Loyalty, Love, & Vermouth, page 12
“Holy shit. Look,” said Lee, pointing to the far end of the couch. There, a little white dog sat perfectly still. It was about twelve pounds and, well, “white” was a relative term. It was a dingy animal, about the same color as the couch, which was probably why we hadn’t noticed it.
“That is a creepy little dog,” I said.
Lee nodded, eyes wide. “Where’s Mamie, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know.”
The creepy little dog began to growl. The fur on top of its head was matted down, and one tiny sharp tooth jutted upward out of its mouth. Its nose was pinkish, resembling the man of the house.
And just then Mr. Bixby reappeared. He carried a mug of what looked like beige, cloudy coffee with a large black speck floating in it.
“Mr. Bixby, I—”
I was interrupted by a loud slurping. When he brought his mug down, the large black speck was still there, consuming my attention. Lee nudged me.
“Can I see my dog? Where is she?”
“It was very nice of you to come over so quickly,” Bixby said, never quite making eye contact.
“I live close by.”
“What are your names?”
“Um, I’m Charlie, and this is my friend, Lee. I’d like to see my dog, if you don’t—”
“Hello, Charlie. Hello, Lee. I’m Willard,” he said before taking another slurp from his coffee mug. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too?” Lee said, looking at me the entire time.
“Please,” Bixby said. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the worn and dusty couch, which still held a growling little dog.
“No, thank you,” Lee said, unwilling to abandon good manners but equally unwilling to put his body on anything that might be home to thousands of fleas.
Bixby shuffled to the front window, eyes fixed on his coffee mug. How he could have missed the flotsam in his coffee was beyond me. I wondered if it was there on purpose. “Have you lived in the neighborhood long?”
I hadn’t come to make small talk, and I was growing impatient, but didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “Mr. Bixby—”
“Oh, please. Call me Willard.”
“All right, Willard. Do you have my dog? I’d really like to see her.”
“Oh, yes,” Bixby said, now staring out the window. “I found your dog this morning when I was walking home from breakfast. It’s a very nice dog.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Where is she?”
“Well, the dog’s right over there,” Bixby said, pointing to the growling little varmint on the edge of his couch.
I regarded this thoroughly unpleasant animal, and I felt my heart breaking. Bixby didn’t have Mamie. Mamie was still gone, and I didn’t have the faintest idea where she was.
“That’s not my dog.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Bixby said, digging for something in his pocket. “What’s its name again?”
“Mr. Bixby. Willard. That isn’t my dog. I’m sorry for any misunderstanding, and thank you for contacting us, but—”
“No, wait wait wait!” Bixby pulled his phone from his front pocket, and was furiously scrolling through it as he stumbled toward the front door. Lee and I stared at each other, overwhelmed with sadness but unsure what to do with this potentially insane man who was now blocking our exit.
“Found it,” he mumbled, showing us his phone. It was a copy of the flyer Tucker made earlier that morning, the new one with the words “$10,000 REWARD” in bold print right in the center. “Watch this,” he said, facing the dog, who was still growling at me. “Mamie,” he said, and the growling stopped. There was a sudden silence, as if someone had taken the needle off a spinning record. Bixby chuckled. “See?”
I was unmoved. “No, Willard. Mr. Bixby. I’m sorry, but that’s not my dog.”
“Mamie, come.” Sure enough, the dog jumped down from the couch and approached. Bixby. “Sit,” he commanded, and the dog sat down, looking up expectantly, perhaps awaiting a treat.
“Um, Charlie? It’s a boy,” Lee said. “Look.”
Not only did this dog have a penis, it presently had an erection, like an angry pink lipstick bobbing up and down. This detail mattered little to Bixby.
“Your dog is very friendly,” he said, putting his hand in front of the dog’s nose. The dog took a sniff and then licked his knuckles, causing Bixby to giggle for a moment. “Now you,” he said, to me.
“I don’t think you understand, Willard. That’s just not my d—”
“But you’re not even trying,” he said. Either he was out of his mind, or he thought I was the stupidest man on earth.
Not knowing what else to do, I bent down and offered my downturned hand to this dog, who sniffed it, but did not reward me with a kiss. I was never so happy to be rejected.
“Well, that doesn’t prove anything,” Bixby insisted.
I turned to Lee. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“You can’t go yet,” Bixby said. “We haven’t even talked about the reward money.”
And there it was. Bixby wasn’t crazy. He was a grifter, a con man. And not a very bright one.
“Mr. Bixby, I—”
“Call me Willard.”
“Mr. Bixby. I’m not taking this dog, and I’m not giving you any money.”
“But I found your dog for y—”
“Stop,” I said, angry and finally not caring if it showed. “Just stop it. You didn’t find my dog. That is not my dog. That dog is smaller, dirtier, and uglier than my dog, and that dog has a dick. Okay? I offered a reward to anyone who could give me my dog back. You are not that person.”
“But we had a deal.” He was calm and not at all threatening. He looked pathetic and sad, but he was insistent. “We had a deal.”
“No. No, we don’t. This is not how deals work.”
“We had a deal,” he said again, “and you’re not leaving this house until you give me my money.” He reached behind him and turned the deadbolt on his door. “It’s my money.”
“We’re going to go now,” Lee said.
“Please, let’s talk about this. It’s been a rough couple of years, you know? I could really use a break.”
“Mr. Bixby,” I said, “you really do have to let us go.”
“You’ve got lots of money. I mean, look at you two. If you’ve got all that money to spend on one lost dog…look, I’ve got nothing. And I’ve got this heart condition, and the medicine costs a lot, and—”
“I’m sorry you’re having a rough time of it, Willard. But I’m not giving you any money, and you don’t have my dog,” I said, not without sadness. “So, I don’t think we can help each other.”
“Now just hold on—” But his next tactic was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the quick, efficient knock of someone familiar to the place.
“Willard!” A woman was on the front porch, clearly expecting the door to be open.
And then a child’s voice chimed in. “Daddy, let us in!”
“Now, you go away for a minute,” Bixby called out. “I’m busy in here!”
But a key was already forcing the deadbolt back into the door.
“Busy doing what?” The door opened, and a tall, casually but fashionably dressed Black woman stood behind it. “You got a girlfriend in there or something?” She was easily a head taller than Willard. She noticed Lee and me standing in her living room, and her brow furrowed as she returned her keys to her purse. “Who the hell are you?”
“We were just leaving,” Lee answered.
“Hold up,” she said. “Willard, who are these people?”
We noticed the little girl, simultaneously hiding behind her mother and wanting to be seen, peek her head around to get a good look at us. “I’m Glory,” she said, shyly. She looked to be around five or six years old. She had big spiral curls all over her head and wore a pink winter coat.
“Hi, Glory. My name is Lee.” They shared a smile between them.
“And I’m Charlie,” I extended my hand. “You are…his wife?”
“Ex-wife,” she said, giving my hand a firm shake. “I’m Roz. What’s happening in here?”
At this point, the mangy little white dog hopped back up on the couch, perhaps to get a better view of the ensuing drama.
“I’m afraid it’s all been a big misunderstanding,” I said.
“They owe us money,” Mr. Bixby said.
“Willard, hush,” said Roz. “Charlie, is it? Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“Well, my dog was stolen from my house, and I’m trying to find her. I’ve offered a reward for her return. Your husband thought he found her and called us over here, but this is not her.” I pointed to the little dog, who was turning in circles on the couch, preparing for a lie-down.
Little Glory stepped into the center of the room and dramatically stomped her foot. “Daddy!” she yelled. “You were trying to sell Dudley?!”
Roz rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Willard.”
“Dudley’s not his name anymore, sweetie,” Mr. Bixby said, before turning to his woman by his side. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in my house.”
Glory pounced on her dog, to protect him from us, I suppose, and the three of them began yelling over each other so loudly we couldn’t hear much of what was being said, only that Roz was continuing to take the Lord’s name in vain at every available opportunity.
“We’re gonna go now,” I said, to no one in particular, and Lee and I circled around the mêlée and escaped without much notice.
Once Lee closed the door behind him, we sprinted away until we were ten or twelve houses down.
“That was fucking weird,” Lee said.
“Yeah,” I replied, gasping.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I thought we had her back.”
“Yeah. Me too. And now it probably won’t happen.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it’ll happen. One crazy asshole doesn’t mean anything.”
I nodded but kept going.
“Hey, listen to me,” Lee said. “She’s going to be on the news tonight, and a lot of people are going to see that. And even though this fucking guy was loco en la cabeza, we know people are seeing the flyer, so that’s good. Right?”
I nodded again, but Lee could tell I wasn’t convinced. “It’s been twenty-four hours,” I said sadly. “Time’s up.”
“You didn’t get home last night until after dark.”
“But she was taken between 2:47 and 3:05,” I said. “Lt. Herman said if we don’t get her back within twenty-four hours, we probably won’t find her.”
“Well, he never met Mamie,” said Lee. “Has he?”
I kept walking, but Lee stopped. He efficiently stomped his foot, which was my clue to return to him where he stood.
“Has he?”
“No.”
“No, he hasn’t. C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
We got back into my car and drove three blocks east and one block south back to my place. Lee offered to send Tucker a text message with the disappointing news. The two of them were having quite the conversation with their thumbs, which left me alone with my thoughts.
At least we hadn’t said anything to Angela Woolsey, and Mamie’s story was still being edited together across town. I tried to channel Angela’s optimism and reminded myself Lee was right. Mamie was an extraordinary little dog, and most burglaries didn’t get covered on the evening news. We had to get her back, and I knew we would, based on one piece of circumstantial evidence: I refused to imagine another ending to the story.
Because of the one-way streets in my neighborhood, we had to drive in front of my house to get to the alley. Approaching the house, Lee suddenly piped up. “Charlie, look,” he said. “There’s somebody on your porch.”
There was a car about to pass, so I couldn’t take my eyes off the road. “Who is it?”
“Holy shit. It’s Freddie fucking Babcock.”
Chapter Ten
The same week Freddie and I officially parted ways, Tucker announced plans to throw Jack a big party for his thirty-fifth birthday. It was adamantly not a surprise party, as Jack hated surprises almost as much as he hated parties.
But Tucker was determined not to let the occasion pass without celebration. He wanted something perfect: the food classy but not pretentious, with just enough booze to keep things lively, but he didn’t want a room full of falling-down drunks. Also, he needed enough people to let Jack know how much he was loved, but not so many it became more about the party and less about the birthday boy. Most importantly, he wanted the right people there, people who were invested in celebrating his husband, not in looking for their next hookup or creating any kind of drama.
Sadly, his plans were not to be.
About a week before the party, he called with some delicate news, too delicate for a text it would seem.
“What’s up, buttercup?”
“You tell me,” I said.
“Well, it’s about the party on Sunday.” This was not surprising news. Everything in the past two weeks had been about Jack’s party. From the vantage point of a newly single man in the midst of a bad breakup, it was both sweet and terribly annoying.
“What about it?” I asked, forcing a smile into my voice, secretly hoping he noticed the effort.
“Well…Freddie’s coming. To the party.” This was also not a surprise. When we had announced our split to our friends, we insisted on civility and promised they would not have to choose between us.
“That’s fine, Tucker. I don’t mind. Really.” Of course I minded, but I was determined to keep my word.
“Okay, sugar. It’s just that…”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Freddie’s not coming alone. He’s bringing someone.”
“Probably Carol from his office. It’s okay. She’s cool.”
“His name is Edwin. And Freddie mentioned he was excited for us to meet his new…um…”
“Boyfriend,” I said.
“That was the word,” Tucker said. “Sugar, I’m so sorry.”
“Fuck.” It was the only word that sprang to mind, I’m afraid. Freddie had moved out of my house less than three weeks before, and had already found my replacement. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“I can talk to Freddie. Tell him to bring Edwin over some other time when it’s just the four of us?”
“No,” I said, “don’t do that. Might as well rip the bandage off while the wound is fresh, right?” My metaphor made no sense, I realized. Probably because this was a really bad idea, but I was going to take the high road, and I would still get to Scotland first, goddammit.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Really.”
“Listen, sugar, don’t take this personally.” I exhaled in a huff, creating an audible roll of the eyes. “I know that’s a tall order, but I’ve known Freddie since BC—Before Charlie. He doesn’t do ‘single.’ It’s a wonder he lasted this long. It’s not about you, honestly.”
“Tucker,” I said, processing everything I was hearing. “Was Freddie single when he met me? Tell me the truth.”
“Shit,” Tucker said. Truthfully it was the only answer I needed. “Not exactly?”
“Tell me.”
“Shit fuck in a garbage truck,” Tucker replied, and then the line went temporarily dead. He was probably waiting for me to change the subject, but I was determined to wait him out. “Do you remember Roger Lindsey?”
“He was supposed to be my chorus buddy. The one who hated me?”
“That would be he.”
“Well, that makes some sense now anyway. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Because Roger Lindsey is an asshole, and Freddie was clearly just marking time until he met someone decent.”
“Like me.”
“Exactly,” said Tucker. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure Edwin will be perfectly awful.”
“Yeah, well here’s hoping.”
“Listen, Charlie, thanks for being so great about this. Come Sunday, I won’t leave your side for a minute, and it’ll be fun. I promise. Dogs are invited, so bring Mamie if you like.”
* * *
I don’t remember the exact moment when things went south between Freddie and me, but I knew we were in trouble when we experienced the Iris Incident.
Iris Clifton was a friend of mine from college. We were theater kids together who spent every night at rehearsal and every day daydreaming about the parts we’d play and the Tony Awards we’d win someday. Had it not been for Facebook, Iris and I probably would have drifted apart after college. Neither of us was very disciplined about writing long letters to each other, particularly missives detailing how we each learned a life in the theater was not all it was cracked up to be, and how we eventually settled for a corporate training gig in my place and a husband and two kids in hers.
But thanks to social media, we were fairly in tune with each other’s lives. When her son was born, and then her daughter, I was part of the congratulatory voices cooing and fawning over the baby pictures. When I made my big coming out announcement the same year, she skipped the platitudes about how brave I was and went straight for “Aha! I knew it” with a heart emoji.
After Freddie and I had been together for almost two years, Iris texted to let me know she and her now teenage son and middle-school daughter would be playing tourist in Washington, and chief among her must-see destinations was me. She wanted to take me to a fabulous brunch and was excited for me to meet her kids, especially the younger one, who was already showing some enthusiasm for school plays. And, of course, she wanted to meet Freddie.
