chapter thirty-eight

“Pearl’s fine,” Patrick assured me over the phone. “She only stealth-pooped once, and it’s almost suppertime.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall, thinking it was amazing how much work I got done waiting in lines, thanks to my cell phone/ball and chain. Emma Jan liked to wonder aloud what we all did before the Internet and laptops and cell phones and texting and Twitter. “Lived our lives,” Shiro told her sourly. (Not a fan of Twitter, my Shiro.)

“That’s great.”

“And she really likes that blanket in the kitchen. Which is just unbelievable to me.”

“We’ve been over th—”

“I bought her this amazing dog-recliner thing from L.L. Bean and she wants the ratty blanket you’ve had so long you don’t remember when you bought it.”

I’m not entirely sure I’m the one who bought it. “It’s all part of her plan to mess with you.”

It was a Premium Dog Couch, “preferred by dogs everywhere!” per the online catalogue (I guess “loathed and despised by dogs everywhere!” wasn’t as big a selling point). The thing was two and a half feet long and three feet wide; the Premium Dog Couch was almost as big as our Not-so-Premium People Couch. It was “designed with bolsters on three sides for cushioning and support,” and when Pearl laid down in it, it didn’t so much support her as swallow her. I was not surprised she preferred the blanket, but it would do no good to explain all that to Patrick, who was something of a label baby.

“Listen, I’m sorry to disappear on you again. But we’re really close to getting this guy.” Also, I’m not sure I ever really loved you, but thanks for uprooting your life and buying a house for me to live in. Owe ya one, big guy! “Really close,” I added, relieved that that, at least, was true.

“That’s great! Listen, come home for a snack.”

“I can’t.” I guiltily looked at the guy behind the counter. It was almost my turn. I couldn’t just walk away. It’d be rude. When you went to the trouble to get into a line, you were making a commitment to buy whatever it was you were getting in line for. Also I badly wanted a Blizzard.

“You’re in line at the Creamery, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said with all the dignity I could muster. “It’s a Dairy Queen, Mr. Smartypants.”

He laughed. “Get your Blizzard—”

“I’m not ordering a Blizzard!”

“—and come home and eat it. I want you to see where I put all the living room furniture.”

“Is it in the living room?”

“Come home and see,” he wheedled.

“I will.” We’d needed another break, and I’d left Max to George’s tender care. Emma Jan was going to relieve me, but I knew we were close, and I didn’t want to be home asleep when they figured out who it was. At this stage, we were just cross-checking names. His was there. Count on it. “See you in half an hour.”

I sighed and looked up and, as it was my turn, had a brief conversation with the freckled kid behind the counter, then went back to my thoughts.

I wanted to see Patrick and I didn’t. I was afraid guilt was my biggest motivator, which showed how pathetic I was since I hadn’t done anything yet.

But you will.

Yes. I was very much afraid I would. And soon. Shiro was me and I was Shiro, and I was disappearing and letting her come forward and vice versa. Once it was like dropping through a trapdoor and coming out the other side days or hours later, with no idea of what had transpired while I was down in the dark. These days it was more like stepping back from a microphone and letting the other person talk, hearing and understanding everything and, when it was my turn for the mike again, knowing just what to say.

My baker. My house. My dog. My wonderful perfect house to go to with my wonderful perfect baker and my wonderful perfect dog. Olive was Pearl and Dawg … she was adapting to us. We had a multiple dog! Okay, yes, I’d read somewhere that dogs were incredibly adaptable, but this was pretty great. Olive/Pearl/Dawg never got confused about who was driving the body. She knew that the rules were different with each of us. Pooping outside was so far beyond her, but not understanding that sometimes it was okay to get on the couch and sometimes it wasn’t. If I had to choose … okay, I’d choose that she pooped outside. But not getting confused about what rules were in effect at what time was big number two.

She wasn’t afraid of any of us, either. That alone was worth loving her for, and I was pretty sure it ranked high on Adrienne’s and Shiro’s lists, too.

Donating blood is normal, and shacking up is normal, and Patrick is normal. Is moving in with him the relationship equivalent of donating blood? Because that would be wrong, right?

“Miss, all’s I asked is do you want extra bananas in your Blizzard.”

“Oh. Yes, please. Extra bananas. And extra chocolate, please.”

My hip shook, which was startling until I realized I’d clipped the phone to my hip while thinking about Patrick, so automatically I’d forgotten about it. I pulled it, glanced at the ID, and answered. “Hi, George. What’s up? You haven’t got him already?”

“You realize you’re asking strangers to give you advice because people who know you won’t tell you what you want to hear, dumbass?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said primly. Why, the Dairy Queen employee and I were like that. I’d been getting my banana split Blizzards here (minus strawberries and pineapple, with extra bananas and chocolate) for almost six months. We had a relationship based on mutual respect and our love of dairy and, barring those, Dairy Queen products. I glared behind me. Was that treacherous bastard sneaking up behind me? Spying on me? “How’d you know what I was doing?”

“Because I’m God. I know everything. Okay, it was a lucky guess. Also I know you, and I wish to Christ I didn’t. One thing all of you have in common is you ask strangers for personal advice.”

“This is why you’re calling me? Have you driven Emma Jan away so soon?”

“No, Paul called. Normally I’d laugh and let him listen to VM Number Two, but I’ve decided to use him and his software to ruthlessly further my career.” George could send callers to one of two voice-mail messages: Voice Mail Number One was his standard “Hello, you’ve reached George Pinkman, leave a message,” etc. Voice Mail Number Two was a thirty-second rape-whistle blast. “He said he’s got HOAP.2 up and running and caught a guy who killed a couple of pros.”

I stared across the counter, mesmerized by all the bins filled with things to put in Blizzards. We were on the phone, so I couldn’t stare in amazement at his face. “I didn’t even know we had a serial killing prostitutes!”

“I’m leaving Emma Jan with Gallo; you mind heading back to BOFFO and finding out what Rain Man’s pulled out of his sleeve? I wanna nail Sussudio, but I’m not above letting HOAP.2 do all the work. We gotta check this out. Maybe we’ll get Sue even quicker.”

“Sounds good. See you in ten.” I realized I’d have to cancel on Patrick. Then I realized I felt guilty because I didn’t feel guilty. Is this what it’s like to be George? I had to admit, it was oddly freeing.

That made me feel guilty, too.

So: not what it’s like to be George.