Hooper was waiting for Nancy to show up at the theater. They were about to conduct a casting call for a play called Hover, due to open at the end of November. It was about a shoe salesman who falls in love with a tap-dancer. To impress her he teaches himself to levitate, but in the process scares her away. The play was a bit surreal; the characters were just a little creepy and unbalanced. They tried very hard to connect but never quite could, and so it was, Nancy had said, “weird but, ah, too true.”
Was any relationship made to last? Hooper wondered. Readying for the audition, he set up some folding chairs on the stage. He knew couples that seemed perfectly happy together—and then were perfectly miserable. Maybe they started to know each other too well, or had different hopes for the future, or felt tied down, or bored. Tom and Jenny. Maria and Nick. Others, too. What, then, would happen between him and Tillie? He hated squabbling; it seemed beneath them. It was nothing really, that business with the pet finder, but doubt was a wayward weed that could take over a garden, even upset an entire ecosystem. One disagreement and he worried that they wouldn't find a way to talk with each other again. That was silly, he knew. He believed that they could grow old together, their lives still interesting, their hearts still loving. Was he kidding himself? Was he supremely arrogant to think that his love for Tillie was something elemental and lasting?
But it was. It was.
So why didn't they get married? He supposed that was the logical question. But logic and love, he argued with himself, pacing up and down the aisle, weren't necessarily compatible. He paused to straighten some folding chairs. Marriage would require a conscious decision to change the status quo, and what was there to bring on such a move? There were plenty of reasons not to do so. He didn't want to be like everybody else, to do what was expected of him. He didn't want to share in jokes about husbands who were congenitally inept housekeepers, or wives who had to be pacified with chocolate on Valentines Day. He didn't want to be an old shoe. And, too, he was painfully aware that as a male, he had some responsibility for a long history of women being oppressed. He wanted to do the right thing for Tillie and himself, but it was hard to know what that was.
He went up to the catbird seat and played absently with the lights. He and Nancy had an ongoing debate about whether to keep the house lights up or down during auditions, and both of them changed their mind every other time. Was it easier for the actors to ignore the directors with a dark house, or did it feel more relaxed to have it bright? It could go either way. In any case, it wasn't as though this was Broadway. He fudged and dimmed the lights slightly.
And then—he continued his musing—more practically, there was the matter of a wedding, which made him cringe. His college roommate, Jim, had gotten married right after graduation, and the man's senior year was consumed by decisions about the guest list, music, readings, on and on. His grades suffered. Jim suffered, unable to sleep at night unless he drank a couple shots of whiskey. He and his fiancee, Sandy, argued all the time because she wanted things fancy and he didn't see the point. “What am I doing, Hoop?” he would moan. Hooper didn't have high hopes for them.
But one day their other roommate, Dave, answered the phone when she called. “Sandy,” he said. “Stop calling, will you? You don't have to ask Jim about every damn thing. It's killing him. Just do what you want and he'll show up.” It worked, too. The wedding was fun and as far as Hooper knew they were still married. That was the appeal of Vegas, he supposed: you waltz into a ready-made set, give your lines, and walk off. Done.
He lowered and then raised the worn red curtain to make sure it worked. The truth was, he loved Tillie, and he was no longer satisfied with living together. It was too much like having a roommate—and he wanted more. Maybe he had grown up a little. He might be ready to decide that this was home, that life with Tillie was what he wanted.
Before he met Tillie, he once prepared a simple piece to perform in a public place, but he didn't know just when or where he would do it. He knew why: to scare himself. To put himself in a outrageous situation and see how he would handle it, to shock his system. He considered the laundromat, the grocery store, a parking lot. The opportunity came when the bus from school stopped to catch up on its timetable. He hopped up before he could think about it. His mouth opened, his hands moved, his body took over, and the piece worked. Or rather, he thought, his instinct worked. And that was the greatest thrill of all.
So he was waiting for instinct to clue him in again to the right time and place, when he could say, “Let's go for a walk,” and then empty his pockets, magician-like, of oranges, a ukulele, Christmas lights, a puppy, whatever. That would be his proposal. Not a proposal, rather, but a set and props, a mise-en-scene.
And what then would she do?
A handful of would-be actors trickled in and soon Nancy arrived, wearing a leopard-skin caftan, a scarlet scarf in her bleach-blond hair, black knit pants and bells. Bells? He teased her about her loud outfit and she pulled up her pant legs to show him her jingling anklets. She was a large woman, with a booming laugh and a voice that could project clear out to the street. Her generous nature put people at ease, and as she chatted, their self-conscious silence relaxed into conversation. As a few more arrived, Hooper handed each of them some photocopied pages from the play. Passing around a bag of chocolate chip cookies, he described the play briefly. There were six parts altogether; tonight they would read from a scene between the shoe salesman and the tap dancer.
“Don't worry, the tap dancer only needs to learn a couple basic steps,” he said. “The salesman, however, will have to work on his levitation skills.”
There was uncertain laughter as he assured them it was a joke. He explained that they would be paired up at random, and even if there were two women reading, that was fine.
“You're not reading for a specific part. We just want to get a sense of you onstage,” Nancy added. “We'll have call-backs in a couple days, if we need to, and start rehearsing as soon as we can.”
She wrote out lottery numbers on slips of paper while Hooper answered a few questions. Each person drew a number from a black top hat.
“We have five pairs, and one lone person,” said Nancy, jotting down names and numbers. “Cindy, you can read with Hooper. We'll give you five minutes or so to look over the lines.” She sat down next to Hooper and winked.
“Hey, Hooper!” someone called from the back of the theater. It was Peter, from Cafe Joe, bounding down the aisle.
“Hi, Peter.”
“How's it going? Hope I'm not too late.”
“No, we're just starting. Have a seat.” Hooper handed him a script and the bag of cookies. Peter, who was so tall he seemed to spill out of the chair, dived into the script and the cookies with equal intensity.
“You'll be reading with Cindy,” Nancy told him. “She's drawn a number already.”
“So what'd we get?” Peter asked Cindy. “We're first.” She looked nervous. He gave her a big smile. “We'll be great!” After five minutes, Hooper stood up. “Shall we get started? Peter and Cindy onstage, the rest of you back in the wings.” He made sure there were enough folding chairs for everyone, placed two chairs center stage, and joined Nancy in the audience.
Cindy rubbed a palm on her thigh and clutched the pages tightly. Peter was grinning as though he'd been given a new toy.
“Okay. Peter, you're Sam; Cindy, Clarissa. You may begin whenever you're ready.”
Peter cleared his throat delicately and paused.
“You have the most fabulous feet I've ever seen!” he cried suddenly, flinging out his arm and leaping from his chair, which toppled over with a bang. Cindy jumped. “Such beauty and grace, such talent!”
Cindy looked from Peter to Hooper and Nancy. Her mouth slightly open, she seemed unable to say her line.
“Uh, Peter? Excuse me,” Hooper called out. “We're doing this as a reading, okay? So you can keep your seat. You're not reading for any specific part, remember; we're just getting a sense of voice and persona, so don't even think of it as acting. Let's try it from the top.”
“Okay.” Peter sat down, looked up with a grin, and ran his hand through his floppy hair. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Hooper stifled a laugh. “Whenever you're ready.”
“Yee-ha,” Nancy whispered to Hooper. “Hang onto your seat, partner. Looks like a wild ride tonight.”
***
Looking forward to an evening by herself, Tillie chose a comic opera, The Barber of Seville, and turned up the volume. Since Hooper had had a late lunch, he wasn't ready for dinner before he left for the theater. She planned on having some soup, or a baked potato and cheese, nothing special; for dessert she'd bought herself a large dark chocolate bar, which she would break off sparingly, a square at a time, and allow to melt slowly, rich and bittersweet, in her mouth. Earlier that day, when she stopped into the Circle K to buy it, she tossed an issue of Elle on the counter as well, not to read, but to cut up, as she used to do a long time ago, making collages and cards to send to friends. She had felt then it was therapeutic and safe: work for her hands, but no challenge to her mind.
Scrubbing a potato, she felt happier than she had in some time. Work was going well; she was enjoying cataloguing and had come across some interesting books, and her supervisor in Acquisitions has praised her work. A new pair of purple high-tops gave her a different stomp to her step. And she was also happy, she had to admit, because she'd had lunch with Frank that day, along with Susan and Pat. She'd scarcely seen him since that day in the N's, and at lunch she could scarcely take her eyes off him. She got him talking about his studies and the more remarkable books he came across in the shelving department; when she told him she missed seeing his toys and sharing his zucchini bread, he promised he'd bring her some of each.
The doorbell rang. Peeking out the peephole, Tillie was surprised to see Donna, whom she hadn't seen in weeks. She threw open the door.
Donna greeted her with a big smile. She was wearing, Tillie noticed, a shiny green print blouse with a white Peter Pan collar, black capri pants, and clunky black shoes.
“You won't believe this, but I'm here to borrow a cup of sugar.” She held up a glass measuring cup as proof of her sincerity.
“No one has ever asked me that before. Come in.”
“Ellen promised Joey they could make cookies after dinner.” Donna followed Tillie into the kitchen. “Then we discovered she doesn't have any white sugar, but a four-year old with cookies on his brain will not be dissuaded. We're both too pooped to go to the store, so you're doing us a huge favor.”
“I'm happy to.” Tillie took the sugar bag out of the pantry. “Do you have time for a glass of wine or something? Or do you have to deliver it right away?”
“That sounds good, actually. They're both still watching some Disney film Ellen has on video. Joey'll be singing about ferrets or teapots or God-knows-what for days.”
Tillie brought out a half-full bottle of merlot and poured some into wine glasses.
Donna was humming along to Count Almaviva's aria.
“You know this?” Tillie asked.
“Barber of Seville, right? I used to listen to opera on the radio Saturday afternoons. You know, the 'Live From The Met' broadcast, or whatever it was—just to be a major irritant to my brother.” She laughed. “Then I actually started to like some of it, and I bought some CDs. He still hates me for it. He'll probably never hear opera again without turning purple.”
Tillie handed her the wine.
“Thanks. Here's to—” Donna paused. “Neighbors who have sugar.”
“And neighbors who need it,” Tillie said, clinking her glass.
There was a knock at the back door: it had to be Barry. Tillie considered ignoring him, but of course she would not. She just hoped he wouldn't linger.
“Hi.” He held a jar in his hands. “I put up some olives a long time ago, and they're finally ready to eat. I thought you might like to try some. I picked them myself, from a friend's tree.”
“How nice.” Tillie took the jar but didn't move out of the doorway. “Thank you.”
Barry didn't budge. He had noticed Donna and was smiling like a jack-o-lantern.
“Do you want to come in for a minute?” Tillie asked. There was no getting around it.
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Do you know Donna? Mrs. Driver next door is her aunt. Donna, Barry Bishop.”
“Hi,” said Barry. “Hey,” said Donna. Tillie emptied the wine bottle in a glass and the three of them sat at the table. The silence was awkward, at least for Tillie, who rummaged around in vain for a topic of conversation. Staring absently at the cupboards, Donna seemed wholly absorbed in the music; Barry had his eyes on Donna.
“Well, why don't we try these?” Tillie took down a dish from the cupboard, opened the jar, and spooned out some olives. He prepared them himself. Could you do that? She'd thought preparing olives was a more obscure process. She arranged some crackers and cheese on another plate, thinking that the olives must be bitter, perhaps inedible. Before she delivered them to the table, she tentatively took a bite, allowing the morsel to sit on her tongue before she chewed.
It was delicious. Crisp, garlicky, with a touch of lemon.
“This is wonderful!”
“Let me try.” Donna popped one in her mouth. “Yeah, really good. Mm, hmm.”
“Great olives, Barry,” said Tillie. Barry beamed.
***
It was less than a wild night after all. After Peter and Cindy came a string of wooden readers, some in their teens, some with gray hair, none quite enlivening the parts. It was time to go home.
As Hooper gave a tremendous yawn, one last couple walked out on stage. He snapped his mouth shut. Here was Sally, from Cafe Joe. Her hair was a glossy red tonight and longer than he'd last seen it. When did she come in? She hadn't been with the group at the beginning of the evening. He looked at Nancy, who shrugged.
“Beats me,” she said. “What do you want to do?”
“Let them read, I guess. Got a few more minutes?”
“Sure. Just my cats waiting for me. Sally stalked out to the chair and sat down hard, crossing her arms and clutching the script. She glared at her partner, a tall man with curly hair and full mustache, in his mid-to-late thirties—too old for Sally, Hooper thought—and he smiled at her smugly.
“Hi, Sally,” Hooper said. “How's it going?”
“Fine.” And you are—?” “Richard!” the man said loudly, still looking at Sally.
“Richard M., that's me!”
“Okay,” said Hooper, not really interested in what 'M' stood for. “I see you have the pages of script you need.” He explained the scene, and they began.
“You have the most exquisite feet.” Richard was appropriately smarmy as the shoe salesman. “I've never seen anyone dance like you.”
“Sir, you're getting in my way,” said Sally as Clarissa.
“I'm not going to hurt you. If you'd just give me a chance, I'd do anything for you. Ride a bronco. Climb Mt. Everest. I'll learn to fly.”
“Please step back.” Her voice was more insistent. “Before I call for help.”
“You'd call for help, would you?” he said mockingly. “You think you need protection?”
“Listen, I don't need help from anyone, including you. I just need a little more space, okay?”
Hooper reached over for the full script on the seat beside him. These last lines were not familiar. Had they gotten hold of some rogue photocopies?
“I expected more from you.”
“God, would you give it up?” said Sally. “I talked to the guy for two minutes. It was nothing. Let it go.”
“I can't do that.”
Nancy put her hand on Hooper's. “You won't find it there.”
“What should we do?” he asked. Nancy smiled rather wickedly. “Watch and see.” Sally rolled her script into a tube and looked up at the proscenium. “This isn't working.” Richard gave a low, unpleasant chuckle. “You're not trying hard enough.”
“I have tried. It's not working, okay? I think we should give it up.”
“You want out, do you?” he shouted, startling all three listeners. “Fine! Get out! Get the hell out!”
“Richard, please,” said Sally. Hooper stood up. “Richard.” Richard grabbed Sally's wrist. “Listen. I don't need this bullshit.”
“Hey! Knock it off.” Hooper started toward the stage. Sally wrenched her arm away. “You son of a—. Oh, forget it. I don't know why I even agreed to come here tonight.”
“Don't you remember?” said Richard. “It was your idea in the first place! You thought it might be fun! Isn't it fun?”
Hooper climbed up on the stage.
Sally threw down her script in disgust. “You're crazy,” she said. “I don't know why I ever thought we could work on this relationship. We can't even have a normal conversation, because you are so—! Aargh!” Turning abruptly, she bumped full force into Hooper.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Running up the aisle to the exit at the back of the house, she ignored Hooper's call for her to wait.
Richard jumped off the stage. “Ah, Sally. If only you weren't so charming.” He walked unhurriedly toward the exit.
“I better see her to her car,” Hooper said to Nancy as he followed Richard up the aisle.
***
Maria couldn't believe her luck: Hooper's truck was in the driveway, and Tillie's car was gone. Walking a little unsteadily, she paused at the door and tried to regain her composure. She'd been at Cap'n Bob's for a few drinks and finally realized that the men around her were more interested in the game on TV than in talking with her, so she left, feeling reckless. What the hell. She would drive on over to Hooper's—even though she probably shouldn't even be driving. At the liquor store she picked up a bottle of red wine and now, clutching it behind her back, brushed back her hair—unbraided tonight—and rang the bell.
When Tillie answered the door, Maria stared at her. “Hi. Tillie. Uh, the truck...” she stammered. Tillie looked puzzled for a split second, then smiled.
So she understood. Maria dipped her face in her hand, embarrassed beyond measure. In spite of herself, she started to laugh, nearly out of control but hugely relieved that Tillie wasn't going to cause a scene. She turned to go.
Tillie stepped back, holding the door open.
“Hooper took my car tonight. Come in. I'll introduce you to our neighbors.”
Maria followed her in, greeted Barry and Donna, and offered her bottle to Tillie.
“How nice. We just finished off what was left.” She opened the bottle, gave Maria a glass, and refilled the others.
Grateful for the distraction, Maria tasted an olive and insisted Barry explain, step by step, what he'd done with them, because she'd love to try it; she had preserved lemons before—she described the process—and used them in cooking, and was it anything like that?
Tillie listened with half an ear. She knew Maria liked Hooper, but she hadn't realized how much. Maria had clearly been drinking, so it wasn't fair to hold her foolishness against her; and she could tell by Maria's mortified look and her utter lack of subterfuge that she'd acted on a whim. Although Tillie supposed she should be offended, she only felt a greater empathy with Maria. They had something in common after all. Besides, wine on an empty stomach had given her a sleepy buzz, which usually made her want to curl up like a cat, preferably against Hooper. She felt so content at this moment that even though she didn't enter the conversation, she didn't feel at all left out.
Her mind drifted. Hooper would be sitting in the theater now, observing the actors with a careful, compassionate eye. He'd do the same with this collection of characters at the kitchen table; he would appreciate particular moments, as when silence fell suddenly and they all grinned, when Donna and Barry's hands touched briefly as they both reached for a cracker, and when Maria flipped her full sweep of hair off her shoulder. How would he have responded to Maria at the door? she wondered—then decided it didn't matter. In fact, she might not even tell him. Hooper would be flattered, but he might feel awkward around Maria; and Maria, more sober, might regret what she'd done.
“Who's hungry?” Maria asked. “Have y'all eaten?”
No one had, and they were enthusiastic about Maria's suggestion for pizza. Donna suddenly realized she was to have dinner with her aunt and son next door, but Barry and Maria convinced her to invite them as well.
“Is that okay with you, Tillie?” Donna asked. “Here we are planning a party, and it's your house.”
“Of course,” Tillie said. “That'd be great.”
“We weren't going to have much,” said Donna. “I can bring a salad; it's all ready.”
“I have some pickles,” Barry offered.
“I think you've made your contribution, thanks,” Tillie assured him, but he was out the door anyway to see what else he could bring. She put on different music, added a leaf in the kitchen table, and got out all her mismatched plates and some paper napkins. Maria made the phone call to order the pizza. Barry returned with pickles and a bag of frosted animal cookies, and soon Donna arrived with a big bowl of lettuce and vegetables. Joey ran in waving two trucks and chanting, “Pizza, pizza, daddy-o!”
Ellen Driver followed behind them.
“I'm so glad you came!” Tillie greeted her. “And you brought wine. Thank you.”
“We had to twist her arm,” Donna said. “Joey said he wouldn't eat anything if she didn't come.”
“He's a master of persuasion,” said Tillie.
“More like blackmail,” said Ellen.
“It's because he loves you, Aunt Ellen,” said Donna, with a wink at Tillie. “We both wanted you to come.”
Ellen put on a dour expression.
Wine glasses were filled and extra chairs fetched from other rooms; the pizza arrived, plates were filled. “To happy surprises,” Tillie said, raising her glass.
“And good olives,” added Donna as they drank. “Let's eat,” said Maria and Joey at once.
***
Returning to the theater, Hooper was glad Nancy had turned on the house lights. He sat down with her. “I didn't know what to do,” he said. “She drove away and he just stood there grinning at me. I wanted to punch him, except that I know he could beat the shit out of me.”
“There's nothing you could have done.” Nancy was matter-of-fact. “She's a grown woman.”
“She's probably all of twenty-two.”
“A grown woman. We don't know what the situation is, Hoop, and therefore it's none of our business.”
“I guess you're right.” He still wasn't sure. Nancy tapped the clipboard on her lap. “Shall we?”
“Right. Who do you think would work for Fred?
Maybe Peter? We don't have much to go on.”
“Sure we do. Richard and Sally, for one.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I'm serious. They read well, don't you think? I mean, as far as they read.”
“Nancy, I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous. The tension was palpable. Why in the world would they agree to work together on a play? Why would we want to be around them?”
“Plenty of actors hate each other. It makes for great chemistry.”
“It makes for a great pain in the ass. I don't want to have to tiptoe around them for fear they'll blow up like eggs in the microwave. Besides, he gives me the creeps. Doesn't he give you the creeps?”
“No more so than most of the guys I meet. Present company excepted, of course.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think those two could really spice up the play. It's your call, hon, but think about it.”
Hooper did think about it. He lay awake that night thinking about it, and drove around the next day thinking. Nancy's idea was crazy, but when he considered the lack of talent they had to draw from, then again, she might be right. He managed to catch Sally at Cafe Joe that afternoon.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Would it work?”
Sally shuddered. “Richard would probably love it. He thinks he's the center of the universe as it is. But I'm afraid I couldn't handle it. Thanks anyway.”
“I know it's none of my business, but do you need any help? I mean, is he abusive in any way?”
“It's nice of you to ask.” Sally forced a smile. “I'm okay. He's never hurt me or threatened me. But I'd think twice about casting him, I really would.” She paused for a moment, as if unsure how much to tell him.
“Look, he was really sweet when I first knew him. I met him last May at the Shack and he was just—nice. But he started getting kinda weird awhile back. He started following dogs around.”
“What?”
“Yeah, like, he'd see this stray dog on the street and he'd slam on the brakes and tear around the corner to see where it went. Now he says that his new dog, a little black dog, tells him things. Like what store has beer on sale. Or where to find his car keys.”
Hooper waited while she frothed milk for someone's cappuccino.
“I thought at first it was just a joke,” she went on, “but then one time we were going to eat at this restaurant, in South Tucson? Only Richard drives to a different restaurant, because he said Myra told him to. Well, later that night, we were watching the news? And there was a drive-by shooting outside a restaurant in South Tucson, and it was the same place Richard decided not to go.”
“That's pretty weird, all right.”
“I know.” Sally looked pained. “Listen, I have to tell you: when you came in here once, a few months ago, Richard was sitting over there and he asked me who you were. He wanted to know your last name and everything. I didn't even know your last name, so I asked Peter. I'm really sorry—I didn't know then how freaky he could be, or I wouldn't have told him, really. I hope he didn't do anything, like, weird, did he?”
“Well, no,” said Hooper, but he wasn't sure.
“And then when our band had those flyers made up for The Shack, Richard insisted I put one in your mailbox.” She was becoming more distraught, talking more quickly. “He said he was sure you'd want to know about it. I didn't want to do it; I told him I'd see you at the Cafe and would give you one here, but he practically forced me in the car and drove me to your house. He parked around the corner. That's why I ran off that day.”
“I did wonder about that.”
“I'm really sorry, it must have seemed so bizarre.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“So anyway,” said Sally, “I don't know what came over me at the audition. I've never even acted before, but I heard Peter talking about it, and it sounded fun and, I don't know, safe, and I thought, maybe we could try one more time to make it work. Isn't that so stupid? It's like he's got this—weird hold on me or something. And when I mentioned it he seemed really interested, and I thought we could, but then—well, it was just weird, wasn't it.”
Yes, you could say that.”
“So I'm really sorry.”
“Sally, stop apologizing. It's okay.”
“I'm sorry. Oh!” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It's really nice of you to even consider me for a part. Maybe some other time, okay?”
“You bet,” he said. “But listen, Sally, if I can do anything—”
“Thanks.” She took a deep breath, recovering her usual inscrutable composure. “Really, I'm fine, thanks. Here.” She grabbed his plastic mug, filled it with coffee, and glanced around for the manager. “On the house.”
Hooper thanked her and left a big tip in the jar, but before he could reiterate his offer to help, she had turned to wait on another customer. He went back out to his truck, pulled out, and cruised through the alley. Ever since he found the box with the dog tag, he made it an occasional detour. Nothing this time but pigeons and a broken chair.
“Very weird,” he said aloud, thinking of Sally.
He said it again, telling Tillie the whole story when he got home.
“You know what?” he said. “I have this incredible urge to beat the crap out of him. Maybe tie him up to a cactus and let him bake in the sun for a while, and explain very carefully that you can't treat people the way he treats Sally.” He took a long drink of water. “I know that sounds stupid. It's probably a typically male way to deal with things, but that's what I want to do. You understand what I mean?”
“Not really.” Tillie was in fact taken aback at his violent fantasy. “Is there something else, though?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Who is this guy, anyway? And why does he know where we live? Why does he show up in Sally's life about the same time our dog disappears?”
“I'm not sure there's any connection,” said Tillie gently.
“Maybe not. But God damn it. She's been gone for over five months now. I guess she's really gone. I still keep expecting to see this furry head and pointy nose waiting for me in the truck window. Or you know how she used to put her head on the bed in the morning? Like a 1930s film starlet, sort of languishing.”
“Yeah.”
“I still talk to her when I'm driving around. And the other day I nearly crashed because I saw a dog that looked like her.”
“But it wasn't her.”
“No.” He put his arms around her. “Don't you disappear, okay? It's such a crazy world. Please be careful.”
“I'll try.”
“No, that's not good enough. You have to promise. Be careful.”
“Okay. I promise.” It was easy enough to promise, thought Tillie, giving him a kiss, but being careful didn't mean nothing bad would happen.
Later that night Hooper turned the TV on to a show about elephants on the Skeleton Coast in Zaire. They watched a herd running in single file and struggling up over barren sand dunes toward a watering hole. Their ears flapped, translucent in the morning sun, and it seemed as though a trace of an eager smile peeked out from under their swinging trunks. At the watering hole they wallowed, frolicked, and munched on the sparse vegetation.
“Does that remind you of someone?” he said. “Yes.”
“I bet Cosmo was an elephant in a former life. She had that same sort of loping trot, that sweet determination. The pack instinct.”
“The joy of play.”
The narrator explained that the elephants and the British couple documenting their movements stayed all day at the watering hole. Finally, when the elephants had had their fill, they left that watering hole for another one some fifty kilometers off, as their instinct led them. The couple went up in their handmade plane and recorded the elephants' trek from the air, until dusk became imminent and the man and woman had to get back to camp. The elephants—so awkward and yet graceful, so otherworldly with their prehensile, expressive trunks—diminished in the distance and the growing dark.