trish

Brett shows up at the studio, which is currently housing yours truly and April (of the Foster family holiday picture debacle), who I found and hired in a terrible hurry once Layla said she needed an extended leave of absence after we called and told PETCO our funding fell through. I can’t say that I’m happy to see my brother. He looks around at the pictures on the wall. Pictures of Sammy Davis Junior. Pictures of Lou. Various random pictures of other customer pets that were favorites.

He stares for a moment at April. I think he must be trying to figure out where he knows her from, but he can’t place it. Lou runs over to greet him, but I stay where I am.

“You know, she really has talent for this,” Brett says. He looks at me. “Don’t get up, really.”

“I won’t, limpdick,” I reply.

“Limpdick,” he repeats. “Charming.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Can’t a brother come visit his sister merely to say hello?”

“He can,” I say. “But you never have, so obviously there’s a reason you’re here. What is it?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, tries to look past me to see if Layla’s here. As if I can’t tell what he’s doing.

He holds up a mug. I recognize it. He and Layla went to Color Me Mine a long time ago, and she made what is the ugliest mug in the history of all painted pottery.

“I found this,” he says, “and I thought Layla might be here. I haven’t seen her in a while, and I thought she’d get a kick out of seeing it.”

“After seeing you, the only kick she’d get out of it would be throwing it at your head.”

“I thought it would make her laugh. And I thought it would be nice to see her.”

“Really?” I ask. “Are you seriously going to pull this shit now?”

“What shit?”

“Leave her alone,” I say.

“Look, bridge troll,” he replies. “I’m not in the mood to answer your three questions to gain passage. Is she here?”

“No, Brett,” I say. “She’s not. Take your ugly mug and go.”

“Okay,” he says. “Clearly you’re having a bad day. So I’m just gonna ignore that. Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”

“I wish I did,” I say.

“What does that mean?” Brett asks.

“She’s been gone for almost two weeks,” I inform him. “She’s working freelance gigs, and I have a stand-in.” I toss my head toward the rear, where April is arranging cat toys for the sixth time today.

April’s not terrible, but she’s not Layla. Although she did manage to behave in a politic, Layla-like way during an episode earlier this week. That celebutante who’d mistakenly been blowing her bowser came back to have her newest pet’s photo snapped. She was particularly pleased with her new Norwegian blue. It was a funny little thing, she admitted, but she’d bought the ferret off a different dealer than her Maltese, and the dealer had sold her on it after going on and on about its beautiful plumage, which supposedly appears in late fall. (She planned on coming back for more shots then. I didn’t discourage her.) April managed to say nothing throughout. She simply gave the “ferret” a few pieces of cheese, got a couple of great shots, and suggested the woman name it Mickey.

She seems to enjoy the work, and she’s particularly good with felines.

“That’s not possible,” Brett says. “You and Layla are partners. She works here.”

“No, Brett,” I say pointedly. “It’s entirely possible. She’s totally distanced herself from me, our business, and our family. None of us has seen her, and it’s your fault.”

Surprisingly, this seems like news to him. “Oh, really?”

Normally I’d say, “No, O’Reilly,” as I’ve done for years, to keep things light. But we’ve grown far enough apart, Brett and I, that the usual niceties all taste sour. So I don’t put them in my mouth anymore. “Yes, Brett,” I say. “Really.”

“Huh,” Brett says, and sits down, clutching the hideous mug for dear life.

“If you ask me, I think she’s started seeing someone,” I say. I don’t think for a minute that it’s true, but I’m trying to dig the knife in a little deeper. Because I’m of the strong opinion that he deserves it.

“What?” he asks. “Who?”

“How should I know?” I say. “But maybe she’s happy. I hope she is; she deserves it.”

“Yeah, she does,” he says, seeming unsure.

“Leave her alone, Brett,” I say.

“What am I gonna do?” he asks. “Bang on her door and demand that she stop seeing this mystery man? It’s not my business.”

“Damn straight it’s not,” I agree. “Right,” he says. “Like you know about straight.”

“There’s the door,” I say. “So you can leave now.”