All That Work and Still No Boys

Dougie

1 0 5 Dougie I am an expert in empty houses. I haven’t paid rent in over two years. People are constantly leaving in a hurry. They have plants to water, mail to collect. They have old dogs and worried cats. They get my name from a friend of a friend, and I turn up with a tiny-sized tote—this tells them right away that I’m not an invader. I’m always surprised at how good they make me feel. Warm and trustworthy. Neighborly. I call my brother Randy on my way into town. It’s the end of the day, rush hour, and Randy I know is getting ready to work. I close the door of the phone booth and now I feel like Houdini, Houdini as a woman in a strong glass box. Even with the door 1 0 6 D o u g i e shut, I have to shout to make him hear me. There didn’t used to be so many cars and trucks. “I’m back,” I tell him. “I’ve got a new gig.” “A job?” asks Randy. He’s joking, I know it. I’ve stayed with him a few times, between empty houses, but now he’s married, and I’m self-sufficient. I haven’t dropped in on him for six months running. “A house,” I say. “Right here in town.” I lean against the glass; it warms my shoulder. This might be the last real phone booth in all the Garden State. “A shingled house with a yard in back. Nice big elmtreesallaround.Comeoverandseeit.You’llfeelrightathome.” “What street?” asks Randy. Already he’s suspicious. I can’t fool him, but I don’t really try. I name the street. He pauses. I can’t wait; I tell him the number. “So the Jeffreys’ house,” he says. “Right next door to Mom.” “Janet Jeffrey took Herb to Omaha for new bone marrow.” “That’s not funny, Nina. Not funny at all.” “Not the Herb part. Poor Herb. But back on the street—doesn’t that give you a chuckle?” “For how long?” he asks. “They don’t know yet. It could be weeks.” Randy changes his mind. He does that to me sometimes, but I always roll with his punches. “That’s great news,” he says. I switch shoulders, feel the sun-warmth spread. I wonder if the Jeffreys have lawn chairs in the backyard, so Randy and I can sit outside and smoke. “You can help Mom,” I hear him saying. “She needs company, what with Dick taking off.” I crack the door of the phone booth open. “I can’t hear you,” I shout. I hold the receiver to the car-whipped wind. “Come over after work. I’ll be there in an hour.” The wind blows in both directions. I can’t hear him say when he’ll stop by for a visit. My mother’s forearms are hinging like a hatch; she thinks she’s on a runway guiding in a loaded jet. I’d rather park on the street for a quick getaway if I need it, but I like to live by certain guide- D o u g i e 1 0 7 lines, little principles that have seen me through. The one I’m thinking of at the moment is this: small concessions are never a waste of time. I pull my car into the Jeffreys’ garage. It’s better than my mother’s: a car fits. “Poor Herb,” says my mother. “New bone marrow, can you imagine? They asked me to take the test, but I said no. They’re not family.” This is my mother’s way of telling me that if I were dying, she’d take the test. I’ll save her the trouble: we’d never be a match. She hands me the keys and Janet Jeffrey’s list, “Household Instructions for Nina, Thanx so much!!” Two pages in apricot ink. My mother will be hard-pressed to improve on it. “Herb can’t be that bad off. Janet had time to write this.” “Don’t forget to buy toilet paper. Janet will want you to supply your own. Paper towels. Garbage bags. Wet and dry cat food. Janet says Dougie takes both.” I look around and see Dougie lying under the kitchen table and that stuns me. Dougie’s as old as I am, which is impossible, but maybe it’s true. I can...