“Forget I said that. I didn't mean to say that. He doesn't actually eat the furniture. I mean, chewing isn't really eating. And not that he even chews. Oh, shit,” Simon said. “Good luck.” And he hung up. I redialed, but he wouldn't answer.
I returned the phone to the kitchen and gave Bob his breakfast bowl of dog crunchies. I poured a cup of coffee and ate a chunk of pie. There was one piece of pie left so I gave it to Bob. “You don't eat furniture, do you?” I asked.
Grandma was hunkered down in front of the television, watching the Weather Channel. “Don't worry about supper tonight,” she said. “We can have leftover balls.”
I gave her a thumbs-up, but she was concentrating on the weather in Cleveland and didn't see me.
“Well, I guess I'll go out now,” I said.
Grandma nodded.
Grandma looked all rested. And I felt all done in. I wasn't getting enough sleep. The late-night visits and the snoring were taking a toll on me. I dragged myself out of the apartment and down the hall. My eyes drooped closed while I waited for the elevator.
“I'm exhausted,” I said to Bob. “I need more sleep.”
I drove to my parents' house and Bob and I trooped in. My mother was in the kitchen, humming as she put together an apple pie.
“This must be Bob,” she said. “Your grandmother told me you had a dog.”
Bob ran over to my mother.
“No!” I yelled. “Don't you dare!”
Bob stopped two feet from my mother and looked back at me.
“You know what I'm talking about,” I said to Bob.
“What a well-mannered dog,” my mother said.
I stole a chunk of apple from the pie. “Did Grandma also tell you she snores, and she's up at the crack of dawn, and she watches the Weather Channel for hours on end?” I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Help,” I said to the coffee.
“She's probably taking a couple nips before bed,” my mother said. “She always snores after she's belted back a few.”
“That can't be it. I don't have any liquor in the house.”
“Look in the closet. That's where she usually keeps it. I clean bottles out of her closet all the time.”
“You mean she buys it herself and hides it in the closet?”
“It's not hidden in the closet. That's just where she keeps it.”
“Are you telling me Grandma's an alcoholic?”
“No, of course not. She just tipples a little. She says it helps get her to sleep.”
Maybe that was my problem. Maybe I should be tippling. Trouble is, I throw up when I tipple too much. And once I start tippling it's hard to tell when it's too much until it's too late. One tipple always seems to lead to another.
The kitchen heat washed over me and soaked into the flannel shirt, and I felt like the pie, sitting in the oven, steaming. I struggled out of the flannel shirt, put my head down on the table, and fell asleep. I had a dream that it was summer, and I was baking on the beach in Point Pleasant. Hot sand under me, and hot sun above me. And my skin all brown and crispy like pie crust. When I woke up the pie was out of the oven, and the house smelled like heaven. And my mother had ironed my shirt.
“Do you ever eat the dessert first?” I asked my mother.
She looked at me dumbfounded. As if I'd asked whether she ritually sacrificed cats every Wednesday at the stroke of midnight.
“Suppose you were home alone,” I said, “and there was a strawberry shortcake in the refrigerator and a meatloaf in the oven. Which would you eat first?”
My mother thought about it for a minute, her eyes wide. “I can't remember ever eating dinner alone. I can't even imagine it.”
I buttoned myself into the shirt and slipped into my denim jacket. “I have to go. I have work to do.”