The Dog Who Knew Too Much Page 10

  When I felt someone right behind me, I turned.

  “Stewie. Hey.”

  It was my lucky day. I was now looking into the small, dark eyes of Stewie Fleck. He was wearing a heavy black turtleneck and black jeans, a beatnik in the age of grunge. When I turned, he smiled, and I could see the strain in it.

  “I was going to practice the form out on the pier,” he said, looking at his feet now, “but it’s too crowded tonight. Avi says to be careful practicing outdoors, because someone might see you and challenge you.”

  That seemed a remote possibility to me where we were. The Greenwich Village waterfront was a gay pickup area, especially after dark. People came here to make love, not war.

  “I was just going out for a bite to eat. You feel like some food, or a beer?” I asked him, never one to let a serendipitous opportunity slip through my fingers.

  “Well, if—” he said, looking like one of those Fresh Air Fund kids seeing trees for the first time.

  “Sure you do,” I told him. “I know a great place. Dylan Thomas used to drink there. Of course, where didn’t he used to drink?”

  Stewie smiled his nervous smile. I took that as a yes and led the way. Ten minutes later we were seated at a booth at Chumley’s, drinking beer, Dashiell lying under the table on my feet.

  “So I was working as a carpenter, making cabinets, fixing things,” Stewie said, continuing the story of his life he had begun as we’d crossed West Street, “living in Ohio of all places, and I’m not exactly happy, but I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. I’m all of twenty then.” He flashed me his tense little smile again. Like a lot of shy people, once he felt it was okay to talk, there was no stopping him, which was just fine with me.

  “So one night,” he continued, “I go to sleep and I have this dream that I’m walking in the woods and I meet an ancient man, right, and we begin to talk, we just sit on the ground and talk, and he says he’s going to tell me the secret of life, right? Just like in all those shaggy dog jokes, you know, life is a bowl of cherries, those jokes? But when I wake up, I know he told me the secret, but I can’t remember what it was. Jesus, I thought. Maybe I can go back to sleep and ask him again. But then I thought, No, you can’t do that, if someone tells you the secret of life, you can’t go back to them and tell them you forgot it, right?”

  I laughed and tried to look fascinated. “So what happened then?” I asked.

  “Get this, Rachel. I’m sitting there and I’m really depressed, and then I think, No big deal, I’ll have to find it out for myself.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, thinking this guy would be talking to a lamppost if he hadn’t run into me, the way this stuff was pouring out of him. His last conversation was probably when he ran into Adam and Eve as they were leaving the garden.

  “And that was the beginning,” he said. I sipped my beer, and our food arrived. “That’s how I found t’ai chi.” He sat back, nodding, really pleased with himself. “You take a lot on faith here,” he said. “It’s too dark to see what you’re eating.”

  He had ordered the vegetarian chili. I had gotten a bacon burger, the bacon and the beef so rare it must have been only moments since they had their own dinner. It didn’t occur to me until the first delicious bite that the sight of a fresh kill might offend Stewie. On the other hand, on my list of things to worry about, offending vegetarians doesn’t even show up.

  “How long after the dream did you come to New York?” I asked, hoping to catch up to the present before arthritis set in.

  “There was this girl I met, said she was moving to California, so I went out there, too. But I had to wait about six weeks after she left, to finish up the jobs I had started. And when I got to where she said she’d be, she wasn’t there.” He took a spoonful of his chili. “I tried to find her, and when I couldn’t, well, I was out of money by then, so I stayed anyway, and that’s when I began to study t’ai chi. It was really popular out there. The yellow pages were full of schools.”

  “How did you end up in New York?”

  “I met this guy who was out on the coast on vacation, and he was taking classes where I studied t’ai chi. People do that all the time, if they’re serious. They don’t take vacation from going to class. And after rounds one evening, I overheard him talking to another student, about the school he studied at in New York, and he started to talk to him about Avi. Two months later I was in New York. And two weeks after that I was working for the welfare department and studying t’ai chi on Bank Street, living in Greenwich Village.”

  “What about the carpentry?” I asked, noticing how rough and stained his hands were. “Do you still do that?”

  “Why? Do you need some work done?”

  “I might,” I said.

  “I still make things—boxes, bookshelves. I made the shelves in Avi’s office, and the supply closet. I did Lisa’s shelves for her, floor-to-ceiling, in her living room. When I have time, and someone I like asks, I build for them. I like to work with my hands.”

  “Nothing for Howie, or Janet?”

  “Howie’s always tight on money. He has, you know, a lot of responsibilities.”

  “Like what?” I asked. “He’s married, he’s got kids?”

  “I told him once, whatever you need, I like to do the work. You just pay for the materials, labor’s free. But he couldn’t do that,” he said. “No way.”

  “Too proud?” I asked.

  Stewie shrugged.

  “Nothing for Janet?” I asked, realigning my bacon burger as I did. “She’s got a cash flow problem too?”

  “Janet? What would she need bookshelves for? She practically lives in the gym.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t get to look like Janet lifting weights three times a week. That’s dedication. She competes, you know. She was Miss Tex Pecs before she came to New York.” Stewie began to laugh. “I’m not sure of the exact title,” he said. Then he sort of lost it, tilting his head back and sounding as if he were sneezing backward.

  I looked up from my fries. Fleck was loosening up. Maybe it was the beer. I signaled the waiter to bring another round.

  “She talks tough, Rachel, but she’s a good egg, Janet. It’s just that she’s like a kid. She likes to do what she’s not supposed to, get herself into trouble.”

  “Yeah, she seems like great fun,” I said, picking up my pickle. “She ever get you into trouble?”

  “Me? No. Not really. I got other stuff to do in my free time.”

  “What about Lisa and Janet? Were they friends?” I reached under the table so that Dashiell could clean my greasy fingers for me. “Did they hang out? Put glue on the master’s chair? Become juvies together?”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say that. Lisa was a serious student. She didn’t have much time to socialize. Like me. Anyway, Avi says it’s not appropriate for teachers to form personal relationships with their students. He says it interferes with the teaching process if you become emotionally involved.”

  “Even friendships?”

  Stewie nodded.

  “Avi says we should rely on ourselves, not on each other.”

  “So Janet and Lisa didn’t spend any time together outside of class?”

  “Lisa was at the school until all hours. Always working. Or staying up half the night studying. This is my life, she used to say, there’s no room for anything else. Or anyone else. And Lisa, she wouldn’t go against Avi the way Janet does, doing something he wouldn’t approve of. Not Lisa.”

  “She must have been very disciplined,” I said.

  “What about you?” Stewie asked. “What were you doing before—” He stopped in the middle. “Never mind,” he said. “I just remembered. Now you’re here. Eating dinner with me at Chumley’s.”

  “This is true,” I said, finishing my second beer. “Stew,” I said, waiting for him to look up from his dinner. “I’m seeing my aunt and uncle tomorrow.”

  “Lisa’s parents?”

  I nodded. “I feel
so confused about what happened. I was wondering, I mean, you worked with her, Stew, were you shocked by what she did? Did she seem troubled to you? Do you know of any problems she was having? I don’t know how to talk to her parents. I don’t know what to say to them.”

  Stewie looked down at his plate. “When I told you the dream I had, well, I don’t think Lisa ever found herself wondering what to do with her life. She was so focused, this was the life she seemed to want, and it was the life she was living.”

  “But what about her personal life? Was that going well, too?”

  “She could have had anything she wanted,” he said, his eyes shining in the dark of the former speakeasy. “I don’t get it. The truth is, nobody gets it, Rachel. It’s a mystery.”

  “So she didn’t seem unhappy near the end? There was nothing—”

  Stewie shook his head. “I would hate to have to talk to her parents, because what could you say to someone who lost the one person they loved most? There’s no way they’ll ever get over it.”

  I skipped dessert. Stewie had some obscene chocolate thing that seemed to grow larger as he ate it. He said he lived on Bedford, but he’d walk me home. Dashiell walked a few steps ahead, the leash loose, automatically turning right on Hudson Street, toward home. Without thinking, I turned right, too, until I felt Stewie’s hand on my arm.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Lisa’s place was to the left. I looked toward Dashiell, who had stopped when I did. Now they were both looking at me as if I were crazy.

  “I wanted to pick up a muffin,” I said, “for the morning.”

  Stewie nodded and walked me to Sacred Chow, which of course was closed. Then we turned around and headed for the Printing House, where I got to see Stewie’s crunched-up, embarrassed little smile once more as we said good night.

  I walked in through the front door, greeted Eddie, and walked out the side door. A few minutes later, driving around looking for a legal spot for the Taurus, I was thinking about Stewie Fleck.

  There was a Zen version of his dream. Avi had told it to me one day during a private lesson.

  “In the middle of the form, having gathered your energy, you return to the mountain. There you seek the teacher, but the answers you seek,” he’d said, late one evening, “are already within you.”

  “What about the answers I need about Lisa?” I’d asked him.

  “You think too much,” he’d said. Then he’d turned north, toward the window Lisa had been pushed out of, and begun the form again.

  17

  What Do You Suggest?

  Ceil was dressed to the nines, all in black, her white hair slicked back in a twist at the nape of her neck, the only color her bright red lipstick.

  “Come, darling,” she said, swooping me into her arms and then leading me to her sunny kitchen. “Let’s eat.”

  Dashiell sneezed at her perfume, then padded along behind us, wagging his tail.

  Over the table were pictures of my cousin Richie as a little kid. He must be somewhere in his late forties by now. “What do you hear from Richie?” I asked, more to be polite than out of any real interest. In truth, I was thinking only of the reason why I had come.

  “That kid,” she said, “what a hoot he is.”

  “How’s his writing going?” I asked, digging into my salad niçoise.

  “Writing? Writing? Is that what your mother told you?”

  I nodded. “She said he moved to Key West to become a writer, like Hemingway. She even emphasized the writer part, meaning why don’t you do something that would give your mother noches?”

  Ceil roared. “She always worried about what other people would think. She had a cover story for everyone, even my son. You know, before you got married, she always told people you’d been engaged, but your fiancé had died in a tragic accident, so of course they wouldn’t ask you anything.” She laughed again. I felt my face flush. “Oh, darling, I didn’t mean to upset you. Except for funerals, we never see each other. I hardly know you now.”

  “I—”

  “I know. I know. You’re a busy professional. So, today we’ll get acquainted again.” She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “Richie’s not a writer, Rachel. He’s a drag queen.”

  My eyebrows must have gone up.

  “A female impersonator. Come on, cookie, you know what that is. He dresses up in women’s clothes, he sings a little, he makes a nice living.”

  “My mother knew this?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Richie, what, he just told you one day?”

  “He never had to tell me, Rachel. I used to catch him trying on my bras when he was a kid, putting on nail polish, falling all over himself in my high heels. He even bought me a wig once, for Mother’s Day, so that he could wear it when I wasn’t home. He’s too much, my Richie.”

  “So where did my mother get this story?”

  She pricked a tomato with her fork and held it aloft. “When Richie was at Yale, he did talk about becoming a writer. He also talked about becoming an architect, a veterinarian, an engineer. It was all talk. I did think he might take up acting. They had a wonderful drama program at Yale, and I thought that would be right up Richie’s alley. But he didn’t take to it then. Of course, he does all sorts of skits now.”

  “So my mother fixated on the writing?”

  “Why not? He did write a poem once. When he was ten. Your mother didn’t make up the story from air. She put together a little this, a little that, some imagination, and her enormous pride. Your poor mother. That was her obsession, that everything should look just so.” She popped the tomato into her mouth and chewed.

  “Did Richie go to Key West right after Yale?”

  “No, he lived in New York for a while, in Chelsea. He worked in a restaurant, he was a singing waiter, darling. And every winter he went to Key West One winter, he bought a little place. And that was that.”

  “Does he know you know?”

  “Sweetheart, he calls me for advice. Mom, he says, my skin is breaking out from the base. What do you suggest? Would aloe help? And he gives advice. Tells me what to wear. Tries to get me to color my hair. Mom, he said, last time I was down, for my eightieth birthday, Mom, he said, if you dyed your hair, you’d look ten years younger.” She roared.

  She didn’t ask about the Jacobs case, and I didn’t bring it up. After lunch, she showed me pictures of my cousin Richie on stage, as Liza Minelli, Judy Garland, and Marlene Dietrich.

  “He has fabulous legs,” I said.

  “Takes after me.” Ceil pulled up her skirt and stuck one long gam out from under the table for me to admire.

  After lunch she went rummaging around in a closet and came up with a lace and velvet shawl wrapped in tissue paper. “This was your mother’s,” she said. “She gave it to me once when she came to visit. I’d like you to have it now.”

  “Ceil, I can’t take it from you. It’s too beautiful.”

  “Of course you can. It should be with you.” She handed me the shawl. “You know, darling, your mother was just a human being. One day, it would be nice for you if you let go of some of your disappointment.”

  “I—”

  She lifted one long-fingered, bony hand to silence me. “Do you remember the summer you stayed with me for a month, when you were eleven?” I nodded. “And do you remember Margaret?”

  “Of course,” I said. “How could I forget? That was my first job.”

  “I’d met her late one afternoon, the week before you came. I was admiring the ocean, talking out loud to myself. You know how I am. She asked if, as long as I was looking anyway, I’d watch her swim. At first I thought, What chutzpah, what a loony request. And then I saw the white cane folded up and lying on the corner of her towel, so I said yes, I’d watch. Stand on the shore, she said, and shout to me if I’m headed in the wrong direction. So I watched her swim. And when she came out—”

  “You said, I have a very responsible young woman coming to stay with me next week,
for the whole month of August, my niece Rachel, and she’d be delighted to meet you here every afternoon at five and watch you swim.”

  “We all need that,” Ceil said, “someone to shout and tell us if we’re headed out to sea. But when you can see,” she said, picking up her coffee cup, “well, most of us don’t have someone responsible standing on the shore to make sure we stay headed in the right direction. Now, come, I know why you’re here.”

  I was truly amazed. I hadn’t said a word about Lillian and Ted, not even on the phone.

  “So let’s take that adorable creature of yours to the beach.” She turned to Dashiell, his big mouth agape in adoration as she spoke. “Aunt Ceil knows why you came to visit. For the same reason your mommy used to come when she was little. She loved the beach, just the way you do,” she said to him. “Marsha told me you showed up wet for your meeting with them,” she said to me. “That’s the girl I remember, I thought when she said it. Come,” she said, talking to Dashiell again, “we’ll take our walk.”

  “You have to give him what he needs,” Ceil said later, as we watched Dashiell running along the sand. “You’re responsible for him.”

  Of course, I didn’t for a minute think she was talking about Dashiell.

  “He always loved dress-up,” she said, walking next to me but with her thoughts far away. “He liked to pretend he was something he wasn’t. Someone he wasn’t. He enjoyed that He still does. I never told him to try to be anything different. People are who they are. I never tried to tell him what to do or not do, how to live his life. It’s harmless, what he does. It gives him pleasure. He’s my son, and I love him. That’s all there is to it. That’s what I told your mother, too. She thought I ought to do something. Do what? I asked her. Beatrice, I said, all I can do is alienate my son. No one wants to be told what to do. People have to handle their own lives, their own way.”

  I had come to talk about Lillian.

  “Do you believe in fate, Rachel?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her.

  What do you suggest? I’d meant to ask. But what with one thing and another, I never did get around to it.