The Schwa Was Here

It had been a week since Lexie and I had set out on our less- than-successful attempt to track down what really happened to his mother. The Schwa still hadn't given me any hints as to what ammunition he was going to use in his one-man war to un-Schwa himself and be noticed in a major way. I was worried about him. Really worried.

It was Tuesday. Crawley was between nurses—they never lasted in his company for more than a few days. It had become a game with him to see how quickly he could send them pack­ing. A new, unsuspecting home-care victim was due that night, but since Lexie had an afternoon meeting of the 4-S Club, I figured I'd hang out with Crawley after I walked the dogs so he wouldn't be alone. I brought him over some stuffed focaccia my dad made to go with Mom's veau Marseille last night.

As I brought back the last of the dogs, I caught him in a rare moment. He was petting Charity, and talking to her gently, lov­ingly saying all those sweet, stupid things we say to pets when we think no one's looking. He caught me watching him and abruptly stopped.

"Don't you have some dogs to walk?"

"All done."

"Then why are you still here? It's not payday."

I shrugged. "I thought I'd wait until the new nurse got here. Maybe eat some of my dad's focaccia."

"It's gone."

"You ate it all?"

"It was too good for you anyway," he said. "You'd just wolf it down without tasting it."

"Maybe we should call you Gluttony," I said. At that, Glut­tony came over to me, hope in his eyes.

He laughed. "Now he's your problem."

I decided to take a chance. I had seen a moment of tender­ness rise to the surface a few moments ago. I thought that maybe I might be able to ask Crawley something and actually get a thoughtful answer.

"Do you remember him?" I asked.

"Remember who?"

"The Schwa."

"Why would I want to?"

"Because," I told him, "I really think he's starting to disappear.

Crawley just stared at me coldly. I sighed.

"Forget it," I said. "You probably think I'm an idiot."

"That's beside the point," he said. Then he stood up out of his wheelchair and grabbed a cane that was leaning against the wall. I had never seen him get up from his wheelchair before. It was like watching one of those faith healings. Crawley strode toward me slowly, holding the cane tightly. He was taller than I realized. He took about five or six steps, then stopped right in front of me.

"I don't recall his face," Crawley said. "But I do remember him being here."

He took one more step, and then had me help him sit on the sofa.

"I didn't know you could walk."

"As I said when you so rudely broke into my home two months ago, the wheelchair is only temporary." He got himself comfortable on the sofa, and I sat in the plush chair across from him.

"I'm sure you think it's a miracle that I can walk," he said. "Well, I believe we make our own miracles." He leaned his cane gently against the edge of the sofa. "I also believe we make our own disasters. If your friend is disappearing, as you say, then he's doing it to himself."

A pack of Afghans frolicked past, knocking down the cane. I picked it up and gave it to him again. "He's trying not to. He's trying to be visible."

"Then he's not trying the right way. The universe has no sym­pathy, and we're never rewarded for doing things the improper way." Prudence came over for attention, and Crawley began to scratch her behind the neck. "If your friend continues on his path of self-destructive anonymity, you should minimize your own losses. Cut him loose. Forget about him."

"He's my friend."

"Spare me your sentimentality," said Crawley. "Friends can be replaced."

"No, they can't!"

Instead of answering me right away, he looked down at the dog, which was so utterly content to have a fraction of his at­tention. "Four years ago," he said, "Prudence was hit by a car and killed."

He said it so bluntly, the news actually made me gasp.

"So," he continued, "I fired my dog walker, and I contacted a breeder. Prudence was replaced within three weeks, and life went on. As I said, friends can be replaced."

I was so horrified by this, I couldn't say a thing.

"All of my dogs are second generation," he told me. "Some even third. All sins, all virtues. It's the way I like it."

"That's wrong," I said. It was twisted in some basic way—like those people who have their pets stuffed and stick them in front of the fireplace like a piece of furniture. They don't even have real eyes anymore. How could you stand looking at a stuffed pet with marbles for eyes? And how could you treat pets and people like objects to be replaced? "More than wrong—it's kind of sick."

"Think what you want, but it's the way the world works."

"What do you know about the world? You're not a part of it—you live outside of it, in your own weird little universe."

He grabbed his cane, reached across the table, and poked me in the chest. "You're nervy," he said. "I used to like that about you, but now it's rubbing me the wrong way."