Dr. Zachary Klein

I went to Edith’s all-white party dressed in a rabbit costume. Ordered it off of the Net. A company out of Chicago, the Costume Shop. They had everything—turkeys, monsters, Ronald Reagan, even gorillas. The gorilla was my favorite, but they didn’t have it in white. Anyway, the rabbit suit cost me $125. The round puffball tail bouncing on my ass really set it off. I decided I should rent it for a week longer so I could wear it to work. Me in the potato fields, dressed like a giant rabbit. That should cure something.

It was nearly nine o’clock by the time I made it over to Edith’s. I walked down the path, sad as hell, my rabbit ears being blown sideways by the ever-present nor’easter gale. Here I was, going to a party that was supposed to celebrate Murmur Lee. But most of the women I loved were dead. What, tell me, what was there to celebrate?

But I don’t like for people to know my business. So I hopped inside the house—as usual, I was the last to arrive—and wiggled my ass, and everyone had a hearty laugh at my expense. Then there were my props—a person needs props; a person can hide behind a decent set of props: a giant bag of marshmallows—it was the only white food I could think of—and a white plastic lawn chair I’d purloined from a trash pile outside a double-wide on my way home from Elkton. In lieu of carrots—all rabbits have to arrive with carrots—I carried a bouquet of parsnips. I ceremoniously settled myself into the chair, pretended to chew on a parsnip, and then—I had to say it—asked, “What’s up, Doc?”

Everyone groaned, so I jumped up and tore open the marshmallow bag and ran about the room, tossing the sugary white pillows into the air.

“Stop, Zachary, you absolutely must stop!” Edith said, hugging me and pinching my ass.

“You’re stunning,” I told her, and patted her three-story-high white wig with my rabbit paw. “You look sort of like Audrey Hepburn with white hair.”

She leaned into me, her fake boobs pressing into my fur. “You are insane, my friend.” Her eyes sparkled with what I believe was the threat of tears. “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course I’m here. I wouldn’t have missed it,” I said, scanning the room. “Where’s the booze?”

“Right here, darling.” Edith floated over to the table and poured a clear fluid into a stemmed glass. “Every little rabbit needs a good stiff bolt of vodka now and again. All that fucking they do! Vodka is their secret!” Edith crinkled her nose with all the charm of a coed in love and smiled her grand-hostess smile. She touched my furry arm. “I have to go mingle now, darling.” She and her giant hair and her silk jammies and her thirty-foot-long boa floated away. And there I stood. Alone. My true self, existentially and otherwise. Alone.

I surveyed the room. In the corner, sulking, stood the mean little Lucinda in a torn white T-shirt and bleached-out jeans. Her hair was cropped as short as I’ve ever seen it and was the color of vanilla pudding. She’d powdered herself in white. Where does one find stone white powder? I don’t know, but she’d done it. Even her pudding hair was dusted with white grains. She was surrounded by people from Salty’s, but she wasn’t joining them in their raucous discussion. She just stood there glowering.

Hazel had her back turned to Lucinda and she was putting her finger on Silas’s chest, as if to bring home a point. I thought that was not a good idea, poking the forever-angry and muscle-bound Silas. It’s not something I would have done. My professional services might be needed tonight, I thought. Absolutely. There she was, giving him shit about something, her double-D breasts squeezed into a shell three sizes too small, a mammarian tidal wave.

And then, my, my, my, there was Charlee. Charlee in a white mohair sweater and white slacks and a simple strand of white pearls. Charlee, with her strawberry blond curls and fair skin. Charlee, whom I hadn’t seen in a coon’s age, except for one brief visit shortly after she got back into town, when I advised her on the cremation procedures for Murmur Lee. Charlee, who’d run off to Harvard and had returned in the despairing light of her friend’s death. Charlee was a lot prettier than my memory had allowed. I stood there sipping my martini, and a foreign urge to kick myself for being dressed like a 180-pound rabbit flashed through what I hoped would soon be my sodden brain.

Me and women: a deadly combination. Me and Katrina. Look who’s gone. Me and Murmur Lee—although pursuit and consummation were never in the cards—but anyway, look who’s gone. Testosterone, though, is a mighty drug. And sometimes a man really does need to experience a level of intimacy that his own hand or a sad foray into AdultFriendFinder.com can’t provide. And Charlee sure was pretty, standing there by a pot of soup, playing with those pearls, speaking to the kid who mops the floors at Salty’s.

I hopped on over. In my most gallant fashion, I pulled off my rabbit head.

She laughed, pressed her palm against her lips, and then said in her honey-soaked drawl, “Dr. Z, you are amazing!”

I kissed her cheek. She seemed not to object. I told myself I was a motherfucker. To be interested was to betray Katrina. No, my dead wife did not care. But I did. I bear guilt like citrus trees bear fruit.

“It’s good to see you, Charlee. You look gorgeous.”

“And you!” She tossed out her arms as if to embrace the whole package. “You look,” she paused—“well, like a giant white rabbit.”

“You are so smart.” I touched the tip of her nose with my paw. Edith floated by and said, “Bottoms up!”

“Goodness, Edith, you’re going to have us all rip-roaring drunk,” Charlee said, but she dutifully downed the rest of her martini, as did I, and we accepted the fresh ones Edith placed in our fists.

“Pour vous.”

“Merci,” I said, responding like a gentlemanly rabbit. “Edith, tell me, something is different about your house. What’s going on?”

“You don’t know?” Charlee asked, her green eyes widening.

“La musique!” Edith said. “I’ve retired Ms. Piaf for the evening. In keeping with our theme, we are listening to the White Album.”

“Ha! Good. You think of everything, Edith.” I spied a slight burn under her pale pancake makeup. I felt the vodka ripple down my brain stem. “Did you invite Speare?”

Edith tossed back her head. Her wig dangerously shifted to the right. She looked like George Washington with a bouffant. “I did. I felt I had to.”

“What’s wrong with inviting Speare?” Charlee asked. “Everyone treats the poor man as if he’s a pariah.”

I felt my jaw clench, and the bad boy in me suddenly wanted to drink all the vodka in the house. Even worse, I wanted to fuck. Why was my anger attached to sex? I needed counseling.

“Look,” Edith said, “call me a pushover. Fine. But I feel sorry for him. I really do think he loved our Mur. And, like you say, Charlee, none of us is exactly behaving kindly toward him. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he didn’t show.” She looked over my shoulder, rested her fingers lightly upon her arched neck, sighed as if life was just too mean, and said, “Excusez-moi. I have to go entertain.”

Charlee came in close, sweetly, like she was about to share a delicious secret, and said, “Really, Z, why does everyone—except for the magnanimous Edith—hate the guy?”

I looked beyond her. Nothing could be gained from this conversation. I caught Lucinda’s eye and nodded at her. She was still glued to the corner, and this time it was she, not Hazel, who was giving Silas hell. She nodded back, not missing a beat in whatever it was she was saying. “Let’s change the subject, Charlee. How about something to eat?”

“Sure, Z,” she said, but I could tell by the scowl threatening to creep across her pretty little nose that she would revisit the subject of the entirely dislikable Mr. Speare.

With my rabbit head tucked under my arm and my hand against the small of her back, we made our way over to the buffet, where I slathered a piece of white bread with Brie. Charlee reached for a radish and said, “So, Z, I’m finished with men. That’s it. God and men. I’m done with both of them!”

“Oh, don’t say that. You’re too wonderful and too pretty to give up that easily.”

She smiled. She had a big smile. It moved planets, that smile. I sipped my drink. So did she.

“Really, Charlee, how are you? Where’ve you been? Are you settling in okay? Are you glad to be back? Can I do anything for you?” I shot all five questions.

She pulled on one of her strawberry curls. The tendril clung to her finger. She said she was doing fine, considering. I noticed that her green eyes were flecked with gold, and I tossed my rabbit head onto the couch.

“Let me freshen up that drink.” I reached for her glass. Our hands touched. It felt good.

“No, really, my drink is . . .”

Too late. I had it firmly in hand and topped off before she could stop me.

She giggled and said, “Oh Lord, I’m going to get into trouble tonight.”

“Charlee, my dear, I certainly hope so. What do you say? Let’s go outside and get some fresh air. The gale wind be damned.”

She was amused. I could tell by the way she cocked her head and squirreled her lips into a curvy line that wasn’t quite a smile. She looked around the room and then her gaze settled on me. “Yes,” she said, all perky, “let’s go.”

Something had happened. I was on automatic male. I guided Charlee through the room, bantering about how if Edith wasn’t careful, her wig would collide with a candle and she’d go up in flames. But I wasn’t really thinking about Edith at all. I couldn’t get my mind off Charlee’s cleavage and the smattering of freckles on the sweet rise of her left breast.