This Lullaby

  “Okay, so it is true.” I turned around to see Jennifer Anne standing behind me. In one hand, she had two packs of hot dogs: in the other, a bag of buns. She half-smiled, as if we’d both been caught doing something, and said, “Great minds think alike, right?”

  “I am impressed,” I told her as she came over and opened one of the packs, arranging the dogs on a plate. “You know her well.”

  “No, but I do know Christopher,” she said. “I had my reservations about that grill from the day we brought it home from the store. He went in there and just got bedazzled. As soon as the guy started talking about convection, he was gone.”

  “Convection?” I said.

  She sighed, pushing her hair out of her face. “It has to do with the heating process,” she explained. “Instead of the heat just rising up, it surrounds the food. That’s what got Christopher in. The guy just kept saying it, like a mantra. It surrounds the food. It surrounds the food.”

  I snorted, and she glanced over at me, then smiled, almost tentatively, as if she had to check first to make sure I wasn’t making fun of her. Then we just stood there, both of us stacking meat products, for a second, until I decided we were on the verge of a Hallmark moment and had to take action.

  “So anyway,” I said, “I’m wondering how we’re going to explain this last-minute menu substitution.”

  “The steaks were bad,” she said simply. “They smelled off. And this is just so kitschy, all-American, burger and dogs. Your mom will love it.”

  “Okay,” I said, picking up my plate of patties. She grabbed the buns and her plate, then started toward the door to the patio. I followed behind, glad to let her handle it.

  We were halfway out the door when she turned her head, nodding to the front yard, and said, “Looks like your guest has arrived.”

  I glanced out the window. Sure enough, there was Dexter, coming down the sidewalk, a good half hour late. He was carrying a bottle of wine (impressive) and wearing jeans and a clean white T-shirt (even more so). He was also holding a leash, the other end of which was attached to Monkey, who was charging ahead, tongue out, at a speed that seemed impressive considering his old age.

  “Can you take this?” I asked Jennifer Anne, handing over my plate of patties.

  “Sure,” she said. “See you outside.”

  As I came down the driveway, the screen door slamming behind me, Dexter was tying Monkey’s leash to our mailbox. I could hear him talking to the dog as I came up, just as you would talk to anyone, and Monkey had his head cocked to the side, still panting, as if he was listening carefully and waiting for his turn to respond.

  “. . . might not be into dogs, so you’ll just stay here, okay?” Dexter was saying, tying the leash into a knot, then another knot, as if Monkey, whose back leg was trembling even as he sat down, possessed some form of superhuman strength. “And then later, we’ll go find a pool so you can take a dip, and then maybe, if we’re really feeling crazy, we’ll take a ride in the van and you can put your head out the window. Okay?”

  Monkey kept panting, closing his eyes as Dexter scratched under his chin. As I came closer he saw me and started wagging his tail, the sound a dull thump against the grass.

  “Hey,” Dexter said, turning around. “Sorry I’m late. Had a little problem with the Monkster here.”

  “A problem?” I said, squatting down beside him and letting Monkey sniff my hand.

  “Well,” Dexter said, “I’ve been so busy with work and the gigs and all that, you know, I’ve kind of neglected him. He’s lonely. He doesn’t know any other dogs here, and he’s really quite social. He’s used to having a whole network of friends.”

  I looked at him, then at Monkey, who was now busy chewing his own haunch. “I see,” I said.

  “And I was getting ready to leave this afternoon, and he was following me around, all pathetic. Whining. Scratching at my shoes.” He rubbed his hand over the top of Monkey’s head, pulling on his ears in a way that looked painful but that the dog seemed to love, making a low, happy noise in his throat. “He can just stay out here, right?” Dexter asked me, standing up. Monkey wagged his tail hopefully, perking up his ears, the way he always seemed to do at the sound of Dexter’s voice. “He won’t cause any trouble.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll bring him some water.”

  Dexter smiled at me, a nice smile, as if I’d surprised him. “Thanks,” he said, and then added, to Monkey, “See, I told you. She likes you.”

  Monkey was back to chewing his haunch now, as if this last fact didn’t concern him much. Then I got him some water from the garage, Dexter double-checked the leash knot again, and we headed around the side of the house, where I could already smell hot dogs cooking.

  My mother was deep in conversation with Patty when we walked up, but at the sight of Dexter she stopped talking, put a hand to her chest—a trademark fluttering gesture—and said, “Well, hello. You must be Dexter.”

  “I am,” Dexter said, taking her hand as she extended it and shaking it.

  “I recognize you from the wedding!” she said, as if just now putting this together, even though I’d told her at least twice about the connection. “What a wonderful singer you are!”

  Dexter seemed pleased and somewhat embarrassed at this. My mother was still holding his hand. “Great wedding,” he said finally. “Congratulations.”

  “Oh, you must have something to drink,” my mother said, glancing around for me, and of course, I was right there between them. “Remy, honey, offer Dexter a beer. Or some wine? Or a soft drink?”

  “Beer would be fine,” Dexter said to me.

  “Remy, sweetie, there’s some more cold in the fridge, okay?” My mother put a hand on my back, effectively steering me toward the kitchen, then hooked her arm in Dexter’s and said, “You have to meet Jorge, he’s just this brilliant decorator. Jorge! Come here, you absolutely have to meet Remy’s new boyfriend!”

  Jorge started across the patio as my mother kept trilling about how fabulous everyone within a five-foot radius was. Meanwhile, I headed into the kitchen to fetch Dexter a beer, like hired help. By the time I brought it back out to him Don had joined the conversation and now everyone was discussing, for some weird reason, Milwaukee.

  “Coldest weather I’ve ever felt,” Don was saying, popping a handful of imported nuts into his mouth. “The wind can rip you apart in five minutes there. Plus it’s murder on cars. Salt damage.”

  “Great snow, though,” Dexter said, taking the beer as I handed it to him and managing, very subtly, to brush his fingers with mine as he did so. “And the local music scene is really coming on there. It’s early, but it’s there.”

  Don huffed at this, taking another swig of his beer. “Music is not a real career,” he said. “Up until last year this boy was majoring in business, can you believe that? At UVA.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting,” my mother said. “Now, tell me again how you two are related?”

  “Don is my father’s brother-in-law,” Dexter told her. “His sister is my aunt.”

  “That’s just wonderful!” my mother said, a bit too enthusiastically. “Small world, isn’t it?”

  “You know,” Don went on, “he had a full scholarship. His way paid. Dropped out. Broke his mother’s heart, and for what? Music.”

  Now, even my mother couldn’t come up with anything to say. I just looked at Don, wondering where this was coming from. Maybe it was the Ensures.

  “He’s a brilliant singer,” my mother said again to Jorge, who nodded, as if he hadn’t already heard this several times. Don seemed to be distracted now, looking out across the patio, holding his empty beer. I glanced at Dexter and realized that I’d never seen him like this: a bit cowed, uncomfortable, unable to come up with the quick funny retort that always seemed so close at hand. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it, then glanced around the yard, taking another sip of his beer.

  “Come on,” I said, and slipped my hand around his. “Let’s
get some food.” Then I pulled him away, gently, over to the grill, where Chris seemed very happy to be poking at the hot dogs, back in his element.

  “Guess what,” I said, and he glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Don’s an asshole.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Dexter said. He smiled, as if it wasn’t any big deal, then put an arm over my shoulders. “Every family has a black sheep, right? It’s the American way.”

  “Tell me about it,” Chris said, flipping a burger. “At least you weren’t in jail.”

  Dexter took a big swig of his beer. “Only once,” he said cheerfully, then winked at me. And that was it: so quickly, he was back to his old self, as if all that had just happened was a big joke, one that he was in on, and didn’t bother him in the least. I, however, kept looking at Don, my stomach burning, as if I now had a score to settle. Seeing Dexter so quiet, if only for a second, had somehow made him more real to me. As if for those few moments, he wasn’t just my summer boyfriend but something bigger, something I had a stake in.

  The rest of the evening went well. The burgers and dogs were tasty, and most of the expensive olive-and-sun-dried-tomato spread went uneaten, while Jennifer Anne’s deviled eggs and three-bean salad were a hit. I even saw my mother licking her fingers after consuming a second piece of Jennifer Anne’s chocolate pudding pie, which was garnished with a healthy scoop of Cool Whip. So much for gourmet.

  By dark everyone was saying their good-byes, and my mother disappeared to her room, claiming to be completely wiped out from the party because entertaining, even when other people do most of the work, can be so exhausting. So Jennifer Anne and Chris and Dexter and I stacked the dishes and wrapped things up, tossing most of the gourmet crap and the burned steaks, saving only one, with the blackened stuff trimmed off, for Monkey.

  “He’ll love it,” Dexter said, taking it from Jennifer Anne, who had wrapped it up in foil, the edges folded neatly. “He’s really a Dog Chow kind of guy, so this is like Christmas to him.”

  “What an interesting name he has,” she said.

  “I got him for my tenth birthday,” Dexter told her, glancing outside. “I really wanted a monkey, so I was kind of disappointed. But he’s turned out to be much better. Monkeys get really mean, apparently.”

  Jennifer Anne looked at him, somewhat quizzically, then smiled. “I’ve heard that,” she said, not unkindly, and went back to covering leftover pita bread with Cling Wrap.

  “So if you’ve got a minute,” Chris said to Dexter, wiping the counter down with a sponge, “you should come up and see my hatchlings. They’re amazing.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Dexter said enthusiastically. Then he looked at me. “You okay?”

  “Go ahead,” I said, as if I was his mom or something, and they took off up the stairs, feet clumping, on the way to the lizard room.

  Across the kitchen, Jennifer Anne sighed, shutting the fridge. “I will never understand this hobby of his,” she said. “I mean, dogs and cats you can cuddle. Who wants to cuddle a lizard?”

  This seemed like a difficult question to answer, so I just pulled the plug on the drain, where I was washing dishes, and let the water gurgle down noisily. Upstairs, it sounded like the honeycomb hideout: giggling, various oohs and ahhs, and the occasional skittering noise, followed by uproarious laughter.

  Jennifer Anne cast her eyes up at the ceiling, obviously unnerved. “Tell Christopher I’m in the den,” she said, picking up her purse from the sideboard, where it was parked next to her plastic containers, now cleaned, lids accounted for. She drew out a book and headed into the next room, where a few seconds later I heard the TV come on, murmuring softly.

  I picked up the foil-wrapped steak and walked outside, flicking on the porch light. As I came down the front walk Monkey got to his feet and started wagging his tail.

  “Hey buddy,” I said. He poked at my hand, then got a whiff of the steak and started nudging my fingers with his nose, snuffling. “Got a treat for you here.”

  Monkey wolfed down the steak in about two bites, almost taking part of my pinky with it. Well, it was dark. When he was done he burped and rolled over onto his back, sticking his belly in the air, and I sat down on the grass beside him.

  It was a nice night, clear and cooler, perfect Fourth of July weather. A few people were popping off firecrackers a couple of streets over, the noise pinging in the dark. Monkey kept rolling closer to me, nudging my elbow, until I finally relented and scratched the matted fur on his belly. He needed a bath. Badly. Plus he had bad breath. But there was something sweet about him, nonetheless, and he was practically humming as I moved my fingers across him.

  We sat there like that for a while until I heard the screen door slam and Dexter call out my name. At the sound of his voice, Monkey instantly sat up, ears perked, and then got to his feet, walking toward it until the leash was stretched to the limit.

  “Hey,” Dexter said. I couldn’t see his face, just his outline in the brightness of the porch light. Monkey barked, as if he’d called him, and his tail wagging grew frenzied, like intense windmill action, and I wondered if he’d knock himself down with the sheer force of it.

  “Hey,” I said back, and he started down the steps toward us. As he came closer across the grass, I watched Monkey, amazed at his full-body excitement to see this person he’d only been away from for an hour or so. What did it feel like, I wondered, to love someone that much? So much that you couldn’t even control yourself when they came close, as if you might just break free of whatever was holding you and throw yourself at them with enough force to easily overwhelm you both. I had to wonder, but Monkey clearly knew: you could see it, feel it coming off him, like a heat. I almost envied him that. Almost.

  It was late that night, when I was lying in Dexter’s room on his bed, that he picked up the guitar. He wasn’t much of a player, he told me, as he sat across the room, shirtless, barefoot, his fingers finding the strings in the dark. He played a little riff of something, a Beatles song, then a few lines of the latest version of “The Potato Opus.” He didn’t play like Ted, of course: his chords seemed more hesitant, as if he was plucking by sheer luck. I leaned back against the pillows and listened as he sang to me. A bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing in full. And then, just as I felt I might be drifting off to sleep, something else.

  “This lullaby is only a few words, a simple run of chords—”“No.” I sat up, now wide awake. “Don’t.”

  Even in the dark, I could see he was surprised. He dropped his hands from the guitar and looked at me, and I hoped he couldn’t see my face either. Because it was all fun and games, so far. Just a few moments when I worried it might go deep enough to drown me. Like now. And I could pull back, would pull back, before it went that far.

  I’d only told him about the song in a moment of weakness, a time of true confessions, which I usually avoided in relationships. The past was so sticky, full of land mines: I made it a point, usually, not to be so detailed in the map of myself I handed over to a guy. And the song, that song, was one of the biggest keys to me. Like a soft spot, a bruise that never quite healed right. The first place I was sure they would strike back, when the time came for them to do so.

  “You don’t want to hear it?” he asked now.

  “No,” I said again. “I don’t.”

  He’d been so surprised when I told him. We’d been having our own challenge of sorts, a kind of Guess What You’d Never Know About Me. I found out that he was allergic to raspberries, that he’d busted out his front tooth running into a park bench in sixth grade, that his first girlfriend was a distant cousin of Elvis. And I’d told him that I’d come this close to piercing my belly button before fainting, that one year I’d sold more Girl Scout cookies than anyone else in my troop, and that my father was Thomas Custer, and “This Lullaby” had been written for me.

  Of course he knew the song, he said, and then hummed the opening chords, pulling the words out of thin air. They’d even sung it a couple of times at weddings, he said: some brides pick
ed it for the dance with their father. Which seemed so stupid to me, considering the words. I will let you down, it says, right there in the first verse, plain as day. What kind of father says such a thing? But that, of course, was a question I’d long ago quit asking myself.

  He was still strumming the chords, finding them in the dark.

  “Dexter.”

  “Why do you hate it that much?”

  “I don’t hate it. I just . . . I’m sick of it, that’s all.” But this wasn’t true either. I did hate it sometimes, for the lie that it was. As if my father had been able, with just a few words scribbled in a Motel 6, to excuse the fact that he never bothered to know me. Seven years he’d spent with my mother, most of them good until one last blowout, resulting in him leaving for California, with her pregnant, although she didn’t find that out until later. Two years after I was born, he died of a heart attack, never having made it back across the country to see me. It was the ultimate out, this song, admitting to the world that he’d only disappoint me, and didn’t that just make him so noble, really? As if he was beating me to the punch, his words living forever, while I was left speechless, no rebuttal, no words left to say.

  Dexter strummed the guitar idly, not picking out any real melody, just messing around. He said, “Funny how I’ve heard that song all my life and never knew it was for you.”

  “It’s just a song,” I said, running my fingers over the windowsill, easing them around those snow globes. “I never even knew him.”

  “It’s too bad. I bet he was a cool guy.”

  “Maybe,” I said. It was weird to be talking about my father out loud, something I hadn’t done since sixth grade, when my mother found therapy the way some people find God and dragged us all in for group, individual, and art until her money ran out.