A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"When Fred came to the home, he could still walk — with a walker, but, boy, he made tracks down the hall," one of the residents says.

"I remember Fred," another one says, and says nothing more.

"When I die, can we have Chinese food?" one of the men asks.

When they return them to the home, Lillian grips Nic's arm and pulls him towards her. "Does this mean I'm not going to see you again?"

"No, Lillian," Nic says. "It means that from now on every week I am going to come and visit you."

"Thank you," she says.

"I'll see you on Wednesday," he says.

"Oh, and I like lemon-meringue."

"Good to know," Nic says.

AFTER FRED'S FUNERAL, Richard calls Sydney — he's craving comfort, and he got good news back from the doc, just some sort of irritation, nothing infectious. They make a plan to drive to Santa Barbara for dinner; it's neutral territory. On the way up, she gives him a blow job while he's driving, and at the big moment he nearly rear-ends a tanker truck ahead of him on the highway. In Santa Barbara, they go for a walk along the beach, and at a certain point she commands, "Make love to me, here, now."

Her sexuality is robust, overwhelming.

For the reason of simply wanting to try it, Richard took a Viagra before he left home — he ordered it online. He is hard as a rock and he is on top of her — thinking he's having chest pain, or maybe it's just the position.

They're screwing and screwing and he doesn't come, and at a certain point it's practically painful; she's already given a couple of really big war whoops, and he's at it all the more just trying to finish so they can stop. It's like an itch that he can't stop scratching; there's no end in sight, and he starts thinking that even if he comes now he's so overexcited, so aerobically energized, his heart will actually explode.

Finally, fear gets the better of him and he pulls out, puts it away, stiff, sopping wet, hoping it will surrender on its own.

They walk; he thinks she's starting to fall for him and feels himself backing away, and then she tells him that she doesn't know how he feels about her but that she has to be honest, she doesn't want to mislead him, and the other day, at PC Greens, she met someone.

He's a little let down but mostly feels the pressure is off, and now he feels it relaxing, and suddenly he has to pee like nothing else. Richard excuses himself and does it farther down on the beach, where someone sees him and yells, "The world is not your toilet, fuckhead."

SHE ARRIVES without warning — his former dearly beloved. "I'm in the car, on my way in from the airport — caught a late flight. I'll be at the hotel."

"You're here?"

"I told you I was coming. Oh God, I'm ringing."

"You said you'd try."

"Well, here I am. That's the office calling, I gotta go."

"Should we meet for breakfast?" Richard asks.

"I'm double-booked."

"Lunch?"

"Double again."

"Dinner?"

"I'm trying to stay on New York time. Six?"

"Fine, good, we'll see you then."

He goes to tell Ben.

"I already know," Ben says. "Dinner at six."

"I never told her I bought you a car; I didn't want her to say no."

"I told her; she said it was the least you could do, and she didn't understand how you could buy a car for a woman you're not even sleeping with. The trick is getting Barth to give back the Volvo."

Richard laughs. He calls the hotel and orders flowers to be sent to her room; suddenly shy, he signs only Ben's name on the card — "Welcome to L.A."

He flashes on the last family vacation they took: Ben was about three, they went to St. Barts. He took Ben swimming every day, and she spent most of the time editing a manuscript. He remembers Ben with water wings, Ben naked, peeing in the pool, the thin arc of yellow spreading through the clear water.

It's been almost eleven years since they were all in the same place at the same time. He's looking forward to it. When he goes to the newsstand to pick up the morning papers, he stops at the barber shop. Trimmed; the barber dusts his neck, pushing prickly shards of hair deep down into his shirt.

In the middle of the afternoon, the concierge calls him at home.

"Excuse me," he says. "For calling behind the back."

"Yes," Richard says.

"I am calling because there has been a little accident — she was bitten by a dug."

"By a dug?"

"Yes, a dug."

What is a dug? A person named Doug? "A bug? She was bitten by a bug, like a bee sting?"

"No, a dug. DAWG."

"Is she all right?"

"She is with ice; I thought you should know. This is her son, yes?"

"Yes," Richard says, because it is easier than saying no.

"I remember you," the voice says, and Richard wishes he hadn't heard that part.

"Yes," he repeats. "I'm on my way."

It takes him an hour to get there — the traffic is horrible. He calls her from the car. She doesn't mention the dog bite, and he starts to wonder if maybe it was some sort of setup by the concierge to get Ben there. He floats an idea.

"I'll be near the hotel this afternoon; how about I stop by?"

"Oh," she says, "that would be nice."

He passes through the lobby unnoticed, rings the bell to her room. "Come in," she calls, "it's open."

Does she look the same? Different? Older? He has no idea. In his anxiety he sees everything but her.

The room itself is familiar — this is where he stayed with Cynthia the night the house sank. She is in the living room, her shoes off, foot up on the coffee table wrapped in ice.

"Nice room," he says.

"It's the same room I always have."

"Is it?"

She nods.

"Twisted ankle?" he asks.

"I wanted to buy a present for Ben, I was walking, and they just came after me, little wild dogs like a pack of miniature wolves. 'Sit,' I yelled. 'Stop. Stay.' They heard nothing. I tried to run, but those are not running shoes." She points to her Manolos, tossed off near the door. "They chased me down Rodeo and into Saks. I dove into the store kicking them off; one had his teeth sunk into my ankle, and I was shaking my leg trying to get him loose. The others were hurling themselves at the glass doors, scratching, barking.

"The security guys did a wonderful job, trapping them in garment bags and turning them over to the police. Apparently it's not the first time it's happened: there's a pack roaming Beverly Hills. They would have eaten me alive."

"And so one bit you?"

"At least one. I can't bring myself to look."

"Did you call a doctor?"

"I spoke to Charlie's office in New York, he said I have to get a rabies shot; do you have a doctor here?"

"It's a sore point," Richard says, lifting the ice pack to look at her leg.

Her panty hose are shredded; there are bite marks on her leg. Her calves are thin, ankles slim, but her feet are not the feet he remembers — thicker, hammer-toed, they are more like her mother's feet. He notices something on her toes — white, like fungus.

"Should you be taking that stuff I see advertised — Lamisil?"

She laughs. "It's not fungus, it's a bad paint job. I asked for French tips and they blew it."

He calls Dr. Anderson's office.

"It's Richard Novak," he says to the receptionist. "I'm calling because my wife has been bitten by a dog."

"I didn't know you were married," the receptionist says.

"She needs a rabies shot."

"Hold on." She comes back on the line. "The doctor was about to go home, but he says he'll stay, he'd love to meet your wife."

"Charlie told me to keep my leg up," she says.

He lifts her; he feels it in his back, but says nothing. She puts her arms around his neck. She is carrying the ice pack — cold between his shoulder blades. She leans her head against his chest; he breathes deeply. He loves her smell. He loves her; he has always loved her, that's why he had to leave.