Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

she just got tired of having to be perfect. That can be a real drag.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Janet shrugged, picked up another dumpling, and dipped it into the little dish of soy sauce before putting it into her mouth. I spooned up some soup.
    “See,” she said, pointing at me with her sticks. “That’s how Lisa ate. She’d never pick up her bowl. Afraid she might drip a little soup on her chin.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Like it would be the end of the fucking world if she did.”
    “Janet, what did Avi mean when he told you there was something important you hadn’t done?”
    “We were that loud?” she said. “You heard us fighting before you even walked in?” Janet put both hands over her mouth.
    “I did.”
    “No wonder you were such a bitch!”
    “I couldn’t help hearing you all, Janet,” I said, leaning over the table and punching her playfully on her concrete arm. “The door was open, and I was walking—”
    “Because Lisa never took the elevator,” she said. Then she crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out to the side.
    “So, the thing Avi said—”
    I picked up a dumpling and dipped it in the soy sauce. The strong flavor made my eyes tear.
    “The bodybuilding.” She lifted her right arm and flexed the most astonishing biceps I had ever seen. “ Avi says t’ai chi makes learning everything else easier. And everything else you do, physical stuff, like sports or exercise, makes it more difficult to learn t’ai chi.”
    “Is that true?” I asked, thinking of all the hyperbole I had read in one of Lisa’s books, particularly the sweeping statements about health and longevity.
    The waiter arrived with the check. I reached for my wallet, but Janet shook her head.
    “Yes,” she said, looking down. “He gets really pissed when I come to class so sore from weight lifting that I can hardly move without groaning. T’ai chi, he goes, is about letting go, relaxing the muscles, strength from softness, all that shit. He goes, Ach, you know how he does that? So what do you do, he goes, you make rocks out of your muscles. You’re not happy until you’re in pain.
    “What happens when the most pliable element meets the hardest? he goes one time. But he doesn’t wait for an answer. He’d be one unhappy dude if you ever answered one of his questions. He has to ask and answer. Am I right?”
    I nodded.
    “The rock yields, he goes. It is worn away by the water. Nothing, absolutely nothing can withstand the force of water.” Janet leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He got so mad at me once, he can be a cranky son of a bitch, you know, so he goes, How long are you going to go on trying to be superwoman? like one word from him and I’m going to bum my cape and throw away my shirt with the red S on it.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “Nothing. I didn’t say squat. So he goes, Janet, haven’t you noticed that it gets more and more difficult to find a phone booth nowadays? And when you finally do, someone’s already gone and pissed in it.” Janet covered her mouth when she laughed. “The man’s a fucking riot.”
    “Have you ever thought of giving it up?”
    “Shit, no. You done any? It makes you feel so good.”
    “Pumping iron? Not really.”
    Janet raised one eyebrow. “Never?”
    I pushed up the sleeve of Lisa’s sweater and flexed my biceps. She wasn’t impressed.
    “You’re coming to the gym, woman, for a real workout. I want you to feel what I’m talking about. Hey, it’s on me. No charge. Okay?”
    She took out her appointment book and a pen, and we made a date for my bodybuilding lesson, for Thursday at five. She carefully wrote my name in her book, holding the pen with her left hand. This would have been a huge issue, perhaps even exoneration from my suspicions, had I not already seen Rabbi Zuckerman and heard his opinion that Lisa had written the note herself, the note that Lisa’s parents, Paul, and now Janet thought had been an apology to them.
    As Janet wrote, her tongue out to the side and moving with each word, I took a good look at her arms. She could have carried Lisa up the stairs and pitched her out the window without stopping to catch her breath.
    “You coming to sword class tonight?” she asked.
    I pictured myself as a New Yorker cartoon. The caption would read, “Oops.”
    “I’m sort of a klutz. I’d probably cut off my own foot.”
    “No problem, as long as you don’t cut off my foot.” She winked at me.