Lydia Millet - How the Dead Dream

On her lap she held a basket full of rubber toys, a leash, a bag of dog biscuits.

"We're going to get her back," she said firmly.

The hopeful goods broke his heart.

"Come on," said Casey. "Let's go look. I'm ready."

He felt a dragging reluctance but she was determined; she turned her chair briskly and headed back to the elevator. Finally he grabbed a jacket and followed.

Casey had strong arms but even so, he knew, after a while they grew tired, and moving south along the boardwalk he thought of this: the farther, the longer, the more she must ache. He felt guilty. Other dogs passed them, for the boardwalk was popular among dog owners: now and then he or Casey petted one. At first they spoke but as they grew tired of walking their conversation dwindled.

"I'm exhausted," he said finally.

They had made a loop to the bottom of the Marina: it had been several hours. The soles of his feet were burning. Casey's stamina was shocking.

"I think we should cut in off the beach and get a taxi back to my place," he pressed.

"No," said Casey, and shook her head. "If you want her you have to pay. You have to pay for what you want. You know that."

"We're not going to find her just because we stiffer," he said.

"Yes," said Casey. "We are."

"I should have worn different shoes."

"What are those, Ferragamos? Fulton was right. Sometimes you dress really gay."

"It's not gay, Case. It's expensive."

On the way home along the bicycle path his feet hurt. A poodle with a tall bearded man in tight shorts, a Dalmatian with two lesbians, a pug with a fat man, a Chihuahua with an emaciated woman wearing too many bangles. All of them. But not her.

At the apartment door he remembered he should not let Casey in. On the floor in his dining room were the snarled, half-inside-out legs of his wetsuit; evidence was everywhere. But he was too sore to keep up his guard. He had to collapse.

"It's a mess," he said wearily as he opened the door for her, and strode ahead to scoop up the most obvious traces and hurl them into a closet.

"What are you doing with an article about a rare tortoise and off-roading? You getting into ORVs suddenly?"

"Impact fees. A casino project," he mumbled, lowering himself onto the couch. He kicked off his shoes and heaved his feet up on the arm. "You need anything?"

"I'm hungry."

"Chinese takeout in the fridge," he said, closing his eyes. "But it's from yesterday. No, wait. Two days ago."

"Disgusting… really. What is this stuff?" said Casey.

"What?"

"About animals? All this material. Everywhere."

"Told you! Research for a project."

"A lot of it."

He shrugged. "Money at stake. You know me."

She gazed at him for a moment, then let it go.

They drank a bottle of white wine with the TV playing and then they drank another; they lolled on sofa and chair, drunk and still drinking. He felt relief that she had let him off so easy. His secret remained securely hidden.

"I'm going to go out on your balcony," she said after a while, and left him there, eyes glazed over: there seemed to be a prizefight on, men sweating. He looked around for the remote, but did not see it. He was tired.

What if his dog appeared below? Casey might fail to see her. Casey's view was limited from the chair, her seated position. His dog had always liked the pool, tail wagging as she moved and sniffed among the long knifelike leaves of the tiger lilies. . he got up and went through the sliding doors to the rail.

Below the turquoise pool water glittered, empty.

"I thought she might be there," he murmured, and then looked over at Casey. Her face was turned from him.

"You don't know," she said. "You don't have a clue. You're not as arrogant as I thought, I guess."

"What?" he said sharply, a clutch of fear. "Know what?"

"It's damaging to say it," she said. "But it can't be helped. It's too bad. But without honesty I don't have anything. Once your body's taken from you, or at least your independence in the body, the only thing you have left is this, like, idea of yourself. It's an idea of character, or something. If I lie or hide, that's taken from me too. So I have to tell you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he rushed. "Case, you're scaring me here. What is it? Are you sick?"

"No. Just pathetic. I love you."

"I love you too, Case. You know that. So tell me. What is it? 11

"No, that's it."

She turned her face toward him finally, small and white with wide eyes.

". . that…"

He felt nauseated. She studied him sadly: this was grim.

"Yes."

He turned and looked out at the palm fronds, still. He was glad of the lights, which gave him an excuse to look elsewhere.

"I thought it would go away. For Chrissake, you wear Ferragamos. And there's this one shirt you have with blue stripes on it that really dorks you up. No man should ever, ever wear a blue-striped shirt with a white collar."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"It should be federal law."

"Or maybe I should wear it more often. Then your crush will go away."

"It's not a crush, T. If it was I wouldn't bother telling you."

"Whatever it is."

"And don't feel you have to explain how deep but completely platonic your feelings are. It's obvious. I never expected anything else. I know I'm like the cute paraplegic sister you never had."

"You like to speak for me."

"I'm good at it. Don't you think?"

He bent down and put his arms around her; she rested her forehead stiffly against his collarbone.

Inside she put on music and they drank more and danced giddily, she by moving her wheels on the slick kitchen floor. They went to his closet and she tore shirts off hangers, threw the shoes she disliked into a laundry hamper. He thought of the hundreds of dollars they represented, indeed thousands, and as he thought this she raced away from him toward the sliding doors with the hamper balanced on her lap. On the balcony she tipped it over the edge.

Right behind her he looked down and saw the shoes floating in the pool.

"I can't believe you did that," he said, but he could.

She was at her bag, pulling out a vial.

"Have some of these," she said. "They're for pain."

"I don't have pain," he said.

"Then take them for mine."

He thought of all that he had always forfeited, how he always kept control. How he never lost his hold on himself for even a moment.

He swallowed the pills.

"I want to go swimming," she said, and was already on her way out.

In the elevator she pulled off her sweater. Beneath she wore a cotton undershirt; her torso was surprisingly lovely, compact and muscular.

"I don't have my flotation device," she said.

"You're not serious."

"You're going to have to be my buddy," she said. "Never go swimming without a buddy, T.!"

"But it's three a.m. The sign says closed after midnight"

"Really, T.," and she shook her head, "who gives a shit? You're such a prig."

"Proud of it."

"Have you ever even been in this pool the whole time you lived here?"

"Once, in the first week."

"I'm going in the deep end."

"Wait!" he said desperately, but she was already out the back door of the lobby and headed for the pool deck. "How does this work?" he called after her, but she ignored him.

A few moments later she was rising in her chair, lifted on her strong arms: and then she fell forward into the water and sank like a stone. He jumped in, panicking.

As he heaved her head and shoulders above the surface, sputtering and soaking in his clothes, he thought she was crying but in fact it was laughter.

"I do pool physio all the time, fool," she said, water running down her face. "You didn't, like, save my life or some shit"