turned out to be a very good seed indeed. But these things happen in their own time. The idea of embarking on a new relationship held only the promise of repeated pain and too much work. "Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I have to jump into an affair with the first gay man I see."
"You are only making yourself miserable right now."
"I don't see you engaging in any kind of meaningful long-term relationship, except with your dog," I retorted.
She pushed her chair back, got up, and picked up Ambrose, who tilted back his head and licked her throat. "You have no idea," she said, with the most extraordinary range of emotion in her voice and on her face: sorrow, regret, and deep calm. Without even giving me a chance to respond, she walked into the house, picked up her bag, and left through the front door. I heard her car start, and the sound of it faded down the street.
Evening had turned to night.
· · · · ·
The weather warmed. I took my orchids outside, and some of them actually bloomed, which, for some reason, irritated me. Charles and I had waited for over a year for the Ascda Suksomran Sunlight "Gold," a hybrid from Maui, to make up its mind to face the world as something more than a dry stick. Lulu told me to sell them all and get new ones. "Have a yard sale. A clean sweep is best, Evan."
Lulu and I had long since settled into a routine. Despite her surface disarray, I discovered from her mother, when she called once and Lulu was out, that Lulu was always on the Dean's List. Her mother asked about Ambrose several times, and I assured her that Ambrose was living the life of a dog-king in paradise.
"Has Lulu mentioned anything about—"
"About what?"
"Well, about Ambrose."
"What about him? She takes him somewhere every Wednesday evening. I don't know where. Maybe it's some kind of play group for dogs."
"Oh, dear," she said with a deep sigh.
"What's wrong?"
Lulu came in the door, festooned with thrift store shopping bags. "Is that my mother?"
I didn't ask her how she knew, and handed her the phone.
· · · · ·
On a hot, still evening in April, I turned onto my little street on the way home from the Publix. An ambulance loomed behind me, and I pulled aside to let it pass. It stopped in my front yard, next to a police cruiser. A bit further down the street was a BMW convertible that made my heart stop.
It was Charles's.
I don't remember stopping my car or getting out. I ran past Ambrose the Lionhearted cowering beneath the hibiscus bush and through the open front door into a vision of blood and gore and heartbreak.
Charles lay on the floor, his handsome face the same color as the blood-splashed white tiles where he had fallen. An unbelievably young and beautiful blond man knelt next to him, tears on his face, shaking Charles's shoulders. "Charles! Luv! Are you all right? The ambulance is here."
Several kinds of shock roared through me at once.
&nbs
p; Charles moaned and opened his eyes. I fell to the floor and took his hands, which were cold as ice. Still, the touch felt like home. "What happened?"
Charles flicked his eyes toward the other man—a young and therefore most probably non-wealthy man—and said nothing, although perhaps anything he meant to say turned into the bellow of pain that emerged.
Two paramedics pushed both of us aside and knelt to attend to Charles, speaking in medicalese to one another as they started an IV line.
A black policewoman stood next to Lulu, holding a narrow flip-pad and a pen. "Who are you?" she demanded. "This is a crime scene."
"It's my house."
The policewoman, whose nameplate said Officer Dwania Hawks, looked at Lulu. Static crackled from the radio on her belt.
Lulu said, "It's my house too, honey."
Officer Hawks frowned as if she had strong objections to being called honey but would let it pass exactly once. "Explain."
"She's my tenant. Lulu, what the hell is going on?"
The blond man, whose name turned out to be Blake Mills, said, "She shot him in cold blood, that's what's going on, with an illegal handgun." His pale green silk shirt was open, revealing a well-muscled, tanned chest and abdomen. It was still taking me much longer than it ought to have to come to grips with exactly who he was.
"They were stealing the Fiestaware when I came home from my class," said Lulu. "I saw two strange men taking pieces out of the cabinet. In my house. For all I knew, they were crack-crazed and ready to kill me. It happens around here. It looks like he got that red mixing bowl, the plates, and the blue salt and pepper shakers before I got here. Plus two cups and saucers—" The bowl lay in pieces on the floor next to Charles, blood-spattered. At least, I thought distantly, it's insured.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 200
