“I don’t think he’s got dogs.”
“Or Brad Pitt?”
“I don’t know. Ask ’em. Next time you see ’em, ask ’em.”
“Oh sure, that’s going to make a dandy little scene. Todd Pickett and Brad Pitt: ‘Tell me, Brad, when your dog died did you wail like a girl for two days?'”
Now it was Marco who laughed. “Wail like a girl?”
“That’s how I feel. I feel like I’m in the middle of some stupid weepie.”
“Maybe you should call Wilhemina over and fuck her.”
“Wilhemina doesn’t do fucks. She does lovemaking with candles and a lot of wash-clothes. I swear she thinks I’m going to give her something.”
“Fleas?”
“Yeah. Fleas. You know, as a last act of rebellion on behalf of Dempsey and myself I’d like to give fleas to Wilhemina, Maxine and — ”
“Gary Eppstadt.”
Both men were laughing now, curing the hurt the only way it could be cured, by being included in the nature of things.
Speaking of inclusion, he got a call from his mother, about six o’clock. She was at home in Cambridge Massachusetts, but sounded ready to jump the first plane and come visit. She was in one of her ‘I’ve a funny feeling’ moods.’
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes there is.”
She was inevitably right; she could predict with startling accuracy the times she needed to call her famous son and the times when she should keep her distance. Sometimes he could lie to her, and get away with it. But today wasn’t one of those days. What was the point?
“Dempsey’s dead.”
“That old mutt of yours.”
“He was not an old mutt and if you talk about him like that then this conversation ends right here.”
“How old was he?” Patricia asked.
“Eleven, going on twelve.”
“That’s a decent age.”
“Not for a dog like him.”
“What kind of dog would that be?”
“You know — ”
“A mutt. Mutt’s always live longer than thoroughbreds. That’s a fact of life.”
“Well, mine didn’t.”
“Too much rich food. You used to spoil that dog — ”
“Is there anything else you want besides lecturing me about how I killed my dog with kindness?”
“No. I was just wanting to chat, but obviously you’re in no mood to chat.”
“I loved Dempsey, Mom. You understand what I’m saying?”
“If you don’t mind me observing something — ”
“Could I stop you?”
” — it’s sad that the only serious relationship you’ve had is with a dog. It’s time you grew up, Todd. You’re not getting any younger, you know. You think about the way your father aged.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now, okay.”
“Listen to me.”
“Mom. I don’t — ”
“You’ve got his genes, so listen for once will you? He was a good-looking man your father, till he was about thirty-four, thirty-five. Now granted he didn’t take care of himself and you do — I mean he smoked and he drank a lot more than was good for him. But his looks went practically overnight.”
“Overnight? That’s is ridiculous. Nobody’s looks go — ”
“All right, it wasn’t overnight. But I was there. I saw. Believe me, it was quick. Five, six months and all his looks had gone.”
Even though this was an absurd exaggeration, there was an element of truth in what Patricia Pickett was saying. Todd’s father had indeed lost his looks with remarkable speed. It would not have been the kind of thing a son would have noticed, necessarily, but Todd had a second point-of-view on his father’s sudden deterioration: his best friend Danny had been raised by a single mother who’d several times made her feelings for Merrick Pickett known to her son. The rumors had reached Todd, of course. Indeed they’d become practically weekly reports, as Danny’s mother’s plans to seduce the unwitting subject of her desires were laid (and failed) and re-laid.
All this came back to Todd as his mother went on chatting. Eventually, he said, “Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to make some decisions about the cremation.”
“Oh, Lord, I hope you’re keeping this quiet. The media would have a party with this: you and your dog.”