A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Well, if you don't want him, send him on."

"I didn't say I didn't want him, I said I don't know if I'm ready. I'm having memories."

"Of what?"

"Everything: the day he was born, when we all went on vacation, me coming to New York always carrying things, the thing with the dog."

He doesn't go into details, though he has them all in his mind's eye. Remembering. At some point the dog had a real name, like Rocket or Sparks, but they always called him Your Brother.

"Your Brother loves you," they'd say. "Did anyone take Your Brother out? Have you seen Your Brother? I think Your Brother's got something — a shoe." They got Ben his brother when Ben was six months old — a Lab puppy. Later, when they had the big talk, telling Ben that things were going to change, Your Brother lay at their feet, tail wagging. "Your mother and I have decided…" It was Your Brother who comforted Ben, Your Brother who was his constant companion.

Richard remembers coming home when both Ben and Your Brother were very young, finding the occasional puddle of pee on the floor, and both Ben and the dog looking a little guilty. He remembers walking the dog at night, the beauty of New York City in the early morning, the dewy air, the sleepy fog, the dog culture of knowing other people only by the names of their dogs.

At fifteen, Ben called in tears.

"What happened?"

"Brother died."

Three thousand miles away, Richard didn't know what to say. "How?" The father heard his son cry, and not having heard the faintest sound, the faintest squeak, out of the boy in years, Richard began to cry. He hid it at first, and then it poured out, and suddenly there was silence on the other end.

"What are you doing?" the son accused the sobbing father.

"I'm so sorry," Richard cried.

"Stop crying, asshole," Ben said and hung up the phone.

OUTSIDE, it is starting to rain. The beach dog is still out there, playing at the edge of the water, entertaining himself with a piece of floating wood. Richard opens the door; the dog hears it and rushes up the steps and into the house, as if to say, I've been waiting all day for you to invite me in.

"I don't have a cleaning lady," Richard tells the dog. "Be mindful."

"Kibble," Richard writes on the grocery list.

AT FOUR-THIRTY, Cynthia is back. "I bought you a present. Something I didn't think you'd buy for yourself."

He opens the bag — a cell phone.

"Next time you're rescuing someone, you can call for backup."

"It's great. Thank you." A pause. "So — how was it?"

"Nice," she says. "Really nice." She takes the cell phone, plugs it into the wall. "It has to soak up the juice."

"Tell me."

"OK, so you get there and they offer you coffee and this woman who was a dental hygienist and went back to school and became a social worker is there. She asks a lot of questions: where'd you grow up, how long have you been married, did you go to college, do you have any work experience, where do you see yourself in one year, in five years? And then you do some tests."

"Tests?" He imagines medical tests, painful tests.

She nods. "According to the tests, I'm a people person, and from just looking at me she could tell I had good teeth — I think that was the hygienist part of her. And then they took my picture."

"Just don't let them draw on it."

"What?"

"That's what they do, they take a grease pencil and draw improvements on your face."

She shakes her head. "The best part is, I'm not the only one. There are five other women, and one has six kids. One woman works part-time at Saks, another works at a computer store, and then there's someone who does wildlife rescue."

"They all left their husbands?"

"No, some stayed. There's a woman there who cut off the ends of three of her fingers while she was cooking dinner. Her family kept eating; none of them would stop to look for the fingertips — she assumes they ate them — cannibals. Why are you being so male about this? You don't have to be defensive and you don't have to protect me, I can take care of myself."

"It's just the plastic-surgeon part that bothers me."

"It's run by the women and has nothing to do with the doctor."

"Except that he foots the bill."

"Can't someone do something good without making everyone suspicious? Why don't you go and meet him, pretend you want to have something done?"

"Like what?"

"Dunno. Eyelids."

"Do my eyelids need work?"

"Need work? Well, your eyes open and close, so, no, your eyelids don't need work. After lunch, I went to look at an apartment, a two-bedroom in Santa Monica. I'd have a housemate, a lovely woman who's taking a little break. She lost it, and now she's on some sort of medication."

"How long do people stay with the program?"

"As long as they need to," she says. "And I got moisturizer." She flashes a handful of samples.

The phone rings.

"I'm going to take a bath," she says, leaving the room. "A nice long bath."

Richard picks up the phone. "I'm calling about the car." It's Danny, the dealer.

"How did you find me?"

"We have our ways. I was hoping you'd call us; technically, we own the car. Do I not take good care of you? You were my first day on the job, my first deal, you made my day, you think that doesn't mean something to me?"

"Thanks, Danny."

"Have you called your insurance agent?"

"Not about the car, no."

"You need to call the agent; you need a copy of the accident report. The complication is going to be that it was willful."

"It was for a good cause."

"This type of damage violates the terms of your lease, but I want you to know that we're prepared to overlook it; we'll absorb the cost above what your insurance will cover, minus the deductible, if you write us a nice letter telling the story of how the car was damaged and how good we were about repairing it. We'll take a few pictures of you with the car, frame it, and put it up on the wall. The owner wants people to see that we are part of the community, and, frankly, we think the car performed incredibly well."

"The trick was getting him off the road without hitting his trunk," Richard says. "Can I think about it?"

"The sooner we get it into the shop the better."

Something catches Richard's eye and he goes to the front of the house — flashing lights. He looks out the window. A flatbed is already outside, loading the car onto the platform.

"I'm assuming that's your guy."

"It is."

"Doesn't he need a key?"

"We have a key, we always keep a key."

"Do I get a loaner?"

"I don't have anything at the moment, but maybe something will come in tomorrow. Give a call."

Richard steps outside.

"You're not going to try and fight me for it, are you?" the flatbed driver asks.

Richard shakes his head.

"That's a good boy," the driver says, and Richard isn't sure if the man is talking to him or to his truck.

Without the car, there is no means of escape, there's nowhere to go. He feels the vulnerability of having something taken from him, as if he's done something wrong and is being punished.

"Have you seen this?" The sheets of paper on the phone poles are bothering him. What is it about, what does this person want? He pulls down one of the posters, goes back into the house, and dials the number given.

A man answers, says "Yeah" and nothing more.

"Are you there?"

"Yeah."

"I'm just trying to find out what these signs are about."

"Did you see something?"

"Lots of pieces of paper up and down the highway."

Keep looking," the man says and hangs up.

RICHARD overhears Cynthia on the phone talking to her children. "Write this down. Orthodontist for you three p.m. on Thursday; eye doctor for Matt Tuesday at four — make sure he brings his glasses. The camp forms are due; call Dr. Pearl's office and get them filled out. Also, ask if they can send prescriptions for your allergy medicine to take with you." She stops for air. "How's everything going? Daddy had to buy you new clothes because you ran out of clean ones and he didn't have time to do the wash? That's OK," she says. "I'll talk to you again soon, bye-bye."