Lydia Millet - How the Dead Dream

T. looked at them both and an odd, dreary calm settled over him. He was aware of danger. It was like a tidal wave or a freeze: it was not up to him. Shoppers milled around and behind them in a blur.

Casey continued to smile coldly; Fulton picked up a piece of pale red fruit. At first T. could not recall what it was and then he thought pomegranate.

"Wait. I forgot. A sociopath typically fails to recognize his behavior as antisocial. You probably had no idea until I told you. Right? This whole time you thought you were just a regular rich guy, I bet."

Fulton turned to T.

"This is one of those fruits where, if I ripped it open, there would be all those shiny red seeds inside. Right?"

"Leave us alone, Fulton."

He took hold of the back of Casey's chair, but she pushed off his hands. Fulton tossed the pomegranate back into the bin.

"I can't believe you, T. I knew you were a secret fag but I had no idea you would do sex on cripples. I mean that's sick. It's one step away from fucking rotting corpses. I mean half of this little lady is basically already dead."

T. felt stunned; the oranges and yellows of the produce aisle were dazzling. They fuzzed and vibrated in front of him. They were ancient Egypt in the tropics.

But Casey was still matter-of-fact.

"Among sociopaths the physically violent subjects tend to be the stupid ones. Did you know that? The ones who limit themselves to verbal abuse are smart by comparison. But that's obviously not you. Unless-wait. Are you physically violent too? Are you a wife-beater?"

There was a pause; Fulton seemed preoccupied suddenly, gazing over T.'s shoulder. T. heard his own voice, clipped and neutral. "He doesn't beat her, but he's been sleeping with the same prostitute twice a week since a year before they got married. He claims his wife is frigid. Every year he gives the prostitute a Christmas bonus."

"Fulton?"

Janet was staring wide-eyed at her husband from above a full shopping cart. A few feet behind her stood their preteen daughter.

Casey was the first to move, head slightly bowed, mouth solemn; she turned her chair and made for the row of checkout counters.

T. could not catch Janet's eye but he saw her daughter's face, alarmed. He was not sure what the daughter had understood: and if he made an apology to Janet it would only confirm the salience of what she had heard. He had to cut his losses.

"Janet," he said softly in acknowledgment, "how are you," as though nothing was happening. He raised a hand in greeting before he turned to leave.

If only the daughter had been out riding her pony.

At the front door he and Casey surrendered their grocery baskets without paying. They crossed the parking lot in silence. He was mulling over the damage to Janet's feelings and the loss of Fulton's money. For Janet-could she actually love him, or would it be mostly the shock? For himself, he considered whether he should be worried, because the funds were as good as gone already. Certainly their loss would be felt, he guessed, but it would not break him. He would go over the financials when he got home.

They got to the car and discovered Casey still had the honeydew, a symptom of their distraction. On her lap it lay pale and heavy.

The next business trip ended early. On his way to the zoo for daytime reconnaissance, listening to the news on public radio, he learned the pygmy chimpanzees he meant to visit had a newborn. He could not risk disturbing the group so with reluctance he turned back toward the airport.

He had left his dog in the care of his mother's nurse, since Angela could no longer be relied upon to remember to feed and walk her, and when he got into his car in the parking structure at LAX-a new 600, for he had recently traded in the 560-and called his mother's apartment on the car telephone, the nurse was out.

His mother made him nervous.

"Your dog was here. But she's gone," she said vaguely.

"Gone? What do you mean, gone? Out? Is Vera walking her?"

"She went away. After we saw the man in the BMW."

"I'm coming there now," said T., anxious. "Stay home. OK? I don't understand what you're telling me here. Tell Vera to call me on the car phone if she gets there before I do."

At his mother's apartment Vera answered the door with a worried face. His dog had run away, she said.

"What do you mean? She never takes off!"

"There was a man in a car when we were on our walk. It was the three of us, your mother and the dog and me. We were walking on Abbot Kinney. This man parked his car. It was a nice car. Shiny black."

"Leather seats," said his mother, nodding. "Beautiful. And brand new. A death machine, of course."

"He said he knew her," said Vera. "He was a friend of yours.

"He was the one from the party," said his mother. "And I'll tell you what, T. You should steer clear of him. I know he's your friend but in the end that young man is headed straight for the Pancake House, no questions asked. I could tell right away.

"What party?"

"At your office at Christmas last year. You know. The big one with the muscles, and the very small wife. She wore pink."

"Fulton."

"I don't remember his name. He talked about tennis."

"Fulton. Oh no. Oh shit."

"Your mother needed to use the bathroom," said Vera, "so he said he would hold the leash for us while we went into a store. But then when we came out again he said she had run away."

"This is not happening."

Legs weak, he sat down on the arm of the sofa.

"I called the Humane Society," said Vera. "I called all of them. We went there to give a photo of her-from the picnic, where she was biting the rubber bone? — but no one knew anything."

He was stunned. He blinked and looked down at his knees. He had failed her. Was she dead? Suffering?

He held out his hands: they shook. He put the heels of his hands on his thighs and ground them in. He had done this to her.

"Oh, honey," said his mother, and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's OK. She'll come back."

Charges could be pressed but that would get him nowhere; it would not help his dog. Fulton would not respond to anything but abasement. Fulton must be granted the power, must feel he had won. And T. would do it gladly: he did not hesitate.

He called and asked Fulton to meet him, but Fulton said no. Fulton was busy. Fulton was seeing a marriage counselor, to stave off divorce. Fulton had no time for him.

"But you had time for my dog. What did you do with her? Tell me, Fulton. Please."

"The thing ran off, T. Not a damn thing I could do about it.

"I know that's not true. She isn't a runner. I know you're lying about this, Fulton."

"Didn't take to me. Trying to do a favor for a couple old ladies. Holding their dog while they hobbled up the steps. Thing lit off down the street like a bat ootta hell. Who knew something so ugly could run so fast?"

"Tell me you didn't hurt her. Please."

"You fuck up my entire fucking marriage and now I'm the bad guy. Talk about blaming the victim."

"Listen. I'm very sorry for the effect my words must have had on Janet. I had no idea she was there. You know I didn't. Or your daughter. I deeply regret upsetting them. But I'm begging you here. Picture me on my knees. I'll give you whatever you want. So help me. Just tell me where she is. Let me have her, Fulton."

"What can I say. All I know is the thing took off down the street. All she wrote. And now I gotta go."

"Fulton. Please. I love that dog. You know I'm sorry. Help me out here, man. Please."

"See ya, T."

The dog had been missing three days when Casey rang his doorbell. In his distance he forgot the chaos and privacy of his space and opened the front door.