The Dog Year (9 page)

As she inched her car forward out of the parking space, a small dog darted out from under the grocery corral. Lucy slammed on the brakes and her eyes met the dog's, and for a moment—a moment right out of a wine commercial featuring attractive young people in a singles bar—she felt a connecting of souls. Then the dog darted away, moving like a Navy SEAL as it zigzagged around the wheels of cars both parked and in motion. Lucy cringed as she heard the screeching brakes of a black SUV.

She bolted from her Subaru and into the path of a honking black Mini Cooper hell-bent on making its small-car way in a big-car world. She dodged a woman pushing a wheeled walker and flinched as the dog ran between the tires of a Holsum bread truck. The dog ran full out, ears flapping for speed, until both it and the woman with the walker exited the parking lot and headed straight into the oncoming traffic. Lucy held her hand out as a traffic cop might do in order to save school children.

Through blaring horns and elevated fingers she shouted, “Dog!” One woman screamed, “Jesus fucking Christ,” out her car window in a reaction that would have been more appropriate during a terrorist attack.

Across the street, Lucy jumped onto the grassy boulevard of a Pontiac dealership and scanned the area for the dog. A tiny flash of white and brown rounded the side of a Bonneville and headed for the back lot. She followed, waving at the salespeople behind the plate-glassed showroom, finally catching up with the shaft of a tail connected to a round, furry rump unflatteringly lodged in a wire fence.

As Lucy approached, the dog stopped struggling and peered around at her with the large, buglike eyes of a chronic hyperthyroidism patient, soulful, desperate, unable to sleep for worry of where its next meal was coming from. Lucy let it sniff her hand.

“You've got yourself in quite the predicament. I'm living that same life, metaphorically speaking. I totally have my ass caught in a big gate.” The dog allowed her a scratch behind the right ear. “It sucks,” she said. “I know.”

Lucy was able to push apart the pliable links of the fence so that the dog popped loose. But instead of making a break toward freedom, it stepped right onto Lucy's knees, stretched up, and sniffed her neck, chin, and mouth. There was no overly forward licking or gratuitous wagging, just a gentle and serious snorting coupled with a stare that said something like,
I know all about you; where's the roast beef
?

“You've got some burrs in your ears, little one. And no offense, but you don't smell so good.”

The dog opened its eyes and looked apologetically into Lucy's. “You need a bath. And maybe a few less donuts. What's a pretty girl like you doing wandering around, anyway, getting into trouble? Where's your collar?” Lucy's knees creaked as she stood and gathered the dog into her arms. “Let's get you in a tub and sort things out.”

The dog sighed and wrapped her tail around Lucy as if to say,
Oh thank God, I'm bushed. If you had some bath salts, that would be nice.

A fifteen-minute drive later, Lucy carried the dog inside the house and without preamble lowered her into the sink in the kitchen. She stroked the small animal under her chin and tested the water to make sure it was warm enough. Slowly she began bathing her. Occasionally the dog licked Lucy's hand or snuggled into her armpit, but mostly she just gazed into space in apparent bliss. Dirt ran down the drain, and what had been a stiff brown coat morphed into a silky fawn color with white highlights. Her toenails, too long and ragged, changed from mud colored to a pale seashell pink. Lucy pulled several dish towels out of the drawer. When she had finished drying her, she said, “Now let's get you something to drink.”

Lucy filled a bowl and set it down near the back door, then mopped up the water from the bath. After collecting the towels and placing them in the laundry room, she turned, searching for the dog. “Here, girl,” she called. She followed the wet footprints out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into her makeshift first-floor bedroom. There, in a doggie circle on her bedspread lay the damp bundle of brown and white fur, burrowed into Lucy's powder-blue robe. Her snoring had a slight whistle at the end of each breath.

Ever since Richard's death, Lucy had been unsure of what to do in her own house. It was a feeling she'd gotten used to. But this time, there was another being to accommodate. A being that she found she didn't want to disturb.

She noticed the blinking message light on her phone, but ignored it and crawled into bed next to the little animal. She reached out a tentative hand and rested it on the dog's paw. The dog articulated a very clear, almost human
woof
, and just before Lucy closed her eyes she saw the outraged face of her cat, glaring at her from her bureau. The righteously indignant jut of her tail broadcasted her disapproval, and Lucy mouthed, “Oh relax, Mrs. Bobo. Go lick your privates.”

W
hen Lucy woke from her nap, it was dusk. A wonderful smell floated in the room: bacon. She rubbed her eyes and wrapped herself in a shawl. She called out, “Charles?”

As she padded into the kitchen, her brother pushed an omelet onto a flowered plate. “Happy Halloween.”

“Do I need to change the locks?”

“I guess I would if you don't want Meals on Wheels wandering in and cooking you a gourmet meal while providing sparkling, low-conflict conversation.” Charles raised his eyebrows and said, “I didn't bring this dog with me, but she seems to know her way around. She said I could stay.”

Lucy knelt to pet the soft, downy animal. “She got her ass stuck in a gate,” she told her brother. “That's how we met. I gave her a bath.”

“Are you keeping her?”

“No. I'll try to find out where she lives. Put posters up or something.”

“So Stewart from frozen foods just needed to get his ass caught in your gate and he would have gotten inside?”

Lucy looked up. “Huh?”

Charles gestured toward the phone. “He called while you were sleeping.”

“Oh. Ugh. What did he say?”

“Listen for yourself,” he said.

The answering machine registered two hang-ups, followed by Stewart's voice. “Hi, Dr. Peterman. Um, Lucy. This is Stewart. From frozen foods? Um. Sorry I missed you the other night. I always do that. Come on too strong, I mean. I—I hope you'll forgive me for putting you on the spot.” There was a pause and Stewart went on. “Please don't feel bad.” There was another pause. “See you in the frozen foods. No harm, no growl, as they say in football.”

Charles grimaced at Lucy. “No harm, no growl?”

“He's got a real way with words.” Lucy's face fell. “I am the social equivalent of a chronic dieter. I vow to do better, dream of the perfect friendship, but I'm unable to muster the hyper-vigilance needed to put down the sabotaging behavior and reach out for help.”

“Yep.”

“I need to go to People Anonymous. ‘Hello, my name is Lucy and I suck at interpersonal relationships. It has been two years since my last dinner with someone not related to me.'”

“And Stew was that chance?”

“He was a start, I guess.” Lucy rubbed her eyes, “You know, once, when I was flying somewhere to a surgical conference, they had me seated right next to an emergency exit. I asked to be moved, immediately after hearing the three criteria for using that seat.” Lucy ticked them off on her fingers: “You must not block the exit, hurt yourself or others, or get distracted. Given what might be occurring at the moment when I'd need to wrestle the door off its hinges, I couldn't make any of those promises. Shit, I get distracted while brushing my teeth. I hurt people while grocery shopping. If the plane was going down, I'm pretty sure I'd block the exit.” Lucy ran her hand through her wild hair. “I've gotta call him.”

“He sounds understanding.”

“That makes it worse. Where's Phong tonight?”

“Spanish class. You know he's running for alderman. Thinks he should be able to speak the language of the people.”

“How's the campaign going?”

“He spit a coffee bean twenty-nine feet and one inch at the Coffee Festival.”

“So that's a really important skill for an alderman. Also, fairly impressive. How'd he do it?”

“He told the newspapers he just shut his eyes and thought Olympic gold.”

A loud, frat-party kind of barking erupted from the living room. Lucy strode toward the front door, calling over her shoulder, “It sounds like I have five breeds in here instead of one smallish, dappled doggie.” Seconds later she appeared in the kitchen looking panic-stricken.

“Luce?”

“The cops are here. In the driveway.” Charles looked so unaffected by the news that Lucy was forced to add, “Now!” in such a hysterical tone that the dog paused mid-yip.

“Jesus, calm down.”

“Do you think the hospital finally called them? Or Stewart, maybe? He probably checked the surveillance tapes, saw me steal that pumpkin. But I put it back!”

“You stole a pumpkin?”

“Charles, go out there. Tell them I'm not home. Tell them I'm in surgery.” Lucy looked wildly around. “No, don't. They must know I'm not working. That's why they're here. You're supposed to stick close to the truth when you lie; that's what they say.”

“Who?”

“Lie experts. Tell them I'm indisposed. Tell them I want to be alone.” Lucy paced around the kitchen.

“Okay, Garbo. I'll answer the door. You try and get your bag of nuts together and sit like a good little squirrel and shut up.”

As Charles stepped out of the kitchen, Lucy whispered a loud “I love you.”

She stood there, hugging the squirming dog, who chewed a cat-shaped rawhide, until Charles reentered the kitchen. Then she blew air through her lips and rolled her eyes. “That was close.”

“There's someone here to see you.”

“Hi, Egypt.” Mark Troutman strolled into the kitchen and put his hand up in a casual wave. “This isn't an official call. This is for that rogue cat of yours that terrorizes the neighborhood. I'm dropping off information on how to get her properly licensed.” He held out a small pamphlet with a cartoon kitty on the front.

Charles smiled. “I told him you'd never get that cat a license if I gave this to you.” To Mark he said, “She needs a strong authority figure.” And then he quietly left the room.

“I don't know what to say,” Lucy said.

Mark said, “‘Thank you' is customary in this country.” She just blinked, and after a moment he said, “Okay then, I'm going back to work. Maybe we could have coffee again sometime.”

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, overthinking 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.