Dog People Page 3
“I think,” he’d said in a careful voice, “that maybe the best thing would be for you to just not talk as Lady at all. Please.”
Suzanne turned away, but he could see the flush on her neck, the hurt look on her face. “Fine,” she’d said. “I’ll stop.”
* * *
She’d promised him that she wasn’t angry, that her feelings weren’t hurt. But, after that discussion, there was a palpable chilliness between them.
Is it such a big deal? Michael asked himself, as he walked Lady toward South Street. So she doesn’t use the same voice that Tina did. Is that so terrible? Maybe I can get used to it. But it wasn’t three days later that Michael came back to the condo, five minutes after he’d left, realizing that he’d forgotten his checkbook. He’d unlocked the door and heard Suzanne’s voice in the kitchen.
“You like the way I talk, don’t you?” And then Suzanne-as-Lady in that baby-talk-y lisp. “Yes I do! Dada is a big meanie. I wuv you! You’re my favwit!”
Michael stood, frozen in place, holding his breath.
“Maybe let’s poop in Dada’s shoe!” Suzanne said, almost cheerfully. “Maybe let’s wee in his beer!”
Michael felt the blood drain from his face. “Maybe we should give that mean, bad Dada a big bite!”
There was silence for a moment. Michael heard the water running above the noise of Suzanne’s steps as she moved around the kitchen. “Who’s my good girl?” she asked in her own voice. “Who’s my little lovey-dovey? Who is such a good girl? Oh yes you are, oh yes you are!” she crooned. Quietly, without going to the bedroom for his checkbook, Michael eased the door closed and stood in the hallway, empty hands hanging by his side, thinking, What do I do now?
* * *
For a few days, every time she’d slip into the Lady voice, Suzanne would tell him she was sorry, or give him an apologetic look. Michael would make himself smile. He’d grit his teeth and tell her it was fine. Meanwhile, he’d feel his toes curl every time he heard that cloying, lisping falsetto, every time she ascribed some thought or emotion to Lady that Michael knew the little dog would never actually have. When they were walking Lady and they came across a pit bull, Suzanne said, “Ooh, Wady is afwaid of that big bully!”
“Actually,” Michael said, “Domino is a very nice dog. And pit bulls have a bad reputation. If they’ve been trained to attack, then, of course, they will, but if they’re raised to be gentle…”
But by then Suzanne had scooped Lady into her arms.
“Mama will pwo-tect!” she was saying. “Mama will keep safe!” And Michael heard his mother’s voice, yelling at his elementary-school gym teacher, who’d had the kids playing dodge ball: My son is very fragile! It’s my job to protect him! His hands had curled into fists, and when Suzanne had turned to him, smiling, he’d swallowed hard and had to turn away.
The final straw came later that night. They’d been watching Dial M for Murder, Lady had been sitting on the floor, licking herself, the way she did most nights.
“Wady has to get hersewf pwetty,” Suzanne said. “Wady has hot date with handsome bulldog!”
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Suzanne, please,” was all he said. But that time, instead of apologizing, Suzanne had glared at him. Twin spots of red burned in her cheeks, and her eyes seemed to sparkle with malice.
“You know what?” she asked in a loud voice. “I’m sick of this. I’m sick of tiptoeing around the memory of Saint Tina.”
Michael blinked. “What?”
“That’s what it is, isn’t it? Tina came up with Lady’s voice, and God forbid anyone do it differently. Tina came up with Lady’s story, so that has to be the one true story. Well, let me tell you something, Michael Corcoran.” She stabbed her index finger in Lady’s direction. “That dog is just a dog. She’s not the embodiment of the late, great, perfect Saint Tina. She’s not the history of your marriage on four legs. She’s. Just. A. Dog.”
“No, she’s not,” Michael shouted in a thick, rage-choked voice. His right hand was fisted around an imaginary scalpel, his fingers aching to cut.
“So, what is she, then?” Suzanne planted her hands on her skinny hips. “Is she your BFF? Your number-one girl? I thought that was me. But I guess I was wrong.” Suzanne ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, but not before he saw the tears glittering in her eyes.
* * *
He sat, alone, in the living room, with Lady in his lap, as the night came down around him.
Suzanne, this isn’t working, he imagined himself saying. But that wasn’t true. Everything worked, except the stupid goddamn voice she’d given his dog. And if they weren’t together, then what? He’d be alone again. Tina had rescued him; she had brought him into a world of love, of good food and long walks and going to bed at night in the company of someone who knew you intimately, and then Suzanne had saved him again. Without a woman, it would be just him and his dog. Alone, again, with nothing but time, and a lab set up on the dining-room table. And a bad reputation, because, undoubtedly, Suzanne would tell the other ladies in the building everything she’d learned about him, his sad past and all of his secrets. He’d be alone again. Not even Lady would be with him forever.
He thought back to the first night Suzanne had come over, with her lasagna and her smiles, and imagined sending her away. He could hear her in the kitchen, stomping around, slamming drawers shut and scrubbing the counters as loudly as she could. He pictured her, bent over the sink, a pale strip of her neck exposed between her hair and the collar of her robe, and thought how it would feel to wrap his hands around that neck and squeeze, how the little bones would sound as they snapped. Michael didn’t kill those mice. They were dead already. He’d wrap her body up in the old, stained comforter he’d been meaning to toss. He’d sneak back into the lab and bring home chemicals to liquefy her flesh and turn her bones to ashes. My son has a very scientific mind. He’d bring her remains to the John Heinz Wildlife Refuge, out by the airport, where there were acres of marshland and miles of trails. He’d get away with it. He was a smart guy. And he’d been alone before. Would it be so bad, if he were alone again, just him and Lady, who looked at him with such love and trust; Lady with her big, dark eyes and her little snores and the way her paws twitched when she was dreaming? Lady, with no ventriloquizing a stupid, shriek baby voice every time she did anything?
“Goodnight, Michael.” He looked up to see Suzanne in the doorway. Her arms were crossed over her chest. In her white nightgown, with cream on her face, she looked like a ghost. “I’m going to bed.”
He let her go. He sat in his chair. The hours ticked by. His eyes burned from sleeplessness, and his mouth and brain both felt cottony. She’s never going to stop, he thought. Even if she wanted to, she can’t. And finally, he knew what he had to do.
* * *
He waited until it was three in the morning, and everything was quiet. Then he crept into the bedroom and stood over the bed in the darkness, holding the pillow in his hands, looking down at his beloved.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered. He waited to see if she would answer, or wake and look at him, but everything was silent, except for her snores. He caressed her cheek one last time, touching the soft, heart-shaped patch of pink above her nose. Then, gently, he reached down and gave her one last kiss, right behind her furry ear, before he pressed the pillow tight against her muzzle.
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