In the late afternoon, Tillie was cleaning off her brushes in the kitchen sink when Hooper called to say that he'd arrived.
“You sound tired,” she said.
“It was a long flight. The only excitement was when first class threatened to riot because they got pate instead of caviar.”
She laughed. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“It rained a little this afternoon.”
“It's already dark here. And cold.” Tillie almost started to say again, I miss you, just to keep him on the line. “What did you do today?” he asked. Not yet ready to talk about her painting, she mentioned a long walk and puttering around the house. She asked after Tom.
“He's doing well. We're about to have dinner.”
She could hear the stereo playing in the background.
“There's a big bright moon tonight,” he said. “I'll look for it.”
“Good-night.”
“Sleep well.”
A pause before they both hung up.
She finished rinsing her brushes and scrubbed her hands, watching out the window as a hummingbird darted by, pausing a moment at the red blossoms of the bougainvillea. Having skipped lunch, she was famished, but first she went outside to take in the lowering dusk. The afternoon's clouds were breaking up and the uneven light brought contours into higher relief. The narrow green limbs of the ocotillo across the street seemed as animate as a squid's tentacles, and the saguaro was waxen and fat, as if swollen with rain. The air was scented with dust and tarry creosote. As she breathed deeply, the earth sipped moisture almost audibly. With the eastern sky soaked in pinks and oranges, the sun snuggled down in the blankets of clouds, and all finally slipped into the purplish grays and deepest blues of evening.
***
Clearing the coffee table, Tom crunched up the paper plates and napkins. Hooper groaned, a hand on his belly.
“That was great,” he said, “but I'm stuffed to the gills. I forgot how killer that combination is. Wings and pizza. You got your grease, cheese goo, and hot sauce, and if that's not enough, we'll give you celery sticks with blue cheese dressing. It's crazy.”
“Welcome back to Buffalo,” said Tom. “Another beer?”
“I'll blow up.”
Tom went into the kitchen and Hooper looked around the apartment. It depressed him. Tom had moved into this complex a couple months before: it was convenient, he said, readily available, close to a bus line that took him to work, and close to the old house, where his wife was living. It was cheap but decent, and came partially furnished. But it was so ugly, Hooper thought, so square and functional, so boring. The neighbor's apartment would look just like this, and so would the neighbor's on the other side, and so would the other hundred apartments—or five hundred, or however many there were. The only decoration on the walls was a framed print of some art festival six years ago. All the apartments were heated by a central control, so Tom couldn't control the thermostat, and it was so hot they were both in tee shirts.
“So what are you, three hours behind?” Tom asked.
“Just two,” said Hooper. “Arizona doesn't do daylight savings, so part of the year we're on Mountain Time, part on Pacific.”
“Remember how Mom hated Daylight Savings? She absolutely refused to set her watch back. Or was it forward?”
“Whichever.” Hooper laughed. “It was like she thought having to change the time was a government conspiracy.”
Talk of time made him think of the week, seven days and nights, nearly two hundred hours away from Tillie. Why had he decided to stay so long? he kept asking himself. Why was he spending Thanksgiving away from her? Picturing her washing up the dishes or sitting down to read, he wanted to call her back. He'd call again an hour later. Like a neglected dog begging for a walk, dinner, or affection. What are you doing now? Now? And now?
“So what's on the social agenda for the week?” he asked.
“Well.” Tom looked perplexed. “I'm sorry, I've been so distracted, I hadn't even thought. I was just so glad you were even coming. We could go to the art museum, I guess. There's always Niagara Falls.” He laughed tensely, then winced. “But I should have told you, I have an appointment Monday after work with the lawyer and Jenny. And Tuesdays I meet with my therapist—but I can cancel that.”
Tom was so clearly agitated, so close to some emotional edge, he made Hooper nervous.
“Of course not,” he said. “That's important. Don't worry about it. We don't have to do anything but visit.”
“Right. I guess I've been a little stressed lately, Hoop, I'm sorry. This divorce.”
“It's okay.” Hooper thought he should give his brother a hug, but with both of them sitting, it might be awkward. They chatted a little, mostly about Tucson and Buffalo, and Tom went to bed early. In the living room, Hooper kept a light on for another hour and read a book he had started on the plane and wasn't very interested in.
***
Flipping through the Tucson Weekly, Tillie noted a small ad for Hover and then turned to the listings in the arts section. A few galleries had openings tonight, one called “Seen and Unseen” at La Fortuna, featuring a number of local artists. She knew where this gallery was, although she'd never been to it. It would be a simple thing to drive downtown and wander in; she used to go to openings all the time. She knew as well as anyone how to dress in black, roam around the paintings, eat some crackers and cheese, and drink cheap wine out of a plastic cup. Even so, she felt her stomach knotting up at the prospect.
A boy she knew in high school once told her, “When in doubt, do the unsafe thing.” When she asked him why—since he was always getting hurt on his skateboard or snowboard or bike, and scraping himself up like a like a second-grader—he grinned slyly, shook his head as if to say she didn't get it, and planted a big kiss on her forehead. But she did get it, and often thought about his advice. She thought about it now as she pulled a plain black tunic over her head. The unsafe thing was whatever made you afraid. Did practice help you get over the fear? She wasn't sure, but at least this time she wouldn't disappoint herself by doing nothing.
When she arrived, the room was crowded. One woman caught her eye immediately: with magnificent dreadlocks and a kente-cloth dress, she would have stood out even if she hadn't been close to six feet tall. Several groups of people laughed and sipped pink wine from plastic glasses, and a cluster of teenagers, all with multiple piercings and baggy pants, stayed close together as though magnetized. Tillie could pick out the artists: they were the ones smiling giddily, if a little self-consciously; they wore black dresses and plain button-down shirts, nice jeans. She looked down at her black leggings, which she hadn't worn since March, and noticed for the first time that strands of blond dog hair still clung to them.
Easing her way into the room, she brushed past bits of conversation and artwork. A handful of photographs that experimented with desert scenes in neon colors were interesting, but she was more impressed with several paintings that looked as though someone's Harley had liquefied on the canvas. Another set garishly exploited scenes of a family at the dinner table, their faces distorted and the planes of the table and kitchen cupboards pitched at dizzying angles. Feeling a bit unsteady herself, she stopped at the refreshments table and poured a cup of sparkling water so as to hold onto something.
Having made her way along one side of the gallery, she came to a triptych of six-foot canvases. They were big-boned figures, two women and a man, reminiscent of WPA murals depicting farmers, factory workers, and city dwellers. Their faces expressed dignity, with eyes that met the viewer's. One woman was rolling up a sleeve and the other placed her hands on wide hips. The man was thoughtfully stroking his chin. From a distance, they seemed like good, honest people; but up close they were unnerving. The texture of the paint was scratchy and fuzzy, like tiny spikes of ice; their eyes seemed not to focus on anything; and they seemed trapped in their tight frames.
“Do you like these, Tillie?” asked a man near her. She turned to face him.
“Roscoe,” the man said. “Roscoe Fernandez, remember?”
“Of course,” she said, shaking his hand. She nodded at the paintings. “These are nicely done.”
“Yeah, I was lucky to get them.”
“Get them?”
“For the show. The artist didn't even want to show his work. I had to talk him into it. I just happened to pass by this guy's house one night and looked in the window, and there these were leaning up against a wall. I was blown away. I knocked on the door and he damn near slammed it in my face, but eventually I convinced him that I was for real.”
“Really. Tillie was still confused.
“I'd introduce you to him, but he's not here. Well, no great loss, you know; he's not the nicest guy I ever met.”
“I see.”
“Oh,” he said, showing his crooked-tooth smile. “Tillie, this is my gallery, didn't you know?”
“I had no idea.” She laughed along with him. “It's wonderful.” She asked him how he came to open the gallery, whether he was an artist himself.
“No, I just enjoy it,” he said. “I have a pretty good eye. But you, I think, are an artist.”
Tillie shook her head. “I used to paint, but I haven't for a long time.”
“I knew it. So you must bring some work to show me, okay?”
“That's kind of you, but—”
“Good. Listen, I have to make the rounds, okay? Do the host thing. Nice to see you. Bring me your work.” He touched her arm and left her.
“Look who's here!” someone behind her exclaimed. “Hey, Tillie.”
She turned. “Frank. Hi.” Her heart skipped at the sight of him.
“Cool show, isn't it?”
“Yeah, it's great.”
“Hey, this is Sabrina.” As he put his arm around the shoulder of a young woman and brought her forward, Tillie tried to maintain her composure. Of course he's with a woman, she told herself.
“Bri, this is Tillie.”
“Hi.” Sabrina leaned against him, bored. She was dressed in a tight black knit dress with a faux leopard-skin collar; her beige hair was long and hung in her face. She looked nineteen.
“Hello.” Tillie found her voice. She felt a fool.
“Did you see these photos over here?” said Frank. “They're my favorites. Come on.” He led the two women around a partition to a section Tillie had passed by before. There were a series of black and white photographs of cats and dogs, all captured in a moment of flight. The dogs were probably poised to catch a milk bone or ball, the cats leaping off a table or window sill, but the camera had been set at such a fast speed that there was no sense of motion.
“These are like, so cool,” said Frank. “Don't you think? I mean, they're sort of otherworldly, just floating in space like that. Don't they look like some mystical creatures, or aliens without spaceships?” He nodded his head, agreeing with himself.
“Really cool,” Sabrina said.
Tillie made a vague comment. She didn't care for these at all. The photographer was talented, she thought, and probably worked hard, but these were clever studio pictures and nothing more. They had no compositional challenge or personal vision, no surprise. She chided herself for being a snob, but a second viewing didn't persuade her to like them any better.
Sabrina slumped against Frank and pulled his arm as though to say, Let's go.
“What are you doing after this?” he asked Tillie. “Bri and I are heading over to the Verona. Wanna come?”
“No, thanks.”
“It's only like a three-dollar cover before nine. Some band from Phoenix. Bauhaus is opening for them.”
The name gave her a start. “Oh, maybe I will.”
“Great. You want to look around any more?”
“No, I'm ready.” As they approached the door, there entered a short, middle-aged woman, wearing a too-tight sweater adorned with multi-colored sequins. It was Angela Rivera. She looked searchingly around the gallery, an eager smile tweaking her lips. She didn't notice Tillie, who observed that her gray hair was now more brunette and newly coiffed. Before Tillie could discover the object of her attention, however, Frank was holding the door and ushering her out. Brushing past his suede jacket, she caught a whiff of patchouli and thought again how handsome he was. She wondered once more how it would be just to kiss him. Then Sabrina gave her a look, and Tillie reminded herself to not be an idiot.
***
Hooper was dreaming.
He and Tillie were running down the beach, laughing good-naturedly at the guy who waved a metal detector over the sand, oblivious to the majesty of the ocean just behind him. Then Tillie tripped, fell, and disappeared.
The man with the metal detector was now carrying a broom and a dust pan. He swept up some sand where she had fallen.
“Where did she go?” Hooper asked, bewildered. “What are you doing?”
“I'm the garbage collector,” the man said. “Keeping the beach clean.”
“But you can't! That was Tillie!”
“Sorry, pal. You should have taken better care.” Hooper was so furious he wanted to pound this man, but he was limp-limbed and powerless. “How dare you!” he screamed, but a seagull drowned his cry. “Give her back, give her back!” He was a child throwing a tantrum, socking his fists in the air, stamping his feet. Suddenly he was doused with water; he thought at first the man had dumped a bucket on him, but then he saw the next wave rising menacingly above his head, and before he could catch his breath, it broke on him and towed him under.
It took him a few moments to realize he was sweating, cocooned in a flannel sleeping bag. How he hated these things, the way they bound your legs. The foam futon Tom had bought just for his visit was narrow and thin, and his feet hung off the bottom. His neck was stiff. He was wearing a tee shirt and underwear, which bugged him, but somehow it didn't seem right to sleep naked as he usually did. This was only his first night, and the long week squatted, hulking and motionless, on his chest.
Scraps of the dream littered his mind and his heart still pounded at the terror of losing Tillie. Breathing slowly, he fingered the metal tag on the chain around his neck. A dog tag with nothing on it. He wasn't sure why he was wearing it, but in preparing for the trip he had felt as though he wanted some sort of talisman to take with him. Blank seemed comforting. It asked nothing of him. If he could make his mind as blank as the tag, he thought, if he could let go of those thoughts that were painful, maybe he would be happier. All he could do now was cling to the idea of Tillie, and to grasp at a promise, a hope, an undirected prayer that he could be a better person.
He wanted to be home. He wanted to lie in their cool, airy bedroom and hear Tillie breathing next to him. He wanted to wake up in the morning and see the blue sky, wander out to get the paper and sit at the breakfast nook. He hadn't felt this homesick since he was a kid, sleeping over at Jimmy Clark's house. They'd had to share a twin bed because Jimmy's brother Kenny had the other bed. Hooper remembered being cramped and hot, and Kenny was acting up, being goofy. Their grandma, who lived there, was trying to get them to settle down. She said, “Remember that mean man at the grocery store? Well, he's outside right now and I'll let him in if you don't go to sleep.” Of course Hooper couldn't sleep, not so much because he believed there was a man outside, but because Jimmy's home was so strange. He wanted to be with his own sane family, in his own bed in his own room, and know that Tom was right next door.
Tom was nearby now, but it wasn't enough. He wondered if he'd feel better if Tom were still living in their old house. He missed the front porch, the wooden floors, the big staircase and leaded windows. But Tom's soon-to-be-ex was living there now, and Tom was living in this stale, weary bachelor pad.
He just hoped there would be coffee in the morning.
***
Tillie had always loved this old hotel lobby, with its wooden floor and high ceilings, its bronze and smoked-glass lighting. The walls were a burnt red, and the wainscoting and columns were spirited with Navajo motifs—diamonds, triangles, and zigzags—painted in desert colors like maize yellow, sky blue, violet, burnt orange, and sage green. There were Mimbres animals—a rabbit, a turtle, a lizard—scurrying along the top of the walls, and checkerboard patterns that drew attention to the finials.
She followed Frank and Sabrina through the lobby, where a small crowd of people milled about, and into the nightclub. A small room, it was charged with loud music from the band onstage. Tillie noticed Donna immediately: she was playing bass guitar.
“Want something?” Frank jerked his head toward the bar.
“Club soda,” she shouted back and started to pull out her wallet, but he waved her off. Sabrina tagged along behind, holding onto his belt loop as he made his way through the crowd. Though jostled by people moving around, Tillie was oblivious to anyone else. She took note of Donna's outfit: a sleeveless purple paisley sheath dress, big sunglasses, and a flowered scarf on her head, tied under her chin. Red and white striped stockings. Jumping up a little, she could see Donna's feet and her exquisite Wicked Witch black shoes with long pointy toes. Her voice was lovely, strong and clear.
When Frank put a glass in her hand she scarcely noticed. When someone bumped her, spilling some of her drink, she didn't mind. She had no idea how long the band played, but it wasn't long enough. Donna occasionally played the violin and for a couple songs she changed to acoustic guitar. She seemed the one holding the band together. Crash's voice was loud but not melodic, and he and Walt looked to her for a reminder of what the next song was. As they finished the set and broke down, Tillie felt suddenly adrift. Frank and Sabrina had disappeared. A techno beat buzzed from the amplifiers. She scanned the room full of people—as though she would know anyone there. Time to go.
As she glanced toward the door, she noticed a tall, curly-haired man enter the club. He seemed vaguely familiar, yet at the same time there was something almost grotesque about him: his skin was dull, while his lips were bright and exaggerated, his eyes dark and heavy. The women next to Tillie had seen him, too, and one spoke loudly enough for her to hear.
“Oh God, it's Richard. Look, he's wearing stage make-up. He's in this play now and hes such a creep about it. He has to tell everyone. It's about the first thing he says. 'Hi, I'm Richard, I'm an actor.' He looks like Madame Butterfly or something.” They both laughed.
Where had Tillie seen this man? It could have been anywhere, at the movie theater, the library, the student union. She ran through some more possibilities—dog obedience school, a waiter at some restaurant, a grocery store clerk—but nothing clicked. Friend of a friend? He was an actor, so perhaps Hooper had introduced them at a cast party. Her idle thoughts accelerated to a furious pace as the man unexpectedly caught her eye and seemed to be heading her way.
He was standing in front of her. The pancake makeup on his face was thick and his hair was damp at the temples from sweat.
“Tillie,” he said. “Hello,” she said warily, not sure whether to smile or run.
“You don't know me,” he said, “but I know you.” She stared at him and took a step back. At that moment a feedback screech from the sound crew drowned out his words, and all she heard—or thought she heard—was “Mo.”
“What?”
“Hey, what do you know about her?” Suddenly Donna was right next to Tillie. “Where is she?”
Richard smiled and shrugged. “That's what I want to know,” he said. “What's it to you?”
“I'm a friend.”
Richard laughed loudly. Heads turned in his direction.
“I loved that dog,” he pronounced. As he turned and stalked out of the room, a path opened to accommodate him and then he was gone.
Tillie was utterly baffled, and when Donna grabbed her hand to lead her out through the crowd, she followed without hesitation. The hotel lobby was much more crowded now, full of people standing around drinking, lounging on the leather couches, lining up at the bar by the window. There was no sign of Richard.
Donna pointed her toward the parking lot exit. “You try that way. I'll check Congress Street.”
Once outside, Donna took a deep breath of fresh air and tried to compose herself. She'd noticed Richard when he first entered the club and felt anxious; something about him seemed uncomfortably familiar, and his bizarre make-up repulsed her. When she saw him approach Tillie, she instinctively moved to defend her.
Tillie came out the lobby doors and joined her on the sidewalk.
“Donna,” she said. “What was that all about? Who was that guy?”
“I have no idea, but when he said that about Cosmo—”
“Cosmo! What did he say? I couldn't hear.”
“That she was his dog.”
“His dog! But that's impossible!” Tillie paused. “Isn't it?”
“I don't know, Tillie. She did come as a stray.”
“He said he loved her. How could that be?” Donna shrugged. “He's an asshole, obviously.”
“I wish we could have found him.”
It was nearly eleven, and the street was quiet but for people lingering outside the bars.
“There he is,” said Donna. “Across the street.”
He was leaning up against the darkened doorway of a bookstore, watching them, smoking a cigarette.
“It's like he's baiting us,” said Donna. “Scary guy, huh?”
“Yeah.” Tillie would have turned back inside were it not for Donna. “Well, shall we?”
“Let's go.”
They crossed the street. Tillie started to speak, but he interrupted her. “Come have a cup of coffee.”
He turned abruptly and they followed him like ducklings to a coffee house across the street. At the counter he ordered coffee and told the cashier that others were his treat. When they protested, he waved them off, saying, “Please. It's the least I can do.”
Tillie took her tea and sat at the table next to him. This close, she could again see the pancake makeup, the rouge on his cheeks and lips, but now it looked more tawdry than menacing. Aware of her gaze, he took a napkin and tried to wipe it off, smearing the black around his eyes.
“Forgot I had this stuff on.”
“So what's going on? Donna said impatiently. “What's this little game you're playing?”
His face inscrutable, he considered her for a moment before speaking. Donna did not look away. Tillie was impressed.
“I'll tell you,” he said. “A couple years ago, I had a dog named Lucy. She just showed up on my porch one day, and I took her in. At the time I wasn't doing so well. I didn't have any friends and I was barely scraping by at odd jobs. I was about to pack it in and go back home to Iowa. I even gave notice on my apartment.” He paused for a sip of coffee, watching them over the top of his cup.
“Lucy had other ideas, though. One day she just disappeared. I'd left her in the yard, as usual, but came home to find her gone. I was devastated. I felt betrayed. In fact, I was absolutely furious that she would treat me like that.”
Donna and Tillie exchanged glances.
“I couldn't leave without her, so I changed plans immediately. I managed to keep my apartment and got a job cleaning offices at night, so during the day I could look for her. For months I cruised around different parts of town. Then one day I saw her at the university.”
“With us,” said Tillie.
“Yes, the happy family. It was a simple thing to follow you and find out where you lived.”
“And then you took her!”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Please. I did not take her. I have my pride. Plus, I knew if I forced her, there was the chance she'd run away again. One day I went to go talk to her, but you were with her in the backyard.”
Tillie felt her skin crawl.
“She seemed perfectly content, and I have to admit I was crushed. But I wanted her back. I just had to figure out a way. Then, by coincidence, I found this little news item about the missing mass in the cosmos and left it for you and Hooper.”
For the first time, Tillie realized why Richard looked familiar.
“I was putting things in motion, setting the stage, if you will. I suppose it was a bit theatrical, but I couldn't resist. But just when I was about to make a move—”
“She ran away,” said Tillie. “She didn't want to go with you.” It was an absurd thought, but at the same time it seemed perfectly logical.
Richard shrugged. “Maybe. At first I thought you were hiding her, but eventually I had to accept the fact that I might never find her.” Something in his face softened. “And so I turned to the one thing I knew that could help me redeem myself, and that was to start painting again.”
Donna looked skeptical.
“It might surprise you to know that I trained as an artist, but it had been so long since I touched the stuff. When I moved here three years ago I thought the Southwest would be inspiring, but I felt nothing. Eventually it was as though painting was a completely other life.”
Touching her brow, Tillie felt sweat forming.
“I make pretty good money with this cleaning job,” he went on, “so I went out and bought some supplies. Sometimes I'd just smear paints on the canvas with my hands. Sometimes I'd stare at the blank canvas for days. But I stuck with it. I was in a kind of delirium. I had visions. I'd see whole flocks of cardinals in the trees, or paw prints appearing in gold on the sidewalk. Scared the shit out of me sometimes; I thought I was going crazy. But then, guess what? Another dog shows up on my doorstep, literally on my doorstep. A small black dog with a sweet face and markings like a sun bear. I named her Hecate.”
“The goddess of the crossroads,” Donna said. “That's right.” All three were quiet for a moment. Tillie opened her mouth to ask about the second note, about being a friend to dogs, but he spoke again.
“I look at it this way. If Lucy hadn't left, I wouldn't have stayed in Tucson or started painting. I wouldn't have auditioned for this play—and discovered a talent I never knew I had. I'd have returned to my hometown a defeated man, moved back into my parents' house, and applied for a job at the local gas station or something. Now I can go home because I want to, not because I have no other choice. Lucy did me a big favor.”
Tillie was finally able to speak. “Why did you tell us all this?”
He shrugged. “You wanted to know.” He drained his cup and stood. “So long.”
Donna and Tillie watched him leave. “Quite a story,” Donna said. “Do you believe it?”
“I don't know. Some of it sounds true enough. In a way, though, it doesn't matter. Cosmo is still gone.” They walked back to the club together, where Donna picked up her instruments and said good-bye to Crash and Walt. She had parked nearby and drove Tillie to her car near the gallery.
“Thank you,” Tillie said. “Thank you so much.”
“You bet,” Donna said. “Let's do it again—but without the weirdo next time.”
It was midnight when Tillie got home, but even though she was exhausted she couldn't get to sleep. She got up and went out to the kitchen to drink a glass of wine and read a magazine. Before lying down again she pulled back the curtain so that the room would not be so dark. Finally she drifted off. Just before waking, she had a dream.
She was sitting cross-legged and looking up at the sky. An intense, pure blue bursting with fluffy baroque clouds, it drew her in. Gradually she realized that it was actually a painted ceiling, and that she was in a kind of kiva made of earth. It was a comforting place, protective and still. She was acutely aware of her body, its breathing, its blood and bones; she had the penetrating sense that she inhabited her skin. She felt poised, on the brink of movement. With a slight push then, she floated up and broke through the ceiling. The clay crumbled easily.
She awoke with sunlight on her face.