The Dog Year Page 14

  The rest of it was quick undressing, opening, and hot breath. When he entered her, she marveled briefly how it was possible to hyperventilate so long without passing out. But that was the only part of her medical-trained brain that was working. Her inner mammal had effectively shut her up.

  “Lucy, oh my God.”

  Hearing her name, uttered with such shameless ardor, made her breath catch. “Yes,” she said as he slid his fingers against her. With her eyes closed, she arched her neck and he kissed her in the hollow of her throat. If she had been thinking, she’d have been mortified by her uncontrolled movements, her unhinged pleasure. His hand made the luxurious journey up her spine until he cradled the base of her neck. He breathed her name into her ear.

  And then came the unsurprising, inevitable, Lucy-like response: shame. Shame, embarrassment, and guilt. The top three in the Fortune 500 list of “feelings after having sex with a near-stranger.” They hadn’t even had dinner and a movie.

  “God.”

  Misunderstanding this call for the divine was a good thing. Mark laughed a little and said, “I know. My thoughts exactly.”

  “God. No. I . . .”

  He leaned back to look into her eyes. She pushed at his shoulder and avoided meeting his direct gaze. Quickly, she reached for her underwear—her white cotton, no-chance-of-a-visitor pair—that now were rolled on the floor. Lucy imagined them angry and disappointed. This was not their plan for the day. They had expected a walk at the dog park, maybe a late morning nap, certainly not a shove and roll. What were you thinking? her underwear seemed to say. Let go of me.

  She turned her hip away from him, buttoned her jeans. “I gotta go.”

  “Luce, I . . . Wait. Don’t leave.”

  “I’m married. I don’t do this. Ever.” She said this like it was the worst possible thing she could do. Worse than staying in bed all day, shutting people out, stealing, and giving up hope.

  As Lucy yanked the front door open, she heard Mark’s words behind her.

  “Lucy. I’m sorry. I thought . . .”

  She was out the door before he finished his sentence.

  * * *

  Lucy sat in her car and started the engine. Her thighs were wet. Richard. Not Richard. She slammed into reverse and drove over the curb. The car bumped and lurched, setting off her no-seatbelt alarm. She gunned the engine, turning each corner like a race-car driver. As her cell phone rang, it skidded off the passenger seat and joined Richard’s birthday box, demoted and lonely on the floor.

  Once home, she shoved her way into her house. Little Dog jerked to attention. Hopping to her feet in full-out parade mode, she wagged, sniffed, and panted, sensing infidelity. Other dogs? she seemed to be thinking. Lucy ignored her and flew into the bathroom, stripping her clothes off as she went. The shower hit her skin with a raking, hot spray, and she started to cry.

  Richard’s face came to her. His smile, his gentle doctor’s hands. His body had been so unlike Mark’s tight, wiry, athletic build. Her fingers had tingled when she’d touched Mark’s ribs, his firm shoulders and sinewy arms. She involuntarily shuddered, guilty again. Little Dog’s nose popped past the shower curtain and examined Lucy with subdued interest. Lucy pulled it closed.

  When at last she turned the shower off, she grabbed her robe and trailed water out of the bathroom and into the hallway outside her bedroom, veering at the last moment into the would-be nursery. Dumping herself on the bed, she let the water drop from her curls to collect in her clavicle and run down her back.

  She wasn’t naïve; she watched television. She knew the world was consumed by sex and that she was mostly alone in her almost chastity. Every network seemed to have a thousand series detailing romantic teenage escapades, hawked like Coney Island sideshows. But it wasn’t prudish beliefs that had held her back from engaging in hookups like her roommates had in college. It was this: After getting past the mechanics, she had matured from repulsion, to cringing embarrassment, to wonderment after accidently having an orgasm during a dream in the night. Lucy liked to savor beautiful things: a perfect white chocolate Easter bunny; a handwritten letter collected from her mailbox, like the thank-you notes she received from gracious patients. And Richard had been her savored one. She’d drawn comfort from that fact that she’d been faithful to him even before she knew him. But now, after his death, she’d been unfaithful. She needed a mulligan, the sort of free shot given to golfers when they needed a do-over. A do-over for the day; that would be good. Hell, make it for the year and she wouldn’t be holding her cell phone right now, about to call someone for support.

  Pushing her hair away from her eyes she considered her options. She couldn’t call Tig, who’d already vetoed the behavior she’d engaged in. She considered Claire; she considered her new friend, Sidney; she even considered Mark.

  Sighing, she picked up her phone, and when her brother answered, she said, “You’d better come over again.”

  * * *

  Charles was standing in her kitchen. “Now what, Luce? I love you, but if you tell me you’re going to prison or halfway across the world to free Tibet, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it. By the way, you look like crap.”

  Lucy pushed her hair behind her ear and tried to rub the smeared mascara out from under her eyes. “I did something really stupid and irresponsible today.”

  “Yeah? Worse than stealing?”

  “Yeah.”

  Charles leaned against the refrigerator. “Okay, lay it on me.”

  “I slept with the cop.”

  Charles slapped his hand on the kitchen table. “Good for you!”

  “No! Not good for me. I didn’t just make a goal in a soccer match. I had sex.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Slept with is a euphemism for sex. How was it?”

  “I don’t even know him.”

  “I had hetero sex one time. As I recall, it wasn’t that complicated.”

  Lucy slammed a cupboard shut above her head. “I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t have sex with strangers. I’m married.”

  “What era do you live in, Lucy? Sex is not taboo anymore. Two consenting adults, a condom . . . it’s a national pastime. And P.S., sista, you aren’t technically married.”

  “Wait. What?”

  Charles stood and folded his sister into a hug. “You’re not married, sweetie.”

  “Condom?”

  “Yes. A condom. He did wear a condom, right?”

  “There wasn’t time. It happened too fast.”

  Charles frowned. “Fast, condomless sex is oh-so-eighties, honey. What were you thinking?”

  Lucy pushed away and put her fist to her mouth. “I . . . it never crossed my mind. I never had to think of it before. Richard and I tried to get pregnant right away.”

  “If I wasn’t so cool, I’d be really grossed out by this flood of unwanted information. I hate to say this, Luce, but you need to get tested.”

  “What?”

  “For bugs. I take it that if you didn’t converse about condoms, you probably didn’t chat about past history, either.”

  “Bugs?”

  “My God, Lucy. You’re a freaking afterschool special right now.”

  Lucy sat heavily at her kitchen table and dropped her head into her hands. Just as quickly she popped up and ran to her car. She yanked the passenger-side door open and swiped her birthday present from the floor. When it slipped from her fingers, she grabbed the red bow and pulled it from the car like an unruly weed. Back inside, with Charles standing next to her, she ripped the paper from the box. She was breathing hard. She wrestled the tape from the Nike shoebox and lifted the lid. Then she plunged her hands into the tissue and stared at what she’d uncovered.

  “This is too much,” she said. “It’s just too much.”

  Charles abandoned his earlier jocularity. He put his hand between his sister’s shoulder blade
s and said, “C’mon Lucy. Breathe. Take a deep breath. Let me in. What’s happening?”

  “Call Sidney,” she told him. “I need a girl.”

  * * *

  All sharp chin and angled shoulders, Sidney sat next to Lucy on the couch in the living room as Charles stood nearby.

  Lucy said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I opened the box.”

  “That’s not the big news,” Charles nearly shouted.

  Sidney glared at him. “Go ahead, Lucy.”

  “I opened the box, and this is what was inside.” Lucy handed Sidney an old-fashioned ice-cube tray from the sixties; silver with a handle that dislodged the cubes when it was pulled back. That, and a pamphlet with a Post-it on its front cover. Hand written on the yellow square in jagged script was Just in case. R.

  “Do you know what it means?” Sidney asked, taking the pamphlet and lifting the note for a closer look.

  “It was an inside joke,” Lucy said miserably. “I was always so afraid I wouldn’t get pregnant. Or that something would happen to Richard before I did. I just loved him so much.”

  “I used to say, ‘Can you just fill up an ice-cube tray with your genetic material and we’ll save it just in case?’ I would use our code phrase in public, Whack a mole, and he’d crack up.”

  Sidney winced a little.

  Lucy gave a weak smile. “I know, crass. Richard used to say I was all gingham on the outside and Naugahyde on the inside.” Lucy pulled the ice-cube tray apart. “After I got pregnant, I used to say, ‘Get the tray. Baby needs a sibling.’”

  Charles said, “Sorry, Luce, but that’s a little fucked up.”

  “Oh yeah? It’s no different from you putting money into your Alzheimer’s fund.” Charles looked around guiltily, and Lucy turned to Sidney. “He’s got like a million dollars in a fund specifically for a full-time male nurse when he forgets all his zip codes.”

  “All his zip codes?”

  Charles nodded his head. “I used to work in the mailroom, and I did a lot of sorting. I know all the zip codes for south-central Wisconsin.”

  Sidney said, “Whitewater?”

  “Five, three, one, nine, zero.”

  “Belleville?”

  “Five, three, five, zero, eight.”

  “Orfordville?”

  Lucy snapped, “Shut up, Charles. Jesus.”

  “You shut up, Lucy. Sex is not an emergency. It’s a leisure activity.”

  “Not for everyone, Chuck-up.”

  Sidney looked first at Lucy, then at Charles, and shook her head. “You both just turned into eight-year-olds right in front of my eyes.”

  Lucy took a swat at Charles’s knees and he jumped away.

  Sidney pulled the flyer out of the box and said, “This is a sperm bank. Do you think he made a deposit?”

  “Oh my God, do you think that’s possible?”

  Sidney smiled. “Well, why else would he give this to you?”

  “Wow,” Lucy said. “Wow. Let’s call the clinic.” She grabbed the receiver and hit Power just as it rang. Confused, she lifted it to her ear.

  “Lucy?”

  Lucy froze. She looked at her brother like she’d come upon a rattlesnake on a walking path, halfway between hot coals and a steep cliff.

  “Lucy?” Mark’s tinny voice came through the receiver. “Are you there?”

  Without turning her head, Lucy darted her eyes from Charles to Sidney and back again.

  “Okay,” Mark said. “You don’t have to talk. Just listen to me. I know. It wasn’t how I pictured it.” He laughed an uneasy laugh. “But you’re great. Lucy. I think you’re, uh, great.”

  A thrill traveled up her spine. She hung up.

  There was a silence in the room. Lucy blushed.

  Sidney said, “Charles, get your phone and call the clinic. Ask for information.”

  “And say what? I can’t just call and ask if Richard Lubers made a sperm deposit and if we can keep it in the freezer at home.”

  Sidney nodded. “We should go down there in person. But it’s too late today. It’s already six o’clock. Look on that pamphlet. Is there account information, or a receipt or something?”

  Charles laughed. “Do you think they give you one of those little bank books we used to get when we were young? Before everything was done electronically? You know, for deposits?” He paused. “You know, this gives new meaning to the term ‘withdrawal method.’”

  Sidney looked at him. “You’re being kind of a douche bag, Charles.”

  “Yeah, Charles,” Lucy said.

  “Sorry, girls, but this is the most exciting time in Lucy’s life since . . . I would say ever. Pardon me for enjoying it a little.”

  “You just got upgraded from douche to dick,” said Lucy.

  “Fine,” Charles huffed. “I’m leaving. Call me when you grow up, Lucy.” He swept out of the room and slammed the screen door. Twice, for drama.

  Lucy shouted, “God, Babs, you are such a queen.” She looked at Sidney. “Forgive him. Usually he eschews stereotypes, but occasionally, he goes in for the theatrical entrance and exit.” Miserably, she added, “He’ll be back tomorrow with an offer of hummus and a board game.” She sat back on the couch and rubbed her face with her hands. “Am I that far out of it? Does everyone have sex at the drop of a hat now? I mean, is it really no big thing to ‘stop, drop, and roll’ in the middle of the day with all the lights on, and your skirt hiked to your waist?”

  Sidney turned to her. “Now that’s an image. Okay, so listen. What part’s not okay with you? You’re not . . . uh . . . involved with anyone else, right? And you like him.”

  “Sure, I like him. I like my pastor, too, but I’m not gonna bang him in his living room. Do you think Mark does that a lot?”

  “I don’t know him. What do you think?”

  “I haven’t any idea. He sure knew what he was doing, though.” Lucy remembered the feel of Mark’s hands on her skin, on the small of her back.

  “Is that what you’re worried about? That he’s done this before?”

  “I don’t want to be a number to anyone, or a screw-the-ugly-widow mercy fuck.”

  Sidney squinted. “Have you looked at yourself since high school? There’s nothing ugly about you, and I would venture a guess that there never was.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Sidney sat up straight. There was an edge to her voice now. “Do you see anyone but yourself? Wake up. Everyone is the walking wounded. You don’t have the corner on suffering. Not by a long shot.” She grabbed her crocheted bag from the couch and swung it over her shoulder. With her knobby fingers she pulled her thinning hair out from under the strap and then took out her keys.

  “A man finds you desirable. And your beloved late husband really loved you. Poor ugly you, Dr. Peterman. Poor smart, gifted, independent, financially secure you.”

  Lucy inhaled sharply and Sidney went on. “Your brother’s not the only drama queen in your family.” Turning, she slammed out the front door, then opened it again and slammed it a second time.

  Little Dog trotted over and propped her front legs onto Lucy’s knees. Her large brown eyes said, unequivocally, When’s dinner?

  “I can see that you really want to be fed,” Lucy said. “But what you’re really saying is, ‘I will never leave you.’”

  16

  Mr. Blue Sky

  The next morning Lucy lay in bed and listened to the kitchen faucet drip. An hour later she was still listening. Little Dog sat by the front door, whining. The days were getting shorter and shorter, and sometime during the drama of her life in the past weeks, she could sense the sounds and smells of Indian summer giving way to the ones of winter. There was more of a snap in the air, and the imminent promise of snow.

  In her pajama
s, she leaned on the front doorjamb and eyed a potted mum on her front stoop: gloriously orange and yellow with green foliage and a grosgrain plaid ribbon encircling the gold foil-covered pot. A grinning burlap scarecrow reinforced by a shish-kabob stick held a sign that read, I’M SORRY.

  She touched the card, flipped it over. Mark. The memory of his hands shoved Richard’s face from her mind. The memory lingered for a moment until shame, like her old high school principal, put that memory into detention, where it belonged.

  Her neighbor’s garden gnome, fat in his blue-belted top and Santalike beard, smirked at her as if to say, How the mighty have fallen. It was true she had felt a little superior to her neighbors. She’d holed up with her husband, her job, and her pregnancy like the member of a Waco, Texas, cult. Now it seemed the gnome was gloating—a tubby sentry, keeping track of the number of people who wandered in and out of Lucy’s life. Lucy grabbed the pot of mums and turned to the gnome. “Oh shut up, you little shit,” she said under her breath, and walked into her house.

  The kitchen smelled of onions from the night before, when Charles was over. She scooped up the ice tray, the black and white wrapping paper, and the brochure, and shuffled—for the first time without any palpable anxiety—into the room she had shared with her husband. Climbing into the bed, Lucy stared at the stain of Africa above her. Thanksgiving was coming, then Christmas, then New Year’s. How could she possibly get through another year? Richard used to say to her when she made fun of his penchant for obsessive organization, Routine helps you see when something really special is happening. Label your files and alphabetize your folders, and the next thing you know it’s strawberry season. She turned on her side and examined the Post-it. Just in case. R.

  She sat up with a thought. Maybe there were more things lying around, more messages from Richard. Little Dog scrambled to attention. Dropping to her knees, Lucy looked under the bed and pulled out a rolled sock. Nothing. In the closet she searched through Richard’s sweaters, opened shoeboxes, and shoved aside a fleece jacket that had fallen to the floor. Kicking hospital supplies out of her path, she searched his dresser drawers, pushing aside boxer shorts and socks, and pulling out T-shirts by their shoulders. She returned to the closet, going over every inch with the thoroughness of an Iowa tornado. Nothing. Breathless, she scanned the room. On the floor, between the legs of the bedside table, sat a box where Richard kept his reading glasses, his earplugs, and a small pile of abandoned books. Inside it, she saw Richard’s iPod, kiwi-colored with a charger forever docked and charging, and ear buds.