I nod. “And I have no interest. The other day I found myself in the supermarket looking at the cover of
“Pardon the expression,” she asks, “but you want me to straighten you out?”
The question stuns me. She seems to be suggesting that we have sex, but I’m not sure, since I can count the number of times women have propositioned me in this manner on no fingers. “You mean… you and me?”
She looks at her watch and shrugs. “Why not? It’s still early.”
“I appreciate the offer, Rita, but I’m just not ready. I guess I need sex to be more meaningful. Sex without love is just not what I’m looking for anymore; those days are behind me.” These are the words that form in my mind but don’t actually come out through my mouth.
What my mouth winds up saying is, “Absolutely.” And then, “Check, please.”
• • • • •
RITA LEAVES MY house at three in the morning. She had agreed to come here instead of her place because I would never leave Tara, my golden retriever and best friend, alone for an entire night. But she had shaken her head disapprovingly and said, “Andy, for future reference, you might want to avoid telling the woman that you prefer the dog.”
I don’t walk Rita to the door, because I don’t have the strength to. Even after summoning all the energy I have left, all I’m able to do is gasp my thanks. She smiles and leaves, apparently pleased at a job well done.
“Well done” doesn’t come close to describing it. There are certain times in one’s life where one can tell that one is in the presence of greatness. Sex with Rita would be akin to sharing a stage with Olivier or having a catch with Willie Mays or singing a duet with Pavarotti. It is all I can do to avoid saying, “Good-bye, maestro,” when she leaves.
As soon as she’s gone, Tara jumps up on the bed, assuming the spot she so graciously gave up during Rita’s stay. She stares at me disdainfully, as if disgusted by my craven weakness.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, but she pays no attention. We both know what the payoff to buy her respect will be, but the biscuits are in the kitchen, and it’s going to take an act of Congress to get me out of bed. So instead I just lie there awhile, and she just stares for a while, both of us aware how this will end. I won’t be able to fall asleep knowing she did not get her nighttime biscuit, and right now sleep is my dominant need.
I get up. “Why must it always be about
Determined to remain undefeated in our psychological battles, Tara lets the biscuit lie there, not even acknowledging its presence. It will be gone in the morning when I wake up, but she won’t give me the satisfaction of chowing down while I’m awake.
Tara and I have some issues.
When I wake up in the morning, I use a long shower to relax and reflect on my triumph with Rita last night. “Triumph” may be too strong a word; it was more a case of me accepting a sexual favor. But it seems to have the effect of improving my outlook. I know this was a one-night stand, but in some way it helps me to see a life after Laurie.
I take Tara for our usual walk through Eastside Park. The park is about ten walking minutes from my home on Forty-second Street in Paterson, New Jersey. The look of the park has not changed in the almost forty years I have lived here. It’s a green oasis in what has become a run-down city, and I appreciate it as much as Manhattanites appreciate Central Park.
The park is on two levels, with the lower level consisting basically of three baseball fields, two of which are used for Little League. The two levels are connected by a winding, sloping road that we used to refer to as Dead Man’s Curve, though I’m quite sure it did nothing to earn the name. Looking at it from an adult perspective, it’s not even scary enough to be called Barely Injured Man’s Curve.
The upper area is where Tara likes to hang out, because there are four tennis courts, which means there are lots of discarded tennis balls. I don’t even bring our own anymore; Tara likes to find new ones for herself.
We throw one of the tennis balls for a few minutes, then stop off on the way home for a snack. I have a cinnamon raisin bagel and black coffee. Tara opts for two plain bagels and a dish of water.
I love spending time with Tara; we can just sit together with neither of us feeling the need to talk. I’ve had a lot of good friends trying to “be there” for me since Laurie left, but Tara has been the best of all, mainly because she’s the only one that hasn’t tried to fix me up.
I’ve become something of a celebrity lawyer in the last few years because of a succession of high-profile cases that I’ve won. The excitement and intensity of those cases, coupled with a twenty-two-million-dollar inheritance I got from my father, have left me spoiled about work and incredibly choosy about the cases I accept.
In fact, in the four and a half months of life without Laurie, I’ve only had two cases. In one I represented a friend’s brother, Chris Gammons, on a DUI, which we won by challenging the accuracy of the arresting officer’s testimony. I took the case only after getting Chris to agree to enter an alcohol rehab program, win or lose.
Chris was also my client in the other case, which was a divorce action brought by his wife. She was apparently not impressed by my cross-examination of the arresting officer and was a tad tired of living with a “loser drunk,” which is the quaint way she described Chris in her testimony.
I’ve filled in the rather enormous gaps in my workday by becoming one of the more prominent legal talking heads on cable television. I’ve somehow managed to get on the lists that cable news producers refer to when they need someone to comment on the legal issues of the day. Generally, the topic is a current trial, either a celebrity crime or a notorious murder. I go on as a defense attorney, and my views are usually counterbalanced in the same segments by a “former prosecutor.” There seems to be an endless supply of former prosecutors.
I’m to be on CNN this morning at eleven-fourteen. They’re incredibly precise when informing me of the starting times, but then I can sit around for hours waiting for the interview to actually begin. I’ve finally gotten wise to this, and I show up as late as possible. Today I’m planning to arrive at eleven-twelve for my eleven-fourteen segment.
That gives me plenty of time to stop off at the Tara Foundation, a dog rescue operation that Willie Miller and I run. We finance it ourselves, the costs evenly provided for by my huge inheritance and the ten million dollars Willie received in a successful civil suit. Willie spent seven years on death row for a murder he didn’t commit, and after I got him a new trial and a subsequent acquittal, we sued the real bad guys for the money.
Willie and his wife, Sondra, do most of the work at the foundation, though lately I’ve been able to help a lot more than I could when I was working more regularly. Together we’ve rescued more than seven hundred dogs in less than a year and placed them in good homes.
Willie has taken two dog training classes in the past month, which in his mind qualifies him to change the act to Siegfried, Roy, and Willie. As far as I can tell, the only command he gets the dogs to obey is the “eat biscuit” command, but in Willie’s mind he’s turning his “students” into canine geniuses.
When I arrive at the foundation, Willie is working with Rudy, the dog he describes as the most difficult case in his entire training career. Rudy is a German shepherd, generally considered one of the smarter breeds, and he’s living up to that reputation by being smart enough to ignore Willie.
Willie has decided that the only possible reason for his lack of success in training Rudy is that Rudy has only learned to speak German. Unfortunately, Willie, who butchers English on a regular basis, hasn’t had occasion to learn much German, so he’s somehow latched onto
“Schnell,” Willie says as Rudy just sits and stares at him. “Schnell… schnell,” Willie presses, but Rudy doesn’t move. Willie is about six two, a hundred and eighty pounds, and he seems to athletically glide as he moves. As he gives commands to the oblivious Rudy, he steps around him as if he’s a fashion photographer doing a photo shoot, trying to find just the right angles.
“He doesn’t seem to want to schnell,” I say, and Willie looks up, surprised that I am there.
“He schnelled a few minutes ago,” Willie says. “He probably saw you come in and didn’t want to do it with you here.”
I’m aware that Willie speaks only the one German word, has no idea what it means, but uses it all the time. “What exactly does he do when he schnells?” I ask.
“It depends on how I say it.” He turns back to Rudy and says, “Schnell. Schnell, boy.” His tone is more
