The Dog Year Page 9

  Lucy shook herself. “Why?”

  “Why? Because people do that. Have coffee. Talk about high school. Occasionally, pie is involved.”

  “Pie?”

  He smiled at her. “Egypt, you are a piece of work,” he said. And then he turned and walked out the door.

  When Charles returned, he raised his eyebrows. “He’s interested in you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Have you ever taken a good look at me?”

  “Aw, Luce.” It had been a long road with his sister and her looks. He’d watched her get passed over in everything but math and science. As the years went on, Lucy couldn’t get over her high school assessment of her looks. Smart as she was, she’d never been able to see how kinky hair and braces as a girl were the gateway to a different kind of beauty as a woman.

  Lucy sighed. “You know, a few weeks ago, I was checking out the indie DVD store on Van Buren Street for an old Hepburn movie. There’s this woman in front of me, long, auburn hair, totally high-maintenance. There was nothing about her that said, ‘I can get dressed in under ninety minutes.’”

  Charles nodded. “Let me guess. French-tipped nails, skintight jeans with heels, lip liner.”

  “You got it. Fitted white T-shirt with a martini glass on it, and breasts that looked like they would deploy on contact. The beautiful girl uniform.”

  “You think those are her ‘lounging in front of the TV’ clothes?”

  “Oh sure. Just like mine, without the flannel pants and mustache bleach.” Lucy shook her head. “So I’m standing there in my sneakers and Brewers cap—your basic loser ensemble.”

  “Yeah, plastic surgeons are such losers.”

  “So the woman looks me up and down and says, ‘Did this movie get good reviews?’ I saw what she was thinking: Here’s a woman who spends a lot of nights alone watching TV. She’ll be able to give a recommendation for a night with just girls.”

  “Did you help her out?”

  “I said, ‘I don’t speak English.’”

  “As they say in high school, fuckin’ A.”

  “Here’s what I want to know. Why is it that the really pretty women are also the ones who try so hard?”

  “Maybe when you’re that high up on the beauty food chain, the pressure is enormous to take it a step further. To be the overachiever and get out of base camp and make the summit, dammit!” Charles hit his fist on the counter and the dog jumped.

  Lucy smiled. “Those women are so far out of the ballpark when nude and without makeup that when they complete the paint job and buff they become untouchable. A completely different species: genus super-female.”

  “Here’s the thing, Lucy. Those women have to work harder than you. They have to wear the red dress and the lip liner because women like you have a brain that’s already dressed before you even wake up in the morning. You’re the superhero. And they freaking know it.”

  “So it’s all smoke and mirrors to distract from their tiny brains?”

  Charles nodded. “Or as Stew from frozen foods might say, ‘hoax in mirrors.’”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Wait, I didn’t finish the story. I’m in the checkout line and there’s a mother with a really young little girl who’s repeatedly asking for Black Beauty, but it sounds distinctly like Black Booty. ‘Mama, I want Black Booty, Black Booty.’ The cashier looked right at me and she said, ‘Yeah, you and me both, honey.’”

  Charles dropped his head back and laughed.

  Lucy said, “Turns out Black Beauty was nowhere to be found, but there was one hell of a white one back in the stacks.”

  “That cop is cute, Lucy.”

  “I’ll admit I’m not as horrendous looking as I used to be, Charles, but A: that guy isn’t interested in someone like me, and B: I’m in love with Richard.” Lucy unfolded the forms that Mark had handed her: a one-sheet on how to get a license for a cat. And another piece of paper beneath it: a list of Alcoholics Anonymous gatherings in the area, and a meeting place and time circled in red.

  “You should call him.”

  Lucy dropped her gaze to her hands and twirled her wedding ring, her last connection between the life she wanted and the one she now had. “You know I can’t do that, Charles.”

  “Unfortunately,” Charles said, “I do.”

  * * *

  Later, tucked in under the large picture window in her living room, Lucy pulled a gray cashmere blanket around her shoulders. The corner of the curtain, artfully placed, allowed for a complete view of her neighborhood while obstructing curious eyes from discovering Lucy’s plans for the evening. Passersby would see only a darkened house; no lit jack-o’-lanterns, no bowls of candy for trick-or-treaters.

  Autumn leaves papered the streets and sidewalks; front porches held filmy webs with furry chenille spiders. Makeshift graves littered front yards with black Sharpie inscriptions: RIP and I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK. Candles flickered in carved pumpkins with jagged smiles. Only Lucy’s house sat dark within her neighborhood’s cul-de-sac. Her and her wallflower house, both of them unwilling to engage for fear of a long, arduous hangover, a difficult recovery. She’d been careful to erase all outward signs of life. The doctor must be working tonight. She works all the time.

  Lucy sipped her tea and watched the family across the street tumble onto their front porch. The mother held the door for the last child, pulling his cape free. Lucy could hear her commands float across the street through the crack in her open window, a reminder of all she had lost.

  “C’mon, Jake, be careful with your sword. Marissa, your wing is caught in Jake’s sword.” Robin Hood stood clear of the fracas and patiently waited while the pirate and fairy untangled themselves, and then all three moved onto the porch swing for a photo. All homemade costumes, just like Lucy would have done.

  There was a camera flash. “Taylor, your eyes were closed.”

  The father strolled out of the house. “Smile, Jake. I want to see that pirate smile.”

  Another camera flash was followed by three more in quick succession, and Robin Hood wandered off the swing. Clapping his hands, the father said, “Let’s hit it, troops.”

  The town siren sounded, and the children took off at a dead run.

  The rest of the night carried with it dragons, ghouls, vampires, baseball players, and ladybugs. Mothers with children in wagons, fathers holding the hands of waddling supermen and dancing queens. There were shouts (“Say thank you!”), encouragements (“You missed this house”), affirmations (“You’re fine, honey, brush yourself off”).

  Two women chatted, trailing behind a flowerpot and a ninja. Momentarily unguarded, the flowerpot stopped walking and looked toward Lucy’s house. Her petals flopped comically as she tilted her head and examined the darkened front porch. Straightening, she moved toward the stone path that led to Lucy’s door. As she approached, she turned her head and saw Lucy. A slow smile crept along her face and she waved a leafy hand, the fingers curling a hello.

  “Lulu. What the heck?” The flowerpot snapped her head around and, with a whoosh of her petals, scurried away.

  “There’s a lady in there.”

  Lucy couldn’t argue with the mother’s response to her little girl. “No, honey. Nobody’s home.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Lucy stood in her driveway. Indian summer was in full swing, and it mussed her hair and twirled the leaves around her feet. She roused her dog. “Come on, girl. Let’s . . .” She stopped; she had no idea what should follow. Let’s stop being addicted? Let’s find God in the little things? Let’s live every moment to its fullest?

  Lucy never had been one for girlfriends or time off. She’d had so little of either through her life. She’d been too busy excelling, and excelling takes time. Her last best friend had been in grade school. Melanie Strathmore was a bossy, energetic girl to pal around with, and that was good for the intense, overthi
nking Lucy. Melanie always showed up at Lucy’s house with a plan. “Today,” she’d announce, “we are drawing a chalk sidewalk map to Mr. Crab Ass Shultz’s house, so that the aliens that are watching us will take him instead of our parents.” Or, “Do you know the words to ‘Endless Love’? We’re going to sing it next to Main Street and get discovered and be famous.” Lucy followed Melanie’s instructions to the letter until she got to ninth grade, when the Strathmores moved away. Besides, by then she had her hands full, planning for her AP classes, ACTs, and a pre-med college major.

  Plus, Lucy had failings. Not everyone appreciated her sardonic sense of humor, and she didn’t know what to say when talk moved to crushes, dances, and manicures.

  Gathering the dog in her arms, she noticed a woman a couple of driveways away, moving in her direction. The woman looked familiar—and as she approached, Lucy realized why. She was the one who’d been sitting in the waiting room of Tig’s office. The thin one. The one who couldn’t eat what she needed. Even from this half-block distance, Lucy could see her hipless form. The woman waved. “Oh good, you have a dog.”

  “I do.” Lucy smiled.

  The woman indicated her own trim black dog at the end of a pink leash. “So do I. This is Chubby Lumpkins, Chubby for short, and I’m Sidney Jenkins.” She shook her head. “No, Wick. Sidney Wick. Jenkins was my married name.”

  “Your dog and I have something in common,” Lucy said. “My name is Luscious. Neither of us fits our name.”

  Sidney frowned slightly and stooped to pet her dog. “She’s helping me learn that chubby is just a word, and that love comes in all shapes and sizes.”

  “A therapy dog?”

  “Kind of. Although I don’t think most therapy dogs hump strangers as much as this one does.”

  “That’s probably frowned upon in canine counseling circles. You’d have to work on boundaries. This is”—Lucy hesitated, searching around—“um, Little Dog. I didn’t know I was keeping her until, actually, right this minute. So I guess I’ll name her Little Dog.”

  “That’s a funny name,” Sidney said.

  “Coming from you, that’s a funny thing to say.”

  “I hope it’s okay that I’m here. I looked you up in the phone book.” Sidney tugged an envelope from her pocket. “I was going to leave you a note. Thought you might like to walk with us sometime.”

  Lucy put Little Dog on the ground and immediately she and Chubby went on high alert: guarded, tense, noses working. Slowly, they approached each other’s hindquarters and loitered in a socially unacceptable way. “It’s fine. Great, even. Where did you walk from to get here?”

  “East Gate Heights.”

  “I’m impressed. That’s way on the other side of town.”

  Without glancing at Lucy, Sidney said, “I like to walk. Helps me think. It’s like cleaning house.”

  Lucy clipped the leash she’d purchased the day before onto Little Dog’s collar and said, “Let’s do it. Let’s clean some house.”

  She surreptitiously eyed Sidney as they started to stroll. Baggy yoga pants and an oversized black fleece covered her upper body, but Lucy remembered from their meeting in the waiting room how skinny and frail she’d looked. Still, her full lips, clear skin, and large, round eyes, which were the color of sea glass, held court over her rail-thin form.

  “I’m glad you came. Little Dog and I were just trying to figure out what to do today.”

  “I used to go running whenever I didn’t know what to do next. But I wrecked my knees doing that. Now I’m working on being kind to my joints.” As they approached the downtown shops, Sidney said, “It’s nice how close your house is to the main drag here.”

  “My husband and I wanted to be able to walk most places. Thought it’d be nice for . . . kids.” Lucy wiped her hand across her eyes, and despair caught in her throat.

  Sidney briefly touched Lucy’s shoulder, acknowledging Lucy’s distress. Lucy opened her mouth to speak but the prospect of filling people in on her life, or what was left of it, felt impossible. She stayed silent but stopped to look in the window of a photography gallery.

  “That’s new,” Sidney said, gesturing to a large vintage black-and-white photograph of a bride and groom. It was a Hollywood-moment shot, possibly from the fifties, the couple locked in a kiss for the ages. The groom’s hand was at his bride’s waist, pulling her in, and his other hand tenderly touched her face. She wore a gown with satin, tulle, and pearls; he was dressed in a white tuxedo. Together they made a perfect “Congratulations on Your Marriage” greeting card image.

  “What do you suppose became of that couple?” Sidney tilted her head. “Think they’re still married, were faithful to each other?”

  Lucy smiled, remembering her own wedding. Richard in a black suit with a sky-blue tie that matched the wide ribbon that encircled her waist. His warm, brown eyes had spent the day gazing on her face.

  “Maybe I’ll buy that photo,” said Sidney. “Whatever the price, it’d be a bargain for real happiness caught on film.”

  “They look so young.”

  “You know what I think?” Sidney said, still looking at the photo. “I think people should get married at the courthouse without a single person present and no fanfare whatsoever. Then, if the couple makes it to ten years, they should have a big party. The whole shebang: white dress, flowers, cake of their dreams. After ten years they’d deserve it.”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows.

  “What?” Sidney said. “They would! But if you throw the big Everest-of-a-celebration first, there’s no place to go after that but down. The people go home, the presents are shelved, and no one’s left to help when there’s a dispute about who should wash the car or who balances the checking account. You’re setting them up for failure with the big wedding.”

  Lucy glanced back at the photograph. “Divorced?” she asked Sidney.

  Sidney nodded. “You?”

  “Widowed.”

  “Shit.” Sidney shook her head. “I’m sorry. Did you get your ten years?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t listen to me, I’m bitter.”

  “What happened?”

  Sidney was silent for a long while before saying, “I can’t talk about it. But you know when you make a wrong turn when you’re driving and the GPS unit says ‘Turn around when possible’? I really could have used that GPS on my wedding day.”

  Lucy started to speak but Sidney waved a delicate hand, swatting away the sympathy. “I try to think of my mind like a bank account. Deposits are the successes, friendships, and happy moments. Debits are the disappointments and losses. I make an effort to do the math. Balance it.” She grinned. “But I don’t have the key to weigh importance worked out. I mean, divorcing an unfaithful husband and losing your wallet are both real disappointments, but losing the wallet really sticks with you.”

  Lucy laughed.

  “When did you lose your husband?” Sidney frowned, and it seemed as if the muscle fibers in her temple could be counted.

  “Almost a year ago. I’m not really interested in moving on. Or getting over it.”

  “You know what? Me either. If I get over it, I’m liable to get involved again. No, thank you.”

  The women turned up the street, passing windows that fronted a consignment store—Goes Around Comes Around—and a stationery store called P.S. You’re Pretty. A breeze caught Sidney’s hair and whipped it up over her ears and down her back. Lucy saw the web of veins encircling her neck. Chubby Lumpkins pulled to the side and sniffed a patch of what looked like squished squirrel. Sidney reined in the leash.

  If Sidney were Lucy’s patient who had lost her breasts to cancer, she might have said, Getting over a loss is like climbing a ladder, one step at a time. She might have said, Don’t think about forever, just think about getting through today. Or maybe she would have said, It’s important to take
care of yourself. But knowing what she knew about loss, none of these felt right. So instead she said, “We should try to get better, you and I.”

  “We should.”

  “If we’re being honest . . . you do look hungry.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I am hungry.”

  11

  Tru Dat

  Lucy pulled into the asphalt parking lot of the Maplewood Serenity Center just before the 9 A.M. meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. To her left sat a pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read SEX INSTRUCTOR, FIRST LESSON FOR FREE, and to her right, a VW Bug with one proclaiming THE ONLY BUSH I TRUST IS MY OWN. With one last pat to Little Dog’s head, she cracked the windows, locked the doors, and took in a deep breath.

  The square, yellow brick building sported the tall windows of an old country schoolhouse. Lucy tugged open a filthy metal door and it swung wide with a screech. The scent of old cigarettes and stale coffee swamped her fragile mood and slowed Lucy’s progress. There were meeting notices, schedule changes, and random inspirational thoughts pinned to the bulletin board, and pamphlets—One Day at a Time, Respect Yourself—on an over-the-door shoe holder hung on a conference room door. Tucked into one of the transparent plastic pockets was a stack of laminated, wallet-sized copies of the “Serenity Prayer”; the writing so tiny that it could scarcely be read. Perhaps, Lucy thought, its power to change lives lay in one’s proximity to the words rather than the words themselves.

  She backed away from the prayer-on-a-wallet-card as if a grizzly bear had suddenly appeared. Turning, she collided with a soft pillow of a woman who was removing a shower cap, the kind that comes free with shampoo and face soap at the Ramada Inn.

  Lucy jumped away. “Excuse me!”

  “Oh hell, honey, not to worry.” She was a walking, talking version of a soft, powdery beanbag chair, wearing a fire-engine-red pantsuit and pink silk shirt. She looked like a confection, Willy Wonka’s wife, a sugared donut of a woman with peppermint-stick lipstick and yellow cotton-candy hair.