Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

is.”
    “For sure.”
    “Funny, you don’t sound half Chinese.”
    “Born in the USA.” He smiled, showing me his dimples. “Flushing.” I skipped all the obvious cheap shots and got down to business. “The reason I called, Paul, is that I was wondering if you could tell me about Lisa. What she was like, you know, as an adult.
    What might have made her”—suddenly feeling the weight of what I was saying, I lowered my voice—“make the decision she did.”
    He scratched Dashiell’s nose-tackle-sized neck.
    “He’s huge, your boy,” he said. “What does he weigh?”
    “Is this where you met my cousin?” I asked.
    “What is this all about? Lisa never mentioned you, and I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s the deal?”
    “It’s my aunt Marsha.” I lowered my eyes. “She’s not sleeping well. She needs—we all need—answers. Did you ever meet her, Lisa’s mother?”
    “No. I never did. Lisa said she wouldn’t sic her relatives on a dog.” He shook his head. “No offense meant.”
    “None taken,” I told him.
    He took another swig of the sludge in his glass. “You’re not drinking your juice,” he said.
    I nodded. He was right. I wasn’t drinking it.
    “So you never met them?” I asked.
    “What’s the point of this, Rachel? She’s dead.” He began looking around as if he were bored.
    “Look, I’m sorry to stir things up. But my aunt asked me if I could find out what the hell was going on that made Lisa, you know, kill herself . It’s so hard to—”
    “Swallow,” he said. “Isn’t it though? Lots of things in life are difficult to swallow. Don’t you find that so, Rachel? Is it Rachel Jacobs?”
    “Alexander. That branch of the family. Not the Jacobs branch .“
    “And the Alexander branch resembles the Jacobs branch .“
    “Exactly.”
    “How homogeneous.” He drained his glass.
    I picked up my glass of juice and set it right down again. If Lisa’s boyfriend saw the family resemblance, perhaps the person at the desk would, too. Lisa’s membership card to the Club was in one of the pockets of her calendar. Clearly my clever interview technique wasn’t winning Paul Wilcox over. Maybe my dog paddle would.
    “Did Lisa swim here?” I asked. “Is that how you met?”
    Paul was looking away, and for a while he said nothing. “Maybe she got dizzy. It can happen when you exercise. Maybe she went to the window for a little air, and—”
    “There was a note,” I said softly.
    He turned and stared at me. “A what?”
    “A note.”
    He covered his face with his hands. They were clean and strong looking, his fingers long and graceful. He moved them to his lap when Dashiell got up and laid his head there.
    “What did it— ”
    “ ‘I’m sorry. Lisa.’ That’s all. No one told you?”
    “ ‘I’m sorry. Lisa’?”
    I nodded.
    Suddenly the top and bottom halves of Paul Wilcox’s face were in concert.
    “No way,” he said, his fist hitting the table so hard the top jumped and then continued to vibrate for another minute. Dashiell backed up a foot and barked until I signaled him to lie down.
    “No fucking way. Lisa Jacobs never apologized to anyone in her life.”
    “Is that a fact?” I said, cool as a Borzoi.
    “Look, cousin, I found the first news difficult to believe, and now this. Give me a break.”
    He pushed his chair back and got up.
    “Wait a minute here,” he said, leaning over me, so close I could see his tonsils. “Are you telling me my name was on it?” he whispered. “That it was addressed to me? Is that why you’re here?”
    “No. Should it have been? Addressed to you?”
    He just shook his head.
    “Paul, were you and my cousin still going together when this happened?”
    “No,” he said, pushing the chair back against the table so hard it moved the table closer to me. He began to walk away.
    Good, I thought. At least one of us was telling the truth. His name hadn’t appeared in Lisa’s calendar since January 11.
    And that time, it had been crossed out.
    “When did you break up?” I asked his back.
    But he didn’t bother to answer me. Without turning around or saying good-bye, he disappeared down the stairs that led to the pool.

How Long Will It Take?

    AT TEN THIRTY that night, after I had practiced the form alone in the garden, Dashiell and I headed back to Bank Street T’ai Chi. Avi opened the door before we reached the landing, his finger to his lips. Without speaking, I dropped my jacket onto one of the couches,