The Dog I Loved

by Susan Wilson

  “That’s nice of you Rosie, but…”

  Maybe that guy she mentions often enough that my radar is pinging, maybe he’d like to take a trip to Gloucester. I almost say something about that, but better sense takes over. “We should plan something before the weather gets bad.”

  I hear her breathing, and I am suddenly concerned that I’ve pushed a fragile friendship a little too hard. Do I sound like a begging child?

  “Maybe in the spring. More of the house will be done by then and maybe I’ll even have a car. I’m thinking about that, you know?”

  “That would be great. But I’d still want to travel with you.” Now I know I sound like a needy friend, so I shut up.

  Shadow shifts his muzzle on my legs. I pull a handful of neck skin gently between my fingers. “I haven’t asked, but how’s the dog park guy?”

  “Marley. I’ll send you a picture. Then you can judge for yourself.” There is a playfulness for a second, and then she says, “I just don’t know what to do. How to, I don’t know, proceed.”

  I want to be a giver of sage advice, but I’m not. So I fall back on the usual comforting sounds of “You’ll figure it out.” Fortunately, she’s a veteran of that style of advice and just ignores me. “I don’t know if I can.” Silence. “You know.”

  Then I get it. “Oh. I see.”

  And at that moment, my phone beeps to tell me another call is coming in. I glance at the screen. It’s my mother.

  “Meghan, I’ve got to answer this.” I switch to the other call even before she says good-bye. My heart is pounding, literally banging against my ribs so hard that it hurts. Shadow sits up, dismounts the bench, and whines, then drops a massive paw on my leg even as I launch myself to my feet. If my mother is calling me, it can only be bad news.

  * * *

  We were sitting in the chairs that flanked my father’s hospital bed, the one that was now center stage in the middle of the dining room of my parents’ Bunker Hill home. The hospice nurse had just left after making my father as comfortable as she could. The only sound in the room was the pop and burble of the oxygen machine. That and the wet, ugly sound of my father’s breathing. I was there, finally, and, according to my mother, better late than never. One look at my father and I knew that I’d come close to the never. Despite my mother’s call ten days before to say that if I wanted to see my father, I should come, I went to Paris. A business trip for Charles, a shopping trip for me. I’d never been to Paris before.

  Almost as soon as we’d gotten home, within hours, I jumped the Acela for Boston. Charles kissed me good-bye and reminded me that his offer still stood. The one that my parents had thoroughly rejected, that he—his company—would cover my father’s medical expenses. This time, he added, “They should know that the offer on the house isn’t going to go up; we’ve made the final offer.” After that, it would be down the legal path of eminent domain. He gripped my elbow hard as he said this. “Make it happen, Rose.”

  I could hear Teddy in the kitchen, the occasional thunk of his wheelchair against the table or the counter. The teapot whistled. Even though I didn’t want it, I knew better than to refuse a cup of Barry’s Irish tea. It would have been tantamount to rejecting my heritage. At this point, drinking tea was about all we could do to distract ourselves from the purpose of our vigil without losing sight of it. The eternal jigsaw puzzle was gone, and only because it was playoff season was the television on, the ball game flickering behind me, the sound so low, it was pointless. Every now and then, someone would turn and notice the score and say it out loud: “Ten to five. Sixth inning. Sox up.”

  Four of my five brothers were in the house: Paulie, Bobbie, Frankie, and, of course, Teddy. At this point, midafternoon, my three sisters-in-law were absent, but they were expected as soon as the kids got out of school. As he had the best car, Patrick had been sent to fetch the priest. The place felt crowded to me. I wondered how it was that all of us had ever lived here, on top of one another like this, and not noticed. Add the wives and kids and I thought that the very air in here would be sucked out and we’d all suffocate. Plus a priest.

  My phone dinged with a text alert—Charles wondering if I’d talked yet with my family about the offer. I thumbed a message back: Not yet. I thought that might be the end of it, but I got another text immediately: Do it.

  Another woman would have shut her phone off. A stronger woman would have ignored him, secure in the fact that doing so wouldn’t mean irreparable harm to her relationship with him. On my left hand glittered a two-karat diamond surrounded by another karat’s worth of stones all in a platinum setting, a ring so new that I was still surprised to see it there. A Paris proposal, sophisticated and elegant and, in fact, quite unexpected. Even as he slipped the ring on my finger, I wondered how Cecily Foster would take the news that Charles’s blue-collar fling was going to be her daughter-in-law. I was flattered that he had chosen me over his mother’s hard opinion. That, in effect, he was defying his mother on my behalf. I felt selected, somehow. Valued.

  I leaned across the gap between the chairs. “Mom, we need to talk.”

  I should have chosen a better time, when she and I were alone. But in that overcrowded house of vigil, there might never be such a moment. So I repeated Charles’s proposal, emphasizing that it would go away and they might find themselves, living in some rental somewhere, if not homeless. We all accepted that housing values were skyrocketing in Charlestown; without fair money for their house, they might not have a hope of staying there. I spoke like a real estate agent, or a developer’s fiancée. “This is a safety net, Mom. Besides, everyone else in the neighborhood has taken advantage of the offer.”

  She didn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the form of my father in front of us. “That’s their business.”

  “It is your business. You can’t hold out against progress. It’s not like they’re going to let this house sit in the middle of the project. They’ll go down the path of eminent domain and you’ll get less than what Charles—I mean, what Wright, Melrose & Foster is offering.”

  Frankie was standing in the archway between this room and the kitchen. Of all of them, he looked most like my father, and right then he wore a look that transformed him into a surrogate for the dying man. “Jesus, Rosie. This is not the time.”

  “It’s got to be said. Do you want Mom to end up in public housing because she acted too late? And what about Teddy?”

  “What about me?”

  Teddy, a tea tray across his lap, rolled into the dining room. Of all of us, my father’s prolonged dying had been the hardest on him. The others, myself included, had places to escape to, homes and families and other concerns to distract from the worry. Teddy had the constant presence of our mother and her worries about Dad to contend with. No relief of a day job or a kid with strep throat; or a trip to Paris. Of all of us, he looked the most like her and now he wore the same dark circles and paleness of bearing another person’s illness on his face as she did on hers. She had shrunk; he had become bony. Fleetingly, I worried that he might actually have some infection, which he had been prone to as a kid, and that his pinched look was from actual illness and not from exhaustion. I’d always thought of him as being cared for by her, her perpetual child, but I could see that he had grown into the role of caregiver, and if she lost him, what would happen?

  “With the offer, Teddy, you and Mom will have all of this medical debt gone and enough to buy a nice place with everything you need to live well.”

  My mother reached over and picked up my left hand. She stared at the engagement ring, squinting as if the glare was painful. “You’ve been bought, Mary Rose Collins, pure and simple, and now you’re spouting his evil.”

  “It’s not evil. That’s so insulting. What’s evil about it?”

  Paulie got into it. “You’ve drunk the Kool-Aid, Rosie. He’s dazzling you with baubles and trips to Paris and you’re doing his dirty work. I bet he dumps you if you don’t talk us into this travesty.”

  “T
hat’s so wrong. He only wants the best for you.” But the worm of doubt had been planted in my brain. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that the doubts that were there already were given license. Of course Charles wouldn’t dump me if my family snubbed his overly generous offer. He’d still marry me, but there would never be any mutual fondness between them. Of course he’d still want me.

  “The best for us would be to leave us alone. Has the man no respect?” My mother stood up, busied herself straightening the sheet over my father. “And I’ll take it as a kindness for you to stop talking about this in front of your father.” We had been told several times, that the last faculty to go is hearing. “You’re upsetting him. I don’t want him to leave us worried.”

  I looked at the inert form of my father. Even in the few hours that I had been there, there had been a decline in the number of breaths, the timbre of his coughing. I had been so preoccupied with doing what Charles wanted that I’d lost sight of my reason for being there. “I’m sorry. We can talk about it later.”

  My mother left off smoothing the sheet. “There will be no later.”

  My text alert dinged. I saw the message:??? Charles, of course. Impatient. His patience was fragile.

  “We’re not done with this conversation.” My words were perceived as a threat, and a disloyalty so profound, so ill-timed that it was unforgivable. As a quiet unit, my brothers and mother faced me like a pack of Border collies, herding me away from my father’s beside. No one shouted; no one spoke. My purse was handed to me and I was pointed toward the front door.

  I fled, pushing past the priest coming up the steps to give my father last rites.

  * * *

  After breaking the connection with Meghan, I grasp the skin of my dog’s neck and answer the incoming call. “Mom?” There is no one there.

  Shadow

  He will defend her against any enemy, but it’s not all that easy to decide who is the predator in this place. The big man, the one she calls Tucker, is clearly meant to be a friend. The other men who come to hammer and bang and rip and saw and stand around drinking coffee are less obviously friends, and he keeps a wary eye on them.

  His new mistress has many layers. She’s singing to herself, then standing still, lost in some fugue state. She has as many olfactory messages as he can interpret. Happy, relieved, sad, worried, frustrated. Mostly, lonely. He has a fix for that and he applies it every chance he gets.

  Meghan

  There is a new photograph on her credenza. Marley and Spike and Meghan and Shark, a foursome captured by a friendly stranger as they sat eating ice cream in Central Park. A fairly normal-looking foursome if you don’t consider the several disparities of height and color and scars and breeds. She and Marley are wearing sunglasses. Their smiles are a little broader than usual in the way that saying “Cheese” will do. What she likes about it, and why she got it printed in a five-by-seven size, is the way Marley’s arm is casually draped over her shoulder. What it doesn’t show is her hand on his thigh. Familiarity, fondness. But not yet intimacy. It’s forecast but not confirmed.

  She doesn’t know if she can take the next step. Years ago, in a lifetime far away, Meghan fell in love in the usual way, a nice young man, worthy of being her first lover. He wasn’t in the military and wasn’t willing to be the spouse left at home, so they parted ways, although they kept in touch via social media until she cut off all communication with nonmilitary friends after her injury. It was too hard to be the object of uncomprehending pity. They couldn’t get that she didn’t regret being where she was; as much as she wished her injuries away, she’d never wish away having served.

  It’s why she feels close to Marley. Even though his injuries aren’t physical, she doesn’t have to explain to him why she gets angry or silent. He gets silent, too. And then his dog presses herself up against him and licks his nose. Meghan has such respect for him that she always turns away when he starts shaking, letting his dog do her job. Lately, though, she’s put her hand on his even as she averts her eyes. He now squeezes her fingers in response. If she worries that she has no sensation where it matters, she knows that she has feelings.

  Don Flint sticks his head into her doorway. “We’re going in to make a decision on which case should be the next special project. You ready?”

  “I am.”

  Shark gets to his feet as she pushes herself away from her desk. His tail wags, and he waits for some command to obey. Meghan accommodates him, “Lights, Shark.” He taps the light switch down as they leave the office. She throws his ball down the hallway and he is rewarded for his work.

  * * *

  “So, what do you hear from Rosie?” Carol Baxter-Flint sets a glass down in front of Meghan, pours her a nice Riesling. “How’s her project coming?”

  Meghan’s come home with the Flints for the weekend. She almost said no, but then she accepted the invitation. She’s spent both days of every recent weekend with Marley and maybe it’s a good idea to take a little break. “Rosie thinks it’s going to cost a bit more than anticipated.” She turns the stem of the wineglass, watches as the “legs” of the wine appear like tentacles. “You should know that.”

  “Is she asking for more money?”

  Meghan shakes her head, “Oh, God no. She’s just mentioned the contractor and his penchant for finding new problems.”

  Carol reaches across the counter, touches Meghan’s hand. “Meghan, you haven’t told her, have you?”

  Meghan sips the wine, shakes her head. “No. There’s no reason to.” She sets the glass carefully on the granite. “It would change things if she knew.”

  “Between you?”

  “Yes. Right now, we’re pals, friends. Two damaged girls who have very little in common except that we both love this dog and that our lives have been upended by circumstance. If she knew that I had anything to do with her change of fortune, it would alter her opinion of me.”

  “I think you underestimate friendship.”

  Meghan lifts her glass, considers her answer. “It would make the friendship unequal. She might view herself as beholden, and I can’t have that.”

  “There’s a lot of strain in keeping secrets.”

  “Maybe so, Carol, but I’m keeping this one.”

  “I’ll talk to the rest of the family. See if we can stretch the budget a little bit.”

  Shark

  Shark loves being in this house, particularly the access to a couch long enough for him to stretch out on. He’s nominally allowed to do so, because Meghan sits on one end of it at night when the three humans are staring at the wall. She strokes his ears. Tonight, he feels a tension in her that he hasn’t before. Like the humans are not saying something important. He snuffs at her palm and the very tip of his tail taps the couch cushion as she closes a gentle fist over his snout.

  Rosie

  As Tucker predicted, sure enough, hidden behind the plasterboard walls that the crew has demolished today, is a shallow fireplace with thick wood panel surrounds. Because it’s not that deep, Tucker says that it was meant more for warmth than cooking. Even so, at some time in this house’s history, this fireplace was the focal point of a parlor that probably saw very little use. The good parlor. The one meant for receiving important guests, and for wakes. The good news is that the panels are pristine, a little Liquid Gold and elbow grease, and the smoke from many years of fires will give way to the soft glow of polished oak. The mantel is gone, but that’s not the end of the world, Tucker says. He’ll start looking online tonight, see if one of the architectural-salvage places has a mantel that would fit the era. What’s even more exciting is the idea that there’s another fireplace in the second-best parlor, that maybe the foursquare chimney has four flues and that this house will be effectively restored to its proper number of fireplaces. Which makes Tucker wonder if there are fireplaces upstairs, although, as he says, it’s possible but not probable. Heating bedrooms wasn’t a priority in the eighteenth century. That’s what quilts were for. There are seve
ral trunks upstairs, all of them piled high with junk, but maybe there’s a treasure trove of old quilts in one of them. It would be kind of nice to have an antique quilt restored and hung as a conversation piece.

  Tucker is alone in the house, sucking up the day’s debris with the work vac now.

  “It’s beautiful,” I shout at him over the sound of the work vacuum.

  Tucker hits the button to shut it off. “It is. I’m really relieved that they didn’t screw around with the paneling when they mounted the plasterboard, and that it wasn’t put up to hide some damage.” Tucker runs a hand down the smooth wood of the raised panel to the left of the fireplace. “Such workmanship.” I can hear the reverence in his voice. “All done with hand tools.”

  Shadow is sniffing at the right-hand panel. His little ears are cocked and he’s giving it a close examination. He raises a paw and starts to scratch.

  “Hey, don’t do that.” Tucker reaches for the dog’s collar, pulls him away from damaging the panel.

  “Do you think there’s something behind the wall?” I’m thinking animal, not treasure.

  “Oh, wait.” Tucker runs a hand down the right side of the panel. Sure enough, there’s evidence that the panel is hinged. “Probably a space to dry firewood.” He slips a flat-head screwdriver out of his back pocket, gently fits the blade in, pulls toward himself. A narrow door opens. The centuries-old scent of dry wood drifts out.

  The dog immediately pokes his head into the space, woofs.

  “Shadow, what the heck has gotten into you?” I make the dog back up out of the way. It’s like he wants first dibs at whatever treasures lie within.

  “He probably smells old mouse droppings.”