(...picking up where we left off last week:)
So let us forget about all the other people for now, or at least try really hard to. I have learned that people can have a hard time forgetting about things. I have also learned that people have a way of becoming quite easily confused.
I know that sometimes Amy gets confused. I know that sometimes Amy does not know where to start her story. I am here to tell you that it is not that confusing. The story started when Amy and Jonathan drove to Cape May, New Jersey and got me. Right before that there had been a number of years that Amy will refer to sometimes as “The Baby Debates,” and at other times she will refer to them as “The End.” What happened is that during The Baby Debates, Jonathan told Amy, who wanted a baby, that he wanted one, too, just not right yet. And then after saying that for a few years, he said he did not, want a baby that is. I think that is when the period of time changed in Amy’s mind from The Baby Debates to The End. Also, I think that must be how I know that just because you say something year after year, it does not mean it is true.
And so Amy and Jonathan drove to Cape May, New Jersey, which is where I come from, and they got me. Instead is a word I believe may have been used. But that is not something I like to think about.
I liked the first neighborhood I lived in in New York City, and I very much liked the Central Park that was right at the end of our block. It was very big, much bigger than the park we go to now. But we didn’t stay there very long, and then I wasn’t with Amy and Jonathan anymore, then I was just with Amy. I do not ever remember feeling bad about that, and I do not know for sure what happened to Jonathan. I do not know for certain where he went. I think that he stayed there, in the house I lived in when I was young, the one that had stairs on the same side of the door as all the furniture. There was a lot of furniture there; there was a Chippendale sofa in particular, upon which I was not allowed. For some reason my being on that sofa often resulted in Jonathan referring to me not as Carlie (as I understandably prefer to be called) but as “the dog.”
“Amy,” he would say, “Can you get the dog off the Chippendale sofa.” And he did so in a way that I felt lacked a certain respect, revealed perhaps a less than generous spirit.
Soon after I met him, Jonathan faded out. It was a slow fade, but even so, I never felt I knew him well. Never once did I sense him to be an enduring presence in my life, even during my uptown puppyhood. To be perfectly honest, at this point I do not wish to remember him.
And then we moved here, to Fifth Street. It is in a place called the East Village and Amy said it was as far away as she could get from the Upper East Side, which is where we lived before. This does not make very much sense to me, because even I can think of places farther.
We came to Fifth Street and spent our mornings in a park that was smaller and called Tompkins Square Park, where I made friends but Amy did not. Amy did not spend very much time at all talking to even one of the very many people that are always there, gathered in small pairs, and bigger clusters, and even bigger groups. Instead of talking, as so many of the other people seem so keen to do, Amy spent a lot of time thinking about the novel she wanted to write. When she talked to me about it, she would say how she wanted it to be a Great American Novel. But she did not write a novel, Great American or otherwise.
She wrote a book about me.