“Of course not,” I tell him.
“That’s the most decisive thing I’ve heard you say in five years,” Bobby says in his real voice. “How’s it going, Sally?”
“Jesus,” I say. “If you’d answered this phone all morning, you wouldn’t think that was funny. Where are you?”
“New York. Where do you think I am? It’s my lunch hour. Going to Le Relais to get tanked up. A little
“Le Relais,” I say. “Hmm.”
“Don’t make a bad eye on me,” he says, going into his Muhammad Ali imitation. “Step on my foot and I kick you to the moon. Glad-hand me and I shake you like a loon.” Bobby clears his throat. “I got the company twenty big ones today,” he says. “Twenty Gs.”
“Congratulations. Have a good lunch. Come out for dinner, if you feel like the drive.”
“I don’t have any gas and I can’t face the train.” He coughs again. “I gave up cigarettes,” he says. “Why am I coughing?” He moves away from the phone to cough loudly.
“Are you smoking grass in the office?” I say.
“Not this time,” he gasps. “I’m goddamn dying of something.” A pause. “What did you do yesterday?”
“I was in town. You’d laugh at what I did.”
“You went to the fireworks.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that part.”
“What’d you do?” he says.
“I met Andy and Tom at the Plaza and drank champagne. They didn’t. I did. Then we went to the fireworks.”
“Sally at the
“Tom was there on business. Andy came to see the fireworks.”
“It rained, didn’t it?”
“Only a little. It was O.K. They were pretty.”
“The fireworks,” Bobby says. “I didn’t make the fireworks.”
“You’re going to miss lunch, Bobby,” I say.
“God,” he says. “I am. Bye.”
I pull a record out from under the big library table, where they’re kept on the wide maghogany board that connects the legs. By coincidence, the record I pull out is the Miles Davis Sextet’s
“What do you say, Hugo?” I say to the dog. “Another piece of cheese, or would you rather go on with your siesta?”
He knows the word “cheese.” He knows it as well as his name. I love the way his eyes light up and he perks his ears for certain words. Bobby tells me that you can speak gibberish to people, ninety percent of the people, as long as you throw in a little catchword now and then, and it’s the same when I talk to Hugo: “Cheese.” “Tag.” “Out.”
No reaction. Hugo is lying where he always does, on his right side, near the stereo. His nose is only a fraction of an inch away from the plant in a basket beneath the window. The branches of the plant sweep the floor. He seems very still.
“Cheese?” I whisper. “Hugo?” It is as loud as I can speak.
No reaction. I start to take a step closer, but stop myself. I put down the record and stare at him. Nothing changes. I walk out into the backyard. The sun is shining directly down from overhead, striking the dark-blue doors of the garage, washing out the color to the palest tint of blue. The peach tree by the garage, with one dead branch. The wind chimes tinkling in the peach tree. A bird hopping by the iris underneath the tree. Mosquitoes or gnats, a puff of them in the air, clustered in front of me. I sink down into the grass. I pick a blade, split it slowly with my fingernail. I count the times I breathe in and out. When I open my eyes, the sun is shining hard on the blue doors.
After a while—maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty—a truck pulls into the driveway. The man who usually delivers packages to the house hops out of the United Parcel truck. He is a nice man, about twenty-five, with long hair tucked behind his ears, and kind eyes.
Hugo did not bark when the truck pulled into the drive.
“Hi,” he says. “What a beautiful day. Here you go.”
He holds out a clipboard and a pen.
“Forty-two,” he says, pointing to the tiny numbered block in which I am to sign my name. A mailing envelope is under his arm.
“Another book,” he says. He hands me the package.
I reach up for it. There is a blue label with my name and address typed on it.
He locks his hands behind his back and raises his arms, bowing. “Did you notice that?” he says, straightening out of the yoga stretch, pointing to the envelope. “What’s the joke?” he says.
