“I’m a little early, hope you don’t mind! It’s weird, I’m usually late!”
“Come in, Tommy! You don’t mind if I call you Tommy, it’s how your mom always spoke of you. My boy Tommy, she’d say.”
Inez got up on her tip toes and kissed him on both cheeks and then strangely, on the mouth, mitigating somewhat his hatred of being called Tommy. His mother knew since he was four his hatred of Tommy and had honored his wish from then on, though obviously once he left home, she had reverted back to his toddler-hood.
“Sit down! Sit down!”
Photo: Joel Goodman
Inez’s living room in West LA was small and cramped with furniture. A lattice child’s gate separated the living room from the kitchen. She was little, like a Barbie doll with big real boobs and perfect little legs and feet. She was, he supposed, around his mother’s age.
“Water? A glass of wine? I know it’s early.”
“Sure. Wine would be great!”
Now she was sitting next to him on the vaguely uncomfortable sofa that had two pillows embossed with Disney characters.
The wine, white and chilled was surprisingly good.
“This is delicious, thank you!”
Inez took a sip. Then another. Tears fell from her eyes, down her cheeks. She had a long sleeve T-shirt on, and she pulled a cloth handkerchief from the cuff. This she used to mop her face.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t want to cry!”
“I’m glad you’re crying. I wish I could! Poppy always told me I better cry at her funeral.”
He watched her sniff. “Your mom told me the story of why you called her Poppy. So sweet!” She sobbed.
His father had left, practically as soon as he was born. And as soon as he was old enough to ask for one, a Daddy, a Pop, she had told him not to get his hopes up.
“But I want a pop!” he had cried. “Lots of the boys and girls have pops!” A lot of them didn’t he remembered now, but he had not wanted to be like them.
“So call me Poppy,” she had suggested. And so he had. Everyone else called her Caro, which was her real name.
“What did you call her?”
“Mostly we just called each other hon!”
Tom took a swig of his wine. His glass was almost empty now.
“Poppy left you some money to take care of the dog. Funds are supposed to clear in a few days.”
Inez started crying again. He noticed her breasts quivered when she sobbed. “I miss her so much!”
His mother had left the dog thirty grand. Or this Barbie neighbor here thirty grand. He supposed he missed her too. But he was still in shock. How could he not be? He’s been off on a diving trip. And he hadn’t told her where. Odd, because one of his underwater thoughts had been about being a fetus swimming around in amniotic fluid. When he returned to the mainland, and turned on his phone, Poppy was dead in a four-car crash on the 405. During the time in which they couldn’t find him, approximately eight days, she had died, been cremated, and her beloved dog, had come to live with Inez who had sometimes been his pet sitter.
Did he miss her? Yes, he supposed he did miss her. But now that he had his first million in cash, (thanks to the unexpected life insurance policy) plus the condo, plus the 401 K, the CDs, a surprising amount of them, he knew he’d miss his new unknown, unexplored riches more than his well-known mother.
“How long will you be in town? Are you staying at the house?”
“No. It freaked me out there. I’m staying in Hollywood.”
Inez nodded.
“She left you thirty grand to take care of the dog.”
Inez looked up: her eyes were wide and amazed.
“Really?”
“Really!”
“That’s so nice,” she sighed. “I loved your mom and that’s just like her to think of me that way. She knew I would do it for free. She asked me when she was making her will. But she didn’t tell me about the money.”
“Poppy was great!” he said.
Inez wasn’t crying anymore. She seemed a little stunned.
“Would you like to see Tommy? He’s sleeping in his crate. I didn’t want him rushing at you the second you came in the door.”
“Sure!”
He got to his feet and followed her as she unlatched the lattice door. They were both standing in the small kitchen now. And he was recalling the first time he had met his namesake, six or seven years ago and the unexpected rush of hatred he felt for the animal. “Why did you name the dog after me?” He had wanted to know. “You’re Tom, he’s Tommy!” Poppy had replied, and they had left it at that.
He had wanted a dog when he was growing up. Just as he had wanted a father: passionately and in vain. She worked. He went to school, there was no one to take care of a dog, so they had a cat—he had a cat now too at home, probably, he’d never have a dog.
The dog was standing up in his cage. He was a sharp-faced, handsome terrier with velvety eyes, a coat as white as milk with one prominent spot. Why did people call it a crate? Did it make them feel better about caging an animal?
The dog was wagging his tail so furiously the whole crate was shaking.
Inez was crooning like his mom used to, in that stupid voice people use to talk to dogs and babies.
“Tommy, Tommy…. your brother Tom is here!” She slid the door of the cage open.
Tommy burst out of the cage. He jumped up and began wagging his tail furiously.
“He’s not my fucking brother!” Tom cried out. And the tears he had not shed before, came rushing from his eyes. Inez drew him to her, whispering, “There, there….good boy….”
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