to be a shade of brown—and to phrases like personal trainer and personal dresser that leave him wondering whether there also exist impersonal trainers and impersonal dressers and, if so, what services they can possibly perform.
“You owe yourself something better,” Anita tells him. Holly would’ve told him not to waste his money on a new van because anything he drove would smell like dogs sooner or later, anyway. Besides, she’d have asked, what was wrong with doggy odor? And who was he, a veterinarian, suddenly to display this ridiculous antipathy to the fragrance of God’s Own Sacred Animal?
Steve briefly takes his eyes off the road, the Maine Turnpike, to glance at Anita as she reclines seductively where Holly always sat. And talked. Often about her dogs. Or her work. Anita can’t talk about her dogs because she has none. Her only pet is a small green lizard, Ignacio. As to Anita’s work, Steve, as befits a veterinarian, had had to ferret out her occupation. Anita doesn’t talk about her work because... well, because she’s sensitive about the negative public image of her profession, he guesses. She is a lawyer or, as she says, an attorney, a specialist in environmental law, conservation easements, all that sort of thing. Steve has no idea what that sort of thing is and never asks. The opportunity seldom arises. In a manner that Steve finds refreshing, Anita usually talks about him.
“A new van’d be a waste of money,” he tells her now. “Sooner or later, it’d smell just like this one. It comes with the profession. A harmless occupational hazard.”
She laughs uproariously. An almost inaudible voice at the back of his head asks whether she does not, in fact, laugh a bit too uproariously in response to what was not, after all, side-splitting hilarity. He ignores the voice. Unlike Holly, Anita possesses the great virtue of never trying to be funny. She wouldn’t know how, the voice murmurs.
“Steve, I wasn’t suggesting that you get rid of it,” Anita says soothingly. “What I was thinking was that you could get yourself something new and fun, and just use this when you had your dogs with you.”
The unwelcome voice at the back of his head instantly pipes up. New and fun? As opposed to when the dogs are with you? My boy, if this woman loves you at all, it’s not for who you really are. The voice sounds irritatingly like Holly’s. Who the hell is she to talk about loving him for who he really is? Or isn’t?
“The new one wouldn’t have to be big,” Anita points out. “You could get a two-seater. Whatever you wanted. Leather seats?”
He feels defensive. His dogs are far too well behaved to think about chewing up leather seats, never mind doing it. Lady, his pointer, has never fully recovered from her initial timidity. Her fearfulness, he believes, is in part constitutional. Still, she trusts him, and with most strangers, she no longer shakes like Jell-O. Prozac is probably unnecessary. She has made progress without it, and he prefers a behavioral intervention. India, his shepherd, has too high an opinion of herself to stoop to misbehavior and too high an opinion of him to disobey. India has, however, developed the embarrassing habit of calmly stationing herself between Anita and Lady, as if to protect the vulnerable pointer from human menace. Fortunately, Anita does not recognize the insult for what it is. What will not fail to register, if Anita happens to see it, is the expression that appears now and then on India’s expressive face as she quietly studies Anita. Even Anita would know what that silently lifted lip meant. No one could misinterpret that Elvis Presley sneer.
“Wouldn’t that be fun!” Anita exclaims. “You work so hard. You deserve a lot in return. Payback!”
Steve is not a complete fool. The two-seater with its leather seats? Anita would borrow it. Often. Very often. All the time. The voice suddenly sounds like his mother’s. It asks what he expects from a woman
“You owe yourself something better,” Anita tells him. Holly would’ve told him not to waste his money on a new van because anything he drove would smell like dogs sooner or later, anyway. Besides, she’d have asked, what was wrong with doggy odor? And who was he, a veterinarian, suddenly to display this ridiculous antipathy to the fragrance of God’s Own Sacred Animal?
Steve briefly takes his eyes off the road, the Maine Turnpike, to glance at Anita as she reclines seductively where Holly always sat. And talked. Often about her dogs. Or her work. Anita can’t talk about her dogs because she has none. Her only pet is a small green lizard, Ignacio. As to Anita’s work, Steve, as befits a veterinarian, had had to ferret out her occupation. Anita doesn’t talk about her work because... well, because she’s sensitive about the negative public image of her profession, he guesses. She is a lawyer or, as she says, an attorney, a specialist in environmental law, conservation easements, all that sort of thing. Steve has no idea what that sort of thing is and never asks. The opportunity seldom arises. In a manner that Steve finds refreshing, Anita usually talks about him.
“A new van’d be a waste of money,” he tells her now. “Sooner or later, it’d smell just like this one. It comes with the profession. A harmless occupational hazard.”
She laughs uproariously. An almost inaudible voice at the back of his head asks whether she does not, in fact, laugh a bit too uproariously in response to what was not, after all, side-splitting hilarity. He ignores the voice. Unlike Holly, Anita possesses the great virtue of never trying to be funny. She wouldn’t know how, the voice murmurs.
“Steve, I wasn’t suggesting that you get rid of it,” Anita says soothingly. “What I was thinking was that you could get yourself something new and fun, and just use this when you had your dogs with you.”
The unwelcome voice at the back of his head instantly pipes up. New and fun? As opposed to when the dogs are with you? My boy, if this woman loves you at all, it’s not for who you really are. The voice sounds irritatingly like Holly’s. Who the hell is she to talk about loving him for who he really is? Or isn’t?
“The new one wouldn’t have to be big,” Anita points out. “You could get a two-seater. Whatever you wanted. Leather seats?”
He feels defensive. His dogs are far too well behaved to think about chewing up leather seats, never mind doing it. Lady, his pointer, has never fully recovered from her initial timidity. Her fearfulness, he believes, is in part constitutional. Still, she trusts him, and with most strangers, she no longer shakes like Jell-O. Prozac is probably unnecessary. She has made progress without it, and he prefers a behavioral intervention. India, his shepherd, has too high an opinion of herself to stoop to misbehavior and too high an opinion of him to disobey. India has, however, developed the embarrassing habit of calmly stationing herself between Anita and Lady, as if to protect the vulnerable pointer from human menace. Fortunately, Anita does not recognize the insult for what it is. What will not fail to register, if Anita happens to see it, is the expression that appears now and then on India’s expressive face as she quietly studies Anita. Even Anita would know what that silently lifted lip meant. No one could misinterpret that Elvis Presley sneer.
“Wouldn’t that be fun!” Anita exclaims. “You work so hard. You deserve a lot in return. Payback!”
Steve is not a complete fool. The two-seater with its leather seats? Anita would borrow it. Often. Very often. All the time. The voice suddenly sounds like his mother’s. It asks what he expects from a woman
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