Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

turned right, too, until I felt Stewie’s hand on my arm.
    “Where are you going?” he asked.
    Lisa’s place was to the left. I looked toward Dashiell, who had stopped when I did. Now they were both looking at me as if I were crazy.
    “I wanted to pick up a muffin,” I said, “for the morning.”
    Stewie nodded and walked me to Sacred Chow, which of course was closed. Then we turned around and headed for the Printing House, where I got to see Stewie’s crunched-up, embarrassed little smile once more as we said good night.
    I walked in through the front door, greeted Eddie, and walked out the side door. A few minutes later, driving around looking for a legal spot for the Taurus, I was thinking about Stewie Fleck.
    There was a Zen version of his dream. Avi had told it to me one day during a private lesson.
    “In the middle of the form, having gathered your energy, you return to the mountain. There you seek the teacher, but the answers you seek,” he’d said, late one evening, “are already within you.”
    “What about the answers I need about Lisa?” I’d asked him.
    “You think too much,” he’d said. Then he’d turned north, toward the window Lisa had been pushed out of, and begun the form again.

17

What Do You Suggest?

    CEIL WAS DRESSED to the nines, all in black, her white hair slicked back in a twist at the nape of her neck, the only color her bright red lipstick.
    “Come, darling,” she said, swooping me into her arms and then leading me to her sunny kitchen. “Let’s eat.”
    Dashiell sneezed at her perfume, then padded along behind us, wagging his tail.
    Over the table were pictures of my cousin Richie as a little kid. He must be somewhere in his late forties by now. “What do you hear from Richie?” I asked, more to be polite than out of any real interest. In truth, I was thinking only of the reason why I had come.
    “That kid,” she said, “what a hoot he is.”
    “How’s his writing going?” I asked, digging into my salad niçoise . “Writing? Writing? Is that what your mother told you?”
    I nodded. “She said he moved to Key West to become a writer, like Hemingway. She even emphasized the writer part, meaning why don’t you do something that would give your mother noches ?”
    Ceil roared. “She always worried about what other people would think. She had a cover story for everyone, even my son. You know, before you got married, she always told people you’d been engaged, but your fianc6 had died in a tragic accident, so of course they wouldn’t ask you anything.” She laughed again. I felt my face flush. “Oh, darling, I didn’t mean to upset you. Except for funerals, we never see each other. I hardly know you now.”
    “I—“
    “I know. I know. You’re a busy professional. So, today we’ll get acquainted again.” She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “Richie’s not a writer, Rachel. He’s a drag queen.”
    My eyebrows must have gone up.
    “A female impersonator. Come on, cookie, you know what that is. He dresses up in women’s clothes, he sings a little, he makes a nice living.”
    “My mother knew this?”
    “Of course.”
    “And Richie, what, he just told you one day?”
    “He never had to tell me, Rachel .. I used to catch him trying on my bras when he was a kid, putting on nail polish, falling all ova: himself in my high heels. He even bought me a wig once, for Mother’s Day, so that he could wear it when I wasn’t home. He’s too much, my Richie .“
    “So where did my mother get this story?”
    She pricked a tomato with her fork and held it aloft. “When Richie was at Yale, he did talk about becoming a writer. He also talked about becoming an architect, a veterinarian, an engineer. It was all talk. I did think he might take up acting. They had a wonderful drama program at Yale, and I thought that would be right up Richie’s alley. But he didn’t take to it then. Of course, he does all sorts of skits now .“
    “So my mother fixated on the writing?”
    “Why not? He did write a poem once. When he was ten. Your mother didn’t make up the story from air. She put together a little this, a little that, some imagination, and her enormous pride. Your poor mother. That was her obsession, that everything should look just so.” She popped the tomato into her mouth and chewed.
    “Did Richie go to Key West right after Yale?”
    “No, he lived in New York for a while, in Chelsea . He worked in a restaurant, he was a singing waiter,