“Yes. Legally married. Is there another kind?”
“Was Gordon Allen compos mentis at the time?”
“What does that mean?”
“Was he in his right mind? Does he have Alzheimer’s? A history of cognitive difficulties of any kind?”
“We’ve been married for over six years,” Kelly said. “If Gordon was out of his mind, I’m pretty sure I’d know.”
It was, in hindsight, a freakish stroke of luck that Kelly was halfway through Philippa Gregory’s novel The Other Boleyn Girl when she first met Gordon Allen. Kelly was not what you would call a reader. She’d dropped out of high school in eleventh grade and could count the books she’d read since then on one hand. But Kelly picked up the book in a nail salon during a French pedicure and found herself turning pages, so she’d slipped it into her purse on her way out.
Gordon Allen was stuck in Key West because his yacht needed a two-and-three-eighths-inch bilge strainer that no one had in stock in the entire Western Hemisphere, apparently, and he was alone in the Screaming Lobster at three in the afternoon because he was mad at his wife, Elaine, and at her bitchy friend Coco and at Zeek, the faggoty hairdresser Elaine insisted on shipping down with them each winter to the Caymans. The Screaming Lobster was dark as night and smelled like booze and fries and fish. The decor—dark wood and droopy fishing nets, rusty anchors and weathered wooden mermaids—matched his mood.
“Hi, I’m Kelly and I’m going to be your server,” said Kelly.
“I’m Gordon.”
“What can I get you, Gordon?”
“What’s good?”
“It’s all good,” Kelly said with a smile.
“Is it, now.”
When Kelly came back with his Glenlivet, Gordon didn’t waste any time. “I just got off my yacht.”
“Oh yeah? Everybody in this place just got off a yacht.”
“I’ll bet mine’s the biggest.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Kelly.
After two hours and six scotches, Gordon left Kelly a thousand-dollar tip and a business card with a phone number scrawled on the back. This was not the first time something like this had happened to Kelly. Waiting tables at the Screaming Lobster was about two inches shy of prostitution, at least for a girl with a face and a body like Kelly’s.
When she got back to her apartment, Kelly popped open one of her roommate’s Coronas and sat down in front of her computer. She Googled the name on the business card, out of curiosity more than anything.
Gordon Allen. Sixty-two. Real estate developer. Prominent Republican donor. Outspoken conservative. Anti-environmentalist. Racist. Fascist. Bigot.
Net worth?
Twelve billion dollars.
Refusing to have sexual intercourse with Gordon Allen before their wedding night turned out to be easier than Kelly could have ever imagined.
For one thing, Kelly had a boyfriend at the time. His name was Renaldo, and he worked as a day-hire deckhand who dealt drugs in international waters. He was Argentinean, and he was extremely popular with the ladies, because he had an unending supply of Xanax and Vicodin and Klonopin and Oxy, as well as ones for the super-old gals like Darvocet and Seconal. He even had fen-phen! It would put a hole in your heart, but it kept the weight off! Whether he made the ladies happy in other ways was not something Kelly chose to waste her time thinking about. She and Renaldo knew they had no real future together, but they dug each other and they got each other.
Gordon didn’t know a thing about Renaldo, of course. Gordon would have had a major problem with Renaldo.
Kelly had had a few rich old boyfriends, but she didn’t have anything to show for it. Well, that wasn’t true; she had some things. Gifts. Little presents she kept hidden under her mattress. Her jewels. A Cartier watch. Things she held on to, thinking someday she might be forced to sell them. She didn’t want to be one of those strippers who waited too long to go to nursing school. At some point, the world was going to stop putting twenties in your G-string and start tossing quarters instead. Best to plan ahead.
It started out as something of an experiment. Like Anne Boleyn, Kelly slowly ceded her married lover territory, and with each new drawing and redrawing of the borders, he was permitted to explore new undiscovered terrain. She said she was shy. She respected the institution of marriage. She was not that kind of girl.
It was a long-drawn-out, Oscar-worthy cocktease. And it worked.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
“Not because of me, I hope,” said Kelly.
“Of course because of you,” said Gordon. “I’m in love with you.”
“Don’t say that, Gordy,” said Kelly. “You’re a married man.”
“Not for long.”
*
Owen brought home pizza for dinner, and the two of them ate off paper plates at the kitchen island with paper towels for napkins.
“I think I might have found someone to take Randall off our hands,” said Lucy.
“Oh yeah?”
“There’s a guy up here who loves roosters.”
“Does he eat them?”
“At this point, I don’t really care. But no. Apparently he just likes to rescue roosters. I’m sure he’s a very normal and well-adjusted individual.”
“Does he have a farm or something?”
“I would assume so. I hope they aren’t living in his house. Anyhow, I got his number.”
“Do you think you-know-who will be upset?” Owen gestured toward Wyatt, who had already eaten and was wandering around, wordlessly, looking both focused and confused.
“Upset would be good,” said Lucy. “Upset would show awareness of feelings, and empathy, even.”
“You’re right, he will not be upset,” said Owen. “Maybe we can try to make him upset. Take him on the trip to give away Randall. We could all stand there and cry.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” said Lucy. “Anyhow, I was reading about this online. The problem with Randall is, he thinks we’re chickens.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because we raised him the way we did, in the house. And because we let him roam around outside near us. He thinks we’re his, uh”—Lucy glanced over at Wyatt, who was pacing in and out of the kitchen, touching the sides of the door frame with his fingertips each time he passed through, muttering to himself—“ladies.”
“He thinks we’re his ladies?”
“Yes, he does. That’s why he’s charging us all the time. The other day, he chased me around the car. I had to dive into the passenger seat.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” said Lucy. “And I’ve been using the umbrella and poking it at him, and then opening it up to scare him, but it’s starting not to work. He’s not afraid of the umbrella anymore. He’s trying to make the umbrella his lady too. Plus he’s having his way with all of the chickens too much, I think. I think they’re getting tired of it.”
“Is that even possible for a chicken?”
“If you watch them, they’re like, Dude, get off me.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want to give him to the rooster guy,” said Lucy. “Apparently the minute you’re scared of your rooster, you need to get rid of him.”
“Let’s do it,” said Owen.
“Oh, and honey?”