The Feast of Love - Charles Baxter [11]
THREE
“DID HE TELL YOU about the dogs?”
“Well, yes. He did.”
“And he said that I was afraid of dogs and that he drove me to the Humane Society?”
“That was the gist of it.”
“Did he make fun of me?”
“Oh no, Kathryn, he didn’t. Certainly not. No — he didn’t do anything like that at all.”
“Well, you wouldn’t tell me if he had. Anything else? Did he tell you anything else about us?”
“He said you two were broke in those days. You worked in a library part-time. He said that you gave names to the dogs, the ones at the Humane Society. You named the dogs one by one, he said. The way he described it, what you did sounded like a blessing.”
“He told you that? I don’t remember naming anybody or anything. I believe that he may have imagined the entire episode. We did go to the Humane Society once. I do remember all those animals. The barking. But I think we just walked in and then walked out without anything like an event, any sort of story, happening there. We had both been at the Botanical Gardens and we heard the dogs making a ruckus nearby, and we went over to investigate. The rest is probably imaginary. I’m certain he made it up.”
“I suppose he might have,” I tell her.
“This is all so weird,” she says. “Your calling me out of the blue and asking me about some encounter that Bradley and I had years ago. Aren’t those matters personal? I think maybe they should be. I realize that nothing stays hidden anymore but I’d still like to keep a few domestic particulars private. Especially when it comes to my love life. Such as it is. I can’t imagine why anybody else would be interested in who I love or how I loved them.”
“Oh, everyone’s interested in that. Besides, I’d change your name. You could retain your privacy.”
“That’s not quite what I’m getting at,” she says. “My marriage with him failed. So it’s not a matter of pride exactly. I switched partners, but doing that is very difficult and taxing in ways you don’t anticipate. Especially when you do it the way I did. It changes your views of yourself and who you are. You said you’re a writer. Have you ever read Schnitzler’s La Ronde?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Then you remember what it’s about. Changing partners. You should reread it. I acted in it once when I was a sophomore.” She waits for a moment, as if imagining it. “I played a housemaid. There was a pantomime lovemaking scene on stage between me and ‘the young gentleman.’ That was fun.”
“Well, maybe you have a story of your own,” I suggest. “About what happened to you.”
“I have lots of stories,” she says. “But they’re not the sort you give away, you know . . . and I don’t tell them to just anybody. What did you say your name was again?”
I tell her.
“I honestly don’t remember ever meeting you. I’ve never heard of you. Did we ever meet? And this is for a book you’re writing, Charlie?”
“Sort of.”
“You aren’t going to post this whole deal on the Internet, are you?”
“No.”
“Thank God. Who are you anyway? Could you please explain that again, that who-you-are thing?”
I try to spell out to her who I am. It’s not easy, summarizing yourself on the telephone to a stranger. Before I’m finished, she breaks in. “All right. I think I get the idea,” she says. “Okay. That’s enough. You want a story? I’ll give you one. But then you have to promise me not to bother me anymore. Are you writing this down?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. The thing is, you’re appealing to my vanity. I suppose I always wanted to appear in someone’s book, and I guess this is my chance. I can be a literary entity. Up there with Mrs. Danvers and Huck Finn and imaginary people like that. But you’ll just have to understand that I’ll only do this once. Then you can’t call me again. I’m going to check on you before I talk to you again to make sure that you really are who you say you are. A woman in my position has to be careful. To start with, I don’t remember you from my Bradley days. You could be anybody.”
“Of course. That’s right. I could be anybody.”
“But if you check out, this is where I’ll meet you.” And she gives me