Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [33]
Though I hadn’t realized it, Jayne had walked into the kitchen without saying anything to the sniffling blob wrapped in the sheet hunched over the table. She was standing over the stove waiting for a pot of water to boil (she was making oatmeal for the kids), her back to me. I tried to translate her body language and failed. I zoned out again on the countertop specifically designed for the placement of olive oil bottles. Victor soon shuffled in. The dog stared at me. You bore me, it was thinking. Go ahead—make my day, it was thinking.
“Why does that very rude golden retriever bark all night long?” I asked, glaring back at the dog.
“Maybe because he got freaked out by the sight of your nineteen-year-old students screwing in our garage,” Jayne said immediately, without turning around. “Maybe because Jay McInerney was skinny-dipping in our pool.”
“That doesn’t sound like . . . the Jayster,” I said tentatively.
“Someone had to haul him out after you disappeared,” she said. “With a net.”
“Who’s Annette?” I realized something. “Oh, what net?” I asked flippantly. “We don’t own a net.” Worried pause. “Do we?”
“I looked around but you were already passed out in the guest room.” She said this with the fake nonchalance she had been developing since I moved into the house.
I sighed. “I did not ‘pass out,’ Jayne. I was exhausted.”
“Why, Bret? Why were you so exhausted?” she asked, her voice now clenched.
I sipped my drink. “Well, that dog’s been doing its big barking routine and begging for attention the entire week. You know, honey, this happened to coincide with me starting my novel and so it’s extremely distracting and suspicious.”
“Yes, I know, Victor doesn’t want you to write another book,” Jayne said, turning the stove off and moving toward the sink. “I’m so with you on that one.”
“I never see that dog frolic,” I muttered. “He’s been depressed ever since I moved in and I never see him frolic.”
“Well, when you kicked him the other night—”
“Hey, he was trying to eat a stick of butter,” I exclaimed, sitting up. “He was going after that loaf of cornbread on the counter.”
“Why are we talking about the dog?” she snapped, finally facing me.
After a contained silence I sipped my juice again and cleared my throat.
“So, you wanna read me my rights?” I sighed.
“Why bother?” she said tightly, turning away. “You’re still in a coma.”
“I suppose we’ll be discussing this in couples counseling.”
She said nothing.
I decided to change the topic, hoping for a softer reaction. “So who was the guy who came as Patrick Bateman last night?” I asked. “The guy in the Armani suit with all the fake blood on it?”
“I have no idea. A student of yours? One of your legions of fans? Why do you care?”
“I . . . didn’t recognize him,” I murmured. “I thought—”
“You thought what? That I knew him?”
“Never mind.” I shut up and thought about things for a moment or two. “And did you ever figure out what happened in Sarah’s room?” I asked gently. “Because, Jayne, I think maybe she did it.” I paused for emphasis. “But she told me her doll did it—that bird thing, you know, the Terby I bought last summer—and, y’know, that’s pretty worrisome. And by the way, where was Marta when this so-called attack happened? I think that’s pretty—”
Jayne whirled toward me. “Why are you avoiding the fact that maybe one of your drunk, fucked-up students did it?”
“My students had better things to do last night than ransack our daughter’s—”
“Yeah, like fuck in our shower—I have no idea who they were—and snort coke off the countertop in the kitchen.” She was still glaring at me, hands on her hips.
A long pause in which I built