Biloxi

by Mary Miller

  BILOXI

  A NOVEL

  MARY MILLER

  For Winter,

  who also happens to be

  a slightly overweight mixed-breed

  who gags a lot

  The moment I decided to quit,

  I felt much better.

  —Charles Bukowski, Post Office

  BILOXI

  CHAPTER 1

  I WAS ON MY way to Walgreens when I saw Ellen’s car—a Buick Regal in a dark blue color she called “sparkling sapphire”—and panicked, turning left instead of right, which took me to the beach. It wasn’t a detour, exactly, but I never took the beach. As I wound my way back up to Pass Road, I saw a house with a sign that said FREE DOGS on the mailbox alongside a couple of drowsy balloons. Next thing I knew I was parked and getting out of my car as an obese man shuffled down his driveway to greet me.

  “Harry Davidson, LPN,” the man said, his hand extended ten feet in advance.

  “Louis McDonald, Jr.” It was the first time I’d ever introduced myself in this way, with the suffix. I liked it. Made me sound like I’d inherited something.

  “You related to Myrtle McDonald?”

  “I don’t know a Myrtle.”

  “Nice lady, goes to my church,” he said. “Makes a good carrot cake. You like carrot cake?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’ve found that all men like carrot cake.”

  “Is that so?” I wanted to take it back, tell him I didn’t like carrot cake that much, that it was just okay.

  And then he went into his spiel: he had too many dogs and some of them were going to get turned into dog meat. He hated it, but what could he do? Such was life. His new wife, turned out, was allergic. And then he said nobody’d been by to look at Layla yet, followed by a series of shrugs and oddball faces, which I took to mean it was all up to me.

  He didn’t say, “It’s all up to you.” If he had said, “It’s all up to you,” I wouldn’t have been able to take her. I was curious about this new wife and found myself looking into the darkened windows of the house. It was hard to believe someone had recently married this man.

  “She’s obedient, too,” he said, yanking up his pants. Britches, I thought, yanking up his britches—pants were too nice a word for what he was wearing. “Border Collies are known for their obedience. You could probably train her to get your morning paper.”

  “I can get my own damn paper,” I said. I felt manipulated, aggrieved.

  Harry Davidson chuckled. “You probably want to see her—of course you want to see her. Let me go get her for you.” He pointed at me as if we were in on a joke and shuffled back up his driveway. I looked at my car. I could just get in my car and drive to Walgreens to pick up my diabetes medicine and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi as I’d intended. Maybe I’d even get some of those bite-sized white-chocolate Kit Kats I liked so much. They were new—they were always coming out with new candy and they always would.

  He returned with a slightly overweight dog, bright white with a black patch over her right eye. One black ear and one white one. Two of her paws were also black, one in the front and one in the back.

  “Check out the coat on this girl—snow white,” he said, “beautiful! Go ahead and pet her.”

  I petted her, hair coming off on my fingers. “She doesn’t look all that bright.”

  “Oh, she’ll surprise you. She’s complicated—more like a person than a dog, really. Complex emotions and all that.”

  “Like a person,” I repeated. I wasn’t in the right state of mind to make a decision of this magnitude. My blood sugar was low. I was getting shaky. “How old is she?”

  “Hard to say—young. Maybe a year? Two?” He lifted her lip so I could see her teeth. “Never had a single accident, though she’s thrown up a few times. Looked like bile, mostly. Sometimes she gets this gagging thing going.” Harry Davidson put his hand up to his throat and flitted it about.

  “She gags a lot?”

  “Not too bad—I think it’s just nerves. I have to tell you,” he said, leaning in so I could smell the coffee on his breath, “Layla’s always been my favorite.”

  “What’s your wife’s name?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Your wife.”

  He took a step toward me and I took one back. “What do you want to know about my wife for?” He turned and looked at the house.

  “I was just making conversation.”

  “That’s a strange way to make conversation, buddy,” he said, “asking the name of somebody’s wife like that, out of the blue.”

  “I know a Davidson.”

  “Uh huh,” he said.

  “Her name’s Sally.”

  “My wife isn’t Sally. There’s no Sally here. So, about the dog,” he said. “Let’s get back to dogs.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Fourteen before I started downsizing—mostly small ones. I’ve got to get rid of all but the hypoallergenic.” He was speaking slowly now, looking at me like he had no idea what I might do. He wouldn’t be surprised if I started jumping up and down on one foot or took out a knife and jabbed at him.

  We continued talking about his dogs and how he’d come to have so many—a litter here, a stray there—until Harry Davidson wasn’t bristled any longer. He was smiling when he said, “Oh, yeah, she’s really taken to you.” There was nothing in the dog’s behavior to substantiate this. “I named her after the song. Eric Clapton was in love with George Harrison’s wife and it’s about this woman, I think her name was Pattie—or was it Debbie?—it wasn’t Layla, anyhow. He ended up marrying the girl, though Harrison wasn’t too broke up about it. He even went to the wedding. It didn’t last, though. . . .” He shook his head and I waited for him to say something like they never do, but he spared me that.

  After that we stood there and observed Layla together. She didn’t look particularly smart or energetic or interested in me. In other words, she wasn’t anything you might want in a dog. I thought about the dogs I’d had as a boy: a pack of wild animals that weren’t allowed inside the house. Occasionally, if the mood struck, if my mother had made pancakes that morning, I’d toss them into the air to watch them jump. Then I’d close the door and forget about them. And then I thought about Ellen’s dog, a small, nervous thing with wiry hair in a burnt caramel color.

  “She’s a good one,” he said. “One of the best!”

  That was a stupid thing to say and I felt like pointing out how stupid it was. I didn’t care for this man. I liked the idea of training his dog, though, the things I might teach her to do. Perhaps she really could get my paper in the mornings. That would be something for the neighbors to see.

  “I don’t want to pressure you,” he said, “but I’ve got some burgers I need to flip.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “It’s something people say,” he said, “a figure of speech. I have things to do.”

  I wanted the dog but I didn’t like the idea of doing him any favors, and I certainly didn’t want him to think he’d talked me into it.

  “Well,” I said, and I paused for much longer than either of us was comfortable with. I opened my mouth and closed it again, really challenging myself. Harry Davidson coughed. Then he narrowed his eyes and started shaking his head. Finally I said, “I think this is the one for me.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “I can’t take her back now. This is a one-time deal.”

  He had the kind of eyes where you could see the whites all the way around—the entire iris on display, exposed and naked-looking. “There’ll be no reason for that,” I said.

  Harry Davidson, LPN, stuck out his hand and I shook it—a firm, dry shake. Then I opened the door and told her to get in and she surprised me
by doing just that. We drove home the beach way. The beach pleased me and I didn’t regret it even though I was catching every light and there were a lot of people out cruising, driving too slow with their windows rolled down like they had no place in the world to be. I didn’t have anyplace to be, either. I had left the house to pick up a Pepsi and look what happened because I’d turned one way instead of the other. Life really was something.

  I was feeling better. Decisions had been made. I’d known what I’d wanted and I’d gone after it. The day was sunny and warm but not too warm. I turned to look at her, sitting calmly and staring out the window like a person. It gave me a nice feeling so I kept turning my head to look at her, nearly running off the road every time. She looked happy, like she was smiling, but maybe she was only hot.

  “Whatcha see out there, girl?”

  I rolled down the window, not too far, I didn’t want her to jump out, and she raised her nose to get a good sniff.

  “That’s the ocean,” I said, though it wasn’t the ocean. It was the Mississippi Sound. And past that was the Gulf of Mexico, which was an ocean basin connected to the Atlantic. I didn’t think I needed to get into all that, though I could and she would listen. I pointed out the sights: the casinos—the Beau Rivage where all the old people gambled and the Hard Rock where they had a Ben & Jerry’s and a good steakhouse—the Biloxi lighthouse and Jefferson Davis’s home, Beauvoir, which was advertising its 30th Annual Fall Muster. I thought I might like to see that, all the people in costumes reenacting the war. I imagined myself standing over a man pretending to be dead and nosing him with my shoe to see if he moved. Kicking him a bit. They were very serious, I’d heard, and tried to re-create everything exactly as it had happened.

  “Not sure why it’s called a muster, though, what a funny word. My brother was in a war once, but that was a long time ago. He didn’t make it so you won’t get to meet him. They lost that war . . . that war was not a success. And there are the trash birds, also called seagulls, and some trash people feeding the trash birds. They love to do that. For the life of me I don’t know why. And that’s one of the dead trees that the “chainsaw artist” carved into a dolphin after the storm. The storm to which I am referring, of course, is Katrina. But that was also before your time.” I talked and talked and didn’t feel silly for talking to a dog, which was surprising.

  I turned to see if she was following along and she was, steadily gazing out the window. I imagined her running headlong into a pack of seagulls, the way they’d scatter.

  “We’ll go to the beach soon,” I said. “Oh, I bet you’d like that—lots of smells, all sorts of new smells, and you can find some chicken bones and fish carcasses to eat.”

  There we’d be, smiling at the other dog walkers, the bike riders and joggers. Even the few homeless men on benches, dropping some change into their cups. Looking out at the water with the breeze in my hair. I had been living a very small and quiet life, but no longer! No longer would I live a small life; it might still be quiet—I had yet to hear Layla bark—but it wouldn’t be so small.

  I parked in the garage and opened the door for her. She hopped out. She’d shed all over the place, a real mess. There was also a strong smell about her and something about the smell reminded me of Harry Davidson and his coffee breath. I really would’ve liked to see his wife. Sometimes an ugly man—sometimes even an ugly and poor man—managed to get himself a nice-looking wife and I suspected Harry Davidson was one of them, though I had no idea why.

  I started the water in the guest bathroom and then went to find Layla, slunk down by the couch.

  “It’s just a bath,” I said. “I’m just gonna clean you up a bit.”

  She wouldn’t follow me so I picked her up. She was heavier than I’d expected. It reminded me of my daughter, Maxine, and how stubborn she’d been as a child. Whenever I had to pick her up and move her somewhere, she made her body stiff and heavy as she tried to stay firmly on the ground. She would yell, too. She had dense bones, came by it honest.

  I took Layla to the bathroom and closed us in, knelt and tested out the water, impressing myself, and then we waited for the tub to fill. I had brought her into the room too early, like I was purposefully trying to torture her.

  “Okay,” I said, “it’s time.” I looked at her and she looked at me and then she walked over to the tub and tried to climb in. Oh, how she pleased me already. Takes it like a dog, I thought, smarter than she seems, rather like a person, really.

  I lathered her up with Head & Shoulders and she turned blue in a way I liked. I considered taking a picture of her with the phone on my camera. I only had two pictures on there that Maxine had taken. They were of my granddaughter, her daughter, and they were not good pictures: both blurry, in one of them the girl’s eyes had caught the light in a way that made her look possessed. Children could be oddly sinister. It was a lot of work to get the shampoo out but she was cooperative. After that, I rubbed her down with a towel and brushed her with Ellen’s purple hairbrush, which I had moved from the master bathroom to the guest bathroom along with the various other toiletries she’d left behind, so I wouldn’t have to see them. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. The remains of a woman, the remnants of a woman I had once loved. Women still existed in the world and so did Ellen. They didn’t remind me of her so much except the hairbrush. I recalled the sound it made, how loud it was when she pulled the brush through to the tips of her hair, like something that hurt.

  I told her that Ellen was the reason I’d found her, or more accurately, the fear of seeing Ellen behind the wheel of her car, driving along the road, had prompted her unexpected arrival into my life. As I explained it, it didn’t seem like any reason to be fearful. What if I’d seen her? There she’d be, behind the wheel of her car, driving. And there I’d be, doing the same. But the terror was there as I imagined her slowly turning her neck to look at me, our eyes meeting.

  Layla was still wet so I looked for a hair dryer but couldn’t find one. This is a damn load of trouble, I thought. She licked my hand like she knew it was a lot of trouble and she was sorry about it. Then she started gagging but it was more like she was having a hard time swallowing, or she was throwing up in her mouth and choking it back down.

  “You okay?”

  It went on and on and she was looking at me, sorry and worried and I was sorry about it, too, but mostly I found it very annoying. Extraordinarily annoying. I wanted to put her outside but she was still wet and it was getting cool out. I took another towel from the closet and rubbed her down again, hoping that if we both ignored it the gagging or whatever it was would stop. I dried each of her paws and told her it was alright and I’d take her to the vet if it continued, unlike Harry Davidson who had probably never taken any of his animals to the vet. Finally it stopped and everything was okay. I threw her a piece of bologna and we were back on.

  It was five-thirty, the best time of day. Soon I’d eat dinner, maybe fix myself a drink first. And then it would be dark and I could go to sleep at any time after that. I liked to fall asleep in my chair until I woke up—sometimes it was two o’clock in the morning before I got into bed. Ellen had never let me sleep in my chair but would call my name and shake my shoulder until I got up because she liked to be in the living room alone. What would she do after that? It was her special alone time, she called it. She drank wine and watched TV or played games on her phone. I watched the news while the dog crouched at my feet and licked them, not unpleasant. I figured Ellen sat in my chair after I went to bed because it was nice and warm. The most comfortable spot in the house.

  “Hold on, I’ve got something for you.”

  I went to the closet, unfolded a baby blanket that had belonged to Maxine—yellow because Ellen hadn’t wanted to do the whole pink thing—and put it down for her. Bunched it up. I made a mental note to get her a bed and a few bones, some expensive, high-protein dog food because I’d heard that was best. Until then she could eat lunch meat.

  “What kind of to
ys do you like?” I asked. “You like toys? I’ll get you one of those things you put treats in and you have to figure out how to get the treat out. I bet you’d like that. It’s a puzzle with a reward for all your hard work. Ellen had one of those for her little shiteater—she’d put peanut butter in there and make a real goddamn mess. I forget what it’s called but it looks kinda like a snowman.”

  She didn’t know what I was talking about but I didn’t have to explain. I was her master. She licked my feet some more. I’d saved her and we both knew it. She was shy, though, and wouldn’t look at me straight on.

  “Do you know how to use a doggy door?” I asked. “You probably have to go to the bathroom.” I should’ve thought of that. Jesus, how long had she been holding it?

  We’d installed the doggy door a few years back when Ellen bought the Chihuahua. The dog had a skin condition and all sorts of other ailments, which seemed to make her love it more. She took great care in giving the dog its shots every day and feeling sorry for it when its eyes went all filmy after. It was funny how that worked. Ellen didn’t want anything to do with me when I was sick. She’d hardly wanted anything to do with me at all once Maxine left the house. And she got lazy, too, was always claiming she was tired even though she just watched HGTV and played casino games on her phone, the kind where the money you won or lost was fake, or she met groups of ladies for lunch or bridge and told me all about the renovations they were making to their houses. What she wanted to do with ours. She seemed to think she’d done something amazing when she picked me up a hamburger.

  I took the bacon left over from breakfast and went outside, knelt on the concrete. It hurt my knees. Jesus Christ, my knees. The right one in particular. I cursed God, apologized; it wasn’t because I believed in him—I didn’t, hadn’t ever believed, though that was harder to admit—to have lost one’s faith is different from never having had it at all—but I was still afraid of a man called God.

  I pushed open the flap and called to her.