Lydia Millet - How the Dead Dream

"You don't need to do this," he told her when he found out, perched on the arm of her sofa with his arms crossed. At work on a puzzle of cavorting dolphins, she showed no interest in turning to face him. "If you're worried about money I can help you. There's no reason you should deprive yourself."

"I didn't want those old things anyway," she said, and fit in a puzzle piece. "The armoires and the tables. Who needs them?"

"Someone else in the family might want them. That desk from 1680, for instance. Maybe that second cousin that sends you those long family letters at Christmas? The one in Salt Lake City?"

"Betsy?"?

"Right. Betsy."

"I don't like Betsy. She's obese. And Mormon."

"Still, might as well keep it in the family. We're not hurting here, you and me. I'm rolling most of my profits back into investment, but I have plenty left for you to live well."

"A penny saved is a penny earned."

"You don't need to earn pennies. I paid six million in taxes last year."

"Don't brag. You could end up in the Pancake House."

"I'm not saying it's a big deal. I'm just trying to make you see.

"I'm doing just fine, honey. Really."

"Yesterday when I came in you remember what you were drinking? The vinegar from a pickle jar? It had pieces of stem and peppercorns floating in it."

"It was good. If you like pickles, why not the juice? People are so finicky."

"And the cereal you were eating Tuesday? With the maggots in it?"

"Those weren't maggots, T. Don't be ridiculous! They were mealworms."

All he could do was hire a nurse, who kept the refrigerator stocked, cooked and cleaned, and made sure his mother remembered to bathe. A strong and matronly woman from Yugoslavia, the nurse took her charge out once a day to walk through the streets to the beach; she was a staunch believer in the restorative powers of locomotion.

In celebration of his nation's birth Fulton had pulled out all the stops, resulting in Fourth of July festivities so red, white and blue that heads spun from the impact of spangles. In his three-acre backyard a band in cowboy gear played traditional favorites: for Fulton liked gangsta rap but Janet listened exclusively to country. Thus the lyrics of "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy" were belted out by a woman with long, elaborately curled red hair who swayed back and forth in an agitated fashion from one high-heeled foot to the other; as the afternoon wore on she began to caress the microphone with a frantic obscenity, groaning "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" as though straining under the lash.

T. was prevented from leaving by the promised arrival of a new investor whom Fulton had invited to meet him. He watched the redhead stagger back and forth across the front of the stage and felt battered; across his horizon Janet paraded a number of sacrificial virgins, each of whom required civil handling. During a foot stomping rendition of "Clementine" there was a blonde from Indiana; when the sheet cake was cut-a giant flag in the shape of the country, with Hawaii and Alaska as bundt cake satellites-there was a dark-haired woman with a long face.

"This is Tanya," said Janet. "She's a real estate agent! You guys have so much in common!"

"I'm sorry," said T., smiling affably. "What would that be?"

"You know! Real estate things!" effused Janet, and steered her friend forward with a viselike grip on her arm.

"I'm really sorry to hear about your loss," said Tanya, but wavered between a frown and a smile.

"Tanya just got divorced recently," said Janet.

"Well then I'm sorry," said T., and meant it.

"It was actually a very positive step," said Tanya.

"She was wasted on him," said Janet.

"I don't doubt," said T.

"So, you're in real estate too?" asked Tanya, and T. nodded very slightly before turning back to the redhead, who was now wailing, "Hang down your head, Tom Dooley, hang down your head and cry-iy-iy…"

"I develop resort properties," said T.

"Hang down your head Tom Dooley; poor boy you're going to die-iy-iy."

"Oh, wow. Yeah. I'm a buyer's agent. Residential. I'm actually new to the whole racket. I just started a year ago. When I was married, you know, all I ever did was the Home Shopping Network, basically."

"Listen," said T., because he could not bear to look at the singer a moment longer and did not want to make small talk either. "Can I confess something? Janet's always trying to set me up, and her intentions are good, but I don't want to be set tip. I'm basically still in mourning. I don't want to meet anyone.

Tanya nodded eagerly, as though what he said had nothing to do with her.

"You're probably totally sick of it," she said. "Am I right?"

He hoped she would impart the tidbit to Janet, but this must not have occurred; for after the triumphant finale, namely "The Lord of the Dance," he was served up the redhead herself.

His second break-in after the rhinoceros was a Monkey House near San Diego, where his research failed him. The Monkey House was equipped with a silent alarm.

Making his way down a narrow corridor between the cages of the smallest monkeys-marmosets, tarsiers and golden lion tamarins, their small homuncular faces beadily watchful in the foliage behind the thick glass-he felt the shock of security guards bursting into the building, one from the front and one from the rear.

He heard the crash of the metal doors and the racking of slides on two guns; thoughtless and rushing, he leapt over the wall of an open enclosure and shimmied down a palm tree. The rough bark tore at his legs and he tumbled onto a tussock and hid behind a fake rock, his thighs burning so hard he had to grit his teeth at the sting.

Within hearing distance the guards met; they came together in the walkway between his enclosure and another.

"See anything?"

"… bird got in earlier? And just tripped the thing now? Like with the myna at the fundraiser."

"I betcha it was Galt. Couldn't raise him before. Heard he's off the wagon."

They stumped heavily toward the front of the building, the beams of their flashlights scoping but giving him a wide berth. When their footfalls faded he climbed out of the exhibit as quietly as he could and scurried out the rear service door. He wanted to apologize to the monkeys, to tell them he was sorry for the intrusion. He had not meant to bring them the loud men with guns-behind him, unseen, a monkey had squealed at the noise, startled out of its sleep.

Attacks had occurred in the past, he learned; a young female baboon had been shot in the stomach by a hunter wanting to take home her skull for a trophy. The zoo in question was under pressure. But the incident led him to research animals who were not always closed within buildings, who could not be sealed off so easily with electronic systems. It was not that he was afraid of the awkwardness of an arrest-victimless trespasses like his tended not to draw much publicity-but more that his experience would be trivial if it revolved around awareness of risk.

And how arbitrary it was that certain authorities ruled over zoo animals, decided which persons could draw near to them-authorities vested by neither the state nor any other body, handed permits with a near-infinite laxness by the Department of Agriculture. There were almost no standards for the treatment of the animals unless the zoo they lived in belonged to the American Zoo Association-some two hundred out of two thousand. The other zoos could do almost anything to their charges.

He had standards. He only broke into accredited zoos. In the others he knew he would see nothing but misery. They held no appeal for him.

When he first met Susan's daughter he was hitching a ride with Susan to the dealership where his 560 was being serviced. He had finally traded in the 190.