by Susan Wilson
* * *
She was a handful of fluff, bright brown eyes in a pure white face. I didn’t want to give her a common name, Molly or Maggie or Munchkin. I called her Matilda, which, of course, devolved into “Tilley” for short. The day I collected my designer dog from the breeder, I went back and forth on whether or not I should let Charles know that I was doing this, going against his express wishes regarding the puppy. I have to admit, the timing was awful, Tilley’s breeder needed her to be picked up during what turned out to be the week before my father’s final crisis. Would Charles have been less annoyed if I’d just waited? But how could I have known that things would go south so quickly? And there was something so comforting about having this little ball of life needing me, needing my full attention; at complete odds with the rest of my life, which had become about death.
I debated what would make Charles angrier—if I told him in advance that I’d bought the puppy or if I stuck to my original plan, which was to present this new family member as a done deal? I wavered, but then I realized that I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to forbid me this indulgence. I knew that the trappings of his favorite meal, a perfectly constructed cocktail chilled and waiting for him, and me in my sexy best outfit might not be the most effective offense, but it wouldn’t hurt. How can you stay angry with someone who’s worked so hard to please you? How could you not fall in love with this little perky puppy face? Only a monster would be impervious to Tilley’s already adorable charms. A monster indeed.
* * *
Other than my mother’s telephone number, with a growing accretion of unanswered outgoing calls handily noted beside it, I have only three contacts in my phone, and so far this morning I’ve talked to two of them: a quick call from Meghan to get an update on Shadow, and then one from Pete Bannerman, who’s doing his usual Tuesday-morning check-in. As I reach the entrance to the Dogtown trail system, it rings with the third ID: Tucker Bellingham. I almost feel popular.
“Anybody there this morning?”
“Not so far, but I’ve been out of the house for a while.”
“Rosie, you gotta start making some phone calls. I’ll text you the contact info for the plumber and for the electrician. I don’t have time to ride herd on all of them. That’s kind of your job.”
“Okay, fine. No problem.” I really don’t have a clue what my job is, and Tucker hasn’t been particularly forthcoming. In his view, I should be a project manager, not a project manager in training. He’s right. “I’m happy to do what I can to get things moving.”
“Start with the plumber. He’s the hardest to pin down.”
“You’re telling me.” I’ve got my dirty hair twisted up and I’m contemplating checking into a hotel for the night just to get a shower.
Tucker promises to text me the contact number—again—and lets me know that he’ll be around sometime late this afternoon. Hopefully, I can have some evidence of success for him.
We’ve arrived at the trailhead, where a handy map is posted on a wooden kiosk. A black mailbox holds copies of the Dogtown trail system. The road is crumbly tar, quickly becoming dirt and muddy truck tracks as we pass some kind of sandpit and find the path through the woods. Instantly, civilization fades and it’s as if we’ve entered another century. The silence is deep, punctuated only by the literal Tweet of a persistent bird. If I listen carefully, I can hear a corresponding Tweet deeper in the woods. I won’t lie; there is something creepy about these woods. Maybe it’s knowing the history; more likely, it’s the tangle of underbrush and the way the white oaks and pines creak and clack against one another in the southwest breeze. I tell myself that we don’t have to go far. Certainly not so far as to get lost.
Shadow has his nose to the ground and moves deliberately, focused on whatever it is his nose is telling him. He must be tracking, because his route circles back and then he performs a perfect figure eight. He keeps looking at me, making sure that I am in his sight even as his nose preoccupies him. I keep my map handy, but I find myself trusting the dog to lead me along these, to me, confusing trails. Eventually, we come to a boulder with the word STUDY engraved on it. The Babson Boulders. In the little booklet about Dogtown that Tucker gave me is the story about Roger Babson, a somewhat eccentric quarry owner and founder of the college that bears his name, who, in the Depression, gave out-of-work Finnish stonemasons the job of carving “a sort of book” on the massive boulders that emerge from the woods. I quickly find IDEAS, INDUSTRY, and, on the verso side of a boulder the size of a house, SPIRITUAL POWER. In the deep silence of the woods, the absence of anything else of human origin, it’s almost a little creepy. Text messaging from the grave.
The eastern sun has warmed the side of the massive boulder, and I lean against it as I hit the number for the plumbing company. I put on my best project manager’s voice, lowering it just a little, keeping all hints of millennial uptalk out of my tone. I’m all business. However, there’s no one in the office, so I leave a detailed voice message, with only a little bit of begging leaking through.
Shadow waits, then bounds off into the underbrush, making me think that I’d better see about flea and tick protection if we’re going to make hiking a regular activity. I push off from the rock and troop after him. We don’t stop again until we reach a fork in the trail with a sign identifying the place as Dogtown Square. There is nothing square about it, just a random stop in the trail. I am not able to imagine this area stripped of trees, home to any kind of community. I think that I am ready to turn around and head home. Shadow keeps moving, taking the rightmost trail. I’ll give our outing another few minutes; then we are definitely heading home. I don’t care if there are workmen there.
Ahead of me, Shadow pauses, fixed into immobility, as if some spell has been cast on him and he’s gone from flesh and blood to statuary. His folded ears prick forward like little jack-in-the-pulpits; beneath the bristly eyebrows, his eyes are intent on a pile of rocks. This place is nothing but rocks, but he’s picked out this particular jumble, and I realize that we’ve come to one of the numbered cellar holes of Dogtown. Without the black number posted on a short granite stump, I can’t think that anyone would ever take this sunken rock repository as ever having been someone’s home.
Shadow sits down. He throws me a look that I can only interpret as an invitation to do the same thing. I choose a rock that hasn’t sunk into the ground quite as much as the rest of the pile. If these rocks are from ancient cellars, I can’t imagine that the houses were very big. The sunken areas look only about as big as a coffin. Maybe they weren’t cellars—basements—as we know them, but root cellars. I hear the bird again. Overhead, leaves rustle, a breeze or maybe a squirrel.
As I sit there, the dog does something I think is curious. He moves from his place between two rocks and comes to sit beside me, uncomfortably perched on mine. He heaves a great sigh and then rests his chin on my knees. He’s looking for comfort. I stroke his head, pat his ribs. Rest my head on his. I have not been a comfort to anyone for a very long time.
The branches above me sway and a single bird calls repeatedly, but I can’t pick it out against the dark bark of the trees and branches; the early hint of fall shows in the faded dull look of the leaf canopy. It’s hard to imagine this place naked of trees, the rocks exposed. It’s amazing how thoroughly the forest will recover itself when left alone. In the distance, the sound of the high-speed train on the Boston-to-Gloucester run. Without that so very contemporary sound, it could be two hundred years ago. I keep my phone in my hand, less for convenience than as a totem. I need to keep my feet in this century.
* * *
“I called the plumber—is he really called Bob the Plumber? Anyway, we’re on for first thing tomorrow.”
“Good. Great. Once he’s done, we can start on the walls in the bathroom.” Tucker doesn’t make any sort of skeptical remark about the veracity of a plumber’s word, and I take that as a good sign.
“I’ve been upstairs. It’s not pretty.”
/> “I know. Did Pete say anything about what to do with the junk?”
“I’m supposed to start an inventory.”
“Good start. Then what?”
“See what makes sense to keep and what makes sense to have appraised. My guess, nothing is worth keeping.”
“A place this old, well, you’ve got to find something interesting. Better than two centuries of occupation, it’s got to be like a midden in there—trash that tells a story.”
My general contractor shifts his tool belt and says, “I want to take a hard look at the floor in the front parlor today.”
We go into the house through the back door, the dog staying close behind. Tucker heads into the “best” parlor, squats down to examine the six reclaimed planks that have replaced the rotten ones. Some other builder might have opted for a plywood replacement, with a nice rug over it, but it’s obvious that Tucker has no interest in shortcuts with this house. According to Pete Bannerman, the Trust hasn’t squawked at the added expense of it, so Tucker takes that as a mutual desire to keep the integrity of the house as authentic as possible. He’s begun to share some of his vision for the ancient house, and I find myself getting caught up in his enthusiasm. “I’ve been wanting to get into this house since I was a kid. It’s what got me interested in architecture in the first place.”
“I didn’t know you were an architect.”
Tucker shakes his head. “Actually, I’m not. I wanted to be, but, well, I never finished college.” There is a hint of wistfulness in his tone, and I wonder what it was that kept him from his goal. He doesn’t seem like a quitter.
“But you’ve got a great trade. A good business, right?”
“Good enough. My partner likes the modern stuff, the big additions and kitchen renos, but me, I like this, restoration, not renovation. Unfortunately, there’s not enough of it. Everybody wants an antique house, but not without state-of-the-art fixtures. Can’t fit most of that luxury into low-ceilinged rooms, so they end up teardowns, replaced by repros.”
Shadow moves to stand over Tucker, gently sniffing the back of his neck.
“I think he likes you.”
Tucker, on his knees, pats the dog, “I’m glad he does, because I sure wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”
“I feel a lot safer here, with him.”
“I didn’t know you felt unsafe, Rosie. We can find you someplace to stay if it’s your safety you’re worried about.”
“Not anymore. And, Tucker, who would ever take me in with a dog like that?”
Even the dog-friendliest of motels might not cotton to a pony-size dog.
His knees creak as Tucker gets out of his squat. “Man, hardly seems possible that I ever leapt after baseballs with nary a thought to the condition of these knees.” Tucker goes to the interior wall, which is a cream-colored plasterboard probably installed when they first put a furnace in the house. “You think Pete would go for ripping down this board and exposing the fireplace?”
“Is that what would be considered a change order?”
“You’re beginning to speak Clerk. What if I said no, that it’s part of the plan?”
“It would be a cool thing to have as a focal point in this room. Would it be working?”
“I don’t know. Probably not, but it would be a nice feature.”
I press a palm against the rough surface of the wall. The plasterboard is so old, it bends under my hand. “Even if you didn’t expose the fireplace, assuming there is one, you’d still have to do something about this wall, right?”
“Yup.”
“I think I can make a case to Pete. Why don’t you come up with some numbers and I’ll go over the budget.”
“Rosie, by George, I think you’ve got it.”
“Don’t Henry Higgins me. I’ve been down that path before.” I don’t mean to snap, but I’ve had enough of being someone’s project. I’ve consciously let the down-market Boston accent I was born with creep back into my voice. I’ve had my hair cut to shoulder length and scraped it back into a high, tight ponytail. I’ve gone back to my Levi’s, my cheap sneakers; I cut my fingernails with a clipper. I am slowly reverting to the self I was when I was my father’s daughter.
* * *
In some ways, Gloucester reminds me of Bunker Hill, of Charlestown. Not in the architecture necessarily, but in the way the town clings to the hillside. The angle of steepness isn’t quite as dramatic as those streets in my town, but steep enough. There is something, too, in the average Joe kind of guys and gals I encounter now that I’m venturing farther away from my remote, crumbling Homestead. It’s late enough that the crush of summer visitors has leveled off, so the voices I hear, the remarks and complaints, are pure local. I’ve even gotten to the point that I no longer accidentally take the long way around, Route 127A, which skirts the shoreline. Instead, I sometimes choose that route so that I can get a glimpse, believe it or not, of Boston in the distance. I feel worlds away, and yet, there it is, skyline rising out of the sea. If I had a boat, I could sail right to my old haunts. Shadow and I get out of the car at the Bass Rocks parking lot. The air is fresh, damp, familiar. He is obedient, and I catch him before he rolls in whatever the sea has coughed up after a high tide.
Today, I’m on my way to the Sawyer Free Library, which is on Middle Street, near the town hall and up a bit from the YMCA, one street up from Main, where I’ve discovered a really good consignment shop. My wardrobe is limited, and purely functional. I don’t have a winter coat and I’m sure, after my foray to the library, I’ll find what I want at the shop. No one seems to mind that this giant wire-haired dog is sitting out front of the library, and he’s welcomed into the shop. This place certainly seems to illustrate its Dogtown history, at least in the way dogs are welcome. All but in the Italian bakery at the other end of Main Street. Board of Health rules are adhered to in there. Maybe I should declare him my service dog and get him a vest so that he can even go in there.
I want to stay out of the house as much as possible today because the plaster walls in the parlors are coming down. Tucker has decided to do this himself, and I think he really wants me gone while he does it. He made that clear when we talked earlier this morning. “It’s really going to be messy. We don’t know if these walls have asbestos.…”
That’s all he had to say to me. I knew what that meant. “You have a mask?”
“I do.”
“As project manager, should I be here?”
“Not unless you want to use a crowbar.”
“Not so much.”
“Thought so.”
I’d already ordered a construction Dumpster so that all the debris would be contained properly. It sat outside the back door, a big blue metal box with a plastic lid flipped back. Very attractive. Shadow had marked it, claiming its presence in our yard with a degree of disdain in his eyes.
“Hey, Rosie, while you’re out, would you want to stop by the Building Center and get a roll of plastic sheeting?”
This is what has become my purpose, running errands, mostly to the local lumber yard to fetch various things for Tucker. I use his contractor’s account and have begun to feel a little pleased with myself for knowing where to find the circular saw blades and the drill bits. I am considering buying myself a pair of Carhartt coveralls just to look the part.
The Building Center is near the waterfront—dutifully labeled a “working waterfront” on the decorative banners and wayfinders posted along my route, as opposed, I suppose, to recreational waterfront. Indeed, the craft in the harbor aren’t elegant, and neither are the stacks of lobster pots and the ropy, rank materials of the fishing business. I’ve seen the iconic Gloucester Fisherman statue, symbolic of Gloucester’s heritage. I’ve eaten the fish sticks.
I get the sheeting and lock it in my car as Shadow and I continue our errands on foot. It feels good, this being outside, a to-go cup of fresh coffee in my hand and a good dog by my side, a heaven I never dreamed of a mere six weeks ago. It still feels fragile, lik
e at any minute someone is going to grab my elbow and say, “Come with me. There’s been a mistake. You’re going back.” I have those moments all too often, and that’s when I pull my phone out of my pocket and speed-dial Meghan. She’s tolerant of my insecurities. Today, she answers on the first ring. Relieved, I sit on a bench tucked a little bit out of the sea breeze. Shadow decides that it has room for him and he lounges next to me, his great head in my lap.
“Is this a bad time?” I ask out of civility.
“You caught me taking a coffee break.”
“Me, too.”
I don’t tell her about my moment of anxiety; I don’t have to.
“Tell me how the house is coming.” Usually, she shies away from talk of the project, more interested in hearing about the dog, which is good, or my state of mind, which isn’t always good, than the quotidian details of the renovation business. “Walls are coming down today. Tucker thinks there’s treasure to be had behind them.”
“Dividing walls? Like between the kitchen and parlor?” She sounds oddly distressed.
“No. Someone’s idea of winterizing circa 1962.” I tell her about Tucker’s fireplace hopes.
“Interesting. I guess I had no idea of how old the house was. Just that it was old.”
“Is. Is old. And bit by bit, Tucker and his minions are uncovering its origins.”
“That’s exciting.” For the first time, she actually sounds engaged in the topic.
“Come see it. We don’t have to stay there; we can stay in a motel. It would be fun to have you here.”
As always, with this invitation, Meghan hesitates. I know that it’s hard, maybe even impossible to get her here, but I’d love for her to say that she’d like to come, that she might try to figure out a way to get here.
“I’ll come get you. If you can get the time off. You won’t have to worry about how to get here; I’ll fetch you.” I say that, but the idea of driving into New York City does give me the heebie-jeebies. But for Meghan, I’d do it. For Meghan and Shark. To have a chance to see them.