Later, he falls asleep, one arm around her. As he snores, La La nestles closer. The thought of losing him makes her feel as frightened as she did the morning she awoke to find her mother had disappeared without giving a hint of her intentions or bothering to say good-bye.
It was a school day. Elissa always roused La La, shouting from the bedroom doorway, “I don’t want to have to explain why you’re late.” But on that day, Zev shook her shoulder. “Hurry up. I’m taking you.”
“Where’s Mom?” La La asked, still half asleep.
“She went away.”
The words jolted La La. “Where?”
“I’m sure she’ll call and tell us,” he said, the uncertainty in his eyes more frightening than Elissa’s mysterious absence.
La La stayed under the covers where it was warm, refusing to accept her father’s news. Zev parted the shades, letting in weak light that illuminated a small bookcase filled with puzzles and next to it a wicker chair on which La La had arranged stuffed animals. At one end was a lion Elissa had brought home from a thrift store, fur matted and eyes hanging from fuzzy sockets. Her mother washed and sewed it, and it became La La’s favorite. La La held out her arms toward the lion, and Zev delivered it.
“I’ll help you get dressed,” Zev said.
“I don’t feel well.”
Zev sat at the edge of the bed. He touched her forehead. “You’re not hot.”
“I’m waiting for Mom to come home,” she said.
“You can’t stay here alone.”
La La buried her face in the lion’s neck. “Stay with me.”
“Just today.”
They remained at home the next day, too, and the day after that. One by one, Zev took apart the locks in his collection and showed La La how they worked. He sprayed the moving parts with powdered lubricant before putting them back together, wiping his hands with rags he changed frequently. He contacted La La’s school and said she was sick. Still, Elissa didn’t return.
Each time the phone rang, La La was sure it was her mother. “I can’t make it today,” Zev said to one caller, and La La squeezed the lion so hard a seam popped. “Yes, sir. In half an hour,” Zev said to another. “Get dressed,” he said to La La when he hung up. She rode in the van with Zev, as she occasionally did on weekends, to a home where a man had locked himself out.
When a full week had gone by, Zev told La La she had to go back to school.
La La began to tremble. “What if you disappear, too?”
“I’ll be here when you get home.”
She clutched his arm. “What if you’re not?”
“I have to work.”
“I’ll go with you.” She liked how customers thanked him when he unlocked their doors.
“You can’t.”
“Don’t you want me to come along? I can help.” La La thought about things she had done for Elissa: setting the table for dinner, pairing warm socks out of the dryer, not crying when her mother combed her hair no matter how hard Elissa yanked. The memories hardened inside La La like clay after it was fired; they were heavy and impossible to set down. “I can hold your tools,” she said, barely loud enough for her father to hear.
Zev smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve where she had gripped it. “Okay. But never, ever talk about what we do. Okay?”
La La didn’t understand—what was so secret about being a locksmith?—but she agreed.
Later that morning, Zev had her get into his car. “Why aren’t we taking the van?” La La asked, but he didn’t answer. In a strange neighborhood, he handed her a clipboard with a yellow form. “If anyone answers the door, we’re selling magazines.”
Over the years, La La would sell hundreds of subscriptions. They received dozens of complimentary issues at the house, from Time to Southern Cooking to the Journal of Criminal Justice, magazines Zev read and quoted freely. Zev made her put part of her earnings aside for college, though she complained. “You don’t want to end up like me. Do you?” he said. La La didn’t argue about the money after that.
“Magazines,” Zev whispered, tapping the clipboard, as they stood in front of a stranger’s door. Inside, a dog began to bark. “Let’s go,” he said. “You never want to mess with Fido.”
“Wait,” La La said. Since she’d been pulled from the lake, dogs were always happy to see her. All animals were. “It’s okay, boy. We won’t hurt you.” The dog quieted.
Zev glanced up and down the street. “You’re a goddamn secret weapon.”
La La squeezed the clipboard to her chest. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.
2
On Saturday, while Clem lifts weights at the gym, La La calls Zev and catches him while he’s cleaning drapes. She pictures him on the stepstool, unclipping the sailcloth fabric. He’s barely taller than she is, wiry and pale, and no match for the people he’d meet in prison. “After you left yesterday, I called the bank,” he says. “They won’t give me a loan against the house because it’s already pledged for bail.” His voice cracks, and she wonders how much coffee he’s had, whether he’s eaten anything. Zev’s mother died when he was in his teens. He and his father don’t speak, and he has no brothers or sisters. No one willing to put up the kind of money he’s going to need for O’Bannon. When she hangs up, La La throws on a jacket and yanks on boots. She thinks about leaving Clem a note, but what would it say? It’s rare for her to visit Zev this often. Yet she doesn’t know what else to do. Maybe together she and her father can figure out a way to pay the lawyer.
Fresh snow coats the street, bends evergreen branches under its weight. Driving toward a property surrounded by thick hedges, La La senses distress inside. It’s not unusual for animals to suffer behind locked doors. She can’t imagine what their owners are thinking. She hates to pass such pets by with merely the hope their ailments will heal or their owners will become more observant. But she can’t treat every one, least of all the ones on private property.
The house is large, two stories topped by a fancy tile roof. Reached by a long circular drive. A rich family’s home. The kind where she and her father did well. But all of that is in her past. If she stops now, she tells herself, it will be only to make sure the animal is okay.
She brakes, swerving left and right, her Honda pinballing off the curb before she manages to park and walk up to a window. A yellow Labradoodle lies on a rug, panting. When he scratches his ear, pain slices through La La. She shuts her eyes and waits for it to pass.
If she can’t help Zev, perhaps she can assist some other creature. She’ll advise the owners the dog needs a vet and be on her way. They might think she’s crazy, or maybe they’ll finally pay attention to his scratching and panting. When she rings the doorbell, no one answers. She presses the button a few more times and knocks on the storm door. Inside, the dog whines.
She looks around. The hedges provide good cover, but it’s the weekend. No counting on people—the home’s occupants or nosy neighbors—to be at work. At least for now, the street is empty, and the owners don’t seem to have bothered with a security system. La La doesn’t see any stickers on the windows or signs. If she were suffering as the dog is, she’d want someone to help. She’ll be quick, she promises herself. From the trunk of her car, she grabs her veterinary bag.