by Susan Wilson
“Are they at least thinking about it, the offer?”
“My father is past thinking. My mother is quite preoccupied.”
“What about your brothers? Does any one of them speak for your parents?”
“No.” I could have added “any more than you speak for your mother,” but I didn’t. I was too tired to be witty, too whiskey-mellow to want to provoke a fight I had no energy for. “Where’s Tilley?” I just wanted her on my lap.
“Didn’t you crate her?”
“Not yet. We only just got home.” I meant that she needed a little free time. I never crated her when Charles was out.
“I have to get changed.” Charles swallowed the last of his drink, dropped a kiss on my forehead, and left me to my own ruminations. I picked up the carafe and added a touch more whiskey to my tumbler. I forgot about the puppy’s whereabouts as I studied my phone, hoping that maybe I’d missed a call or text from one of my family. I’d texted each one of my brothers to see what was going on but hadn’t gotten a response from anyone. It was as if a door had been shut, a prison gate, and I was on the other side. I thought that I had been locked out, but what I had been was locked in, locked into a fate of my own making.
“Just look what this fucking dog has done!”
Charles stood in the doorway, one shoe in his left hand, the puppy in his right hand. The puppy looked pleased. The shoe, one of a pair of beyond-expensive bespoke Italian loafers, was shredded. He flung them both at me. The shoe bounced off my shoulder, but the puppy landed in my lap.
“Get rid of her, or I swear to God I will.”
Late that same night, I got a phone call telling me that my father had passed. It was Brenda Brathwaite, not my own family calling. “They asked me to call, Rosie. I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t tell if she meant she was sorry about my father’s death or about my increasing estrangement from my family.
Two days later, we drove to Boston to attend my father’s funeral, where I was iced out by my family, my mother stiff-arming me as she pushed past to greet some long-lost cousin.
* * *
One of the things I like about Home Depot is the fact that Shadow can come in with me. He obviously likes the massive place, with its acres of wood and plastic and metal and porcelain, and greets everyone like he’s king of the hill. He seems to know that we’re not in some gigantic outdoor space with a roof and puts on his best inside manners. For the most part, I haven’t had to train him. Even off-leash, he knows to heel. When on-leash, he has great manners, never pulls or decides what route we’re going to take. Shadow sits, stays, and downs like a champ. Even if I leave him outside the library, I don’t worry about him wandering away. I say “Stay,” and he does. I am a dog trainer. It’s what I expect. I believe that he has an innate sense of propriety and obedience. I don’t allow myself brain space to consider that someone might actually have trained him to perfection before I came into his life. He’s mine. I haven’t even had to deal with bad habits. He really doesn’t have any, unless you count his insistence on resting his muzzle on the kitchen table. As I use that table for everything from work to reading the newspaper to eating, it’s an understandable habit. I’m thinking about going beyond basic training skills and getting into something fun, like agility. There’s plenty of room on the Homestead property to build a few jumps. It would just be for our pleasure; I’m not ready to join any groups or anything. Dealing with Tucker and the various workmen is social enough for me for right now.
I’ve consulted with Tucker and with Pete and we’ve come up with a budget for the fixtures in the bathroom. I’m beginning to catch on to the whole ethos of keeping as much of the house as original as possible, and I manage to find a pedestal sink and bathtub that at least blend with the age of the house, even if they aren’t exactly retro. If I really went with authenticity, I’d have to be shopping for chamber pots and a tin tub. This being without a shower has gotten very old very quickly. I talked Pete Bannerman into having the Trust buy me a membership at the YMCA, which has helped. Plus, I like the machines. I can grind out the miles on the stationary bicycles or incline and come away clean and feeling like I’m finally getting my youthful vigor back. I have my earphones and listen to audiobooks or podcasts. It’s like my desiccated brain is sucking up culture and information. Both my legs and my brain are getting toned. What exercise equipment there was at Mid-State was very limited and hogged by the jocks, who liked deadlifting and giving you the dead eye at the same time.
I make quick work of the fixture purchases, which Bob the Plumber or Tucker will pick up. Then I buy a dozen of those tall, thin sticks that people use to delineate their driveways for plowing. I think that they’ll make a great weave course for Shadow’s agility training.
“That’s some dog you got there.” The middle-aged woman behind the checkout counter fishes a dog biscuit out of a plastic jug. “Can he have one?”
Who am I to say no? Shadow politely takes the treat.
“What is he?”
Ah, the most popular question, asked by many, answered by few. Each time I seem to have a different idea. “I don’t know. He’s a rescue.” Technically speaking, I rescued him, didn’t I? “Maybe part wolfhound.”
Shadow has his attention focused behind me, where an older man in a tracksuit stands with his hands full of plastic plumbing parts. His tail sweeps from side to side, almost like he knows the man. He’s been mostly aloof with the men who come to the Homestead. Tucker is the only one he greets, and I think that’s probably because Tucker is there more consistently. I thank the woman for the treat and gather my rods.
“He’s a lurcher. That’s what he is.” The man speaks with a decidedly British accent. Not a plummy one, more Onslow than Hyacinth.
“A lurcher?” I’ve never heard of it, and it sounds kind of derogatory.
“Useful farm dogs, common in England. Poachers’ dogs. Deerhound mixes, whippets. Fast, skinny dogs mixed with collies or terriers.”
“Not a recognized breed, then?”
“Suppose not. Good hunters. All-around dogs. Don’t see many over here.”
“I suppose that he’s just a coincidental blend of all the right parts to come up with what you call him. Lurcher. Okay, Shadow, we’ll say you’re one hundred percent lurcher from now on.” I thank the man, wish him success with his DIY plumbing project, and head out, my lurcher at my heels.
Goody Mallory has passed this day; more accurately, at the dark moment before dawn, before even the birds announce themselves. She was one possessed of a dog, a great gray cur of no known breed. Not shepherd, not hunting dog. Some amalgam thereof, I would have to say.
What was interesting to me—and without my Ben to listen to my whimsy, I write it here—what I observed was the way the beast nestled himself beside Goody on her corn-husk mat, and, more important, the way her crabbed hand clutched at the dog’s fur, taking final comfort from the feel of it. Her other senses flown, this last sense was engaged into the harsh coat of her familiar. She smiled and gave up her last breath. The dog, for his part, remained in her dead embrace, his eyes closed, as if—no, it is a blasphemous thought—but to my eyes, it appeared as though the dog was prayerful. I could not bring myself to interrupt, as if I took him as her chief mourner, which, I suppose, he is. He did stand after a bit. Then he sat over her body and broke my heart with a single ululation. Not quite a howl, but clearly a lament.
I woke from a restless sleep and lighted my candle to add one more thought to this page. Goody Mallory was a war widow, her husband lost in the last war, her livelihood gone, her fate to scratch out an existence partly on charity, partly on fortune-telling and chicanery, but she did not die alone. I am so very alone.
I read that entry and thought about how lucky I am to have Shadow in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without him by my side.
Shadow
He likes this mobility, this going out and about and not being confined to just the area he can traverse on his own four feet. No one ever before
has offered him a ride. It was unnerving first, but now all she has to say is goforaride and he’s there. He knows that he is different from others of his kind, mostly in his size and hue, and certainly in his mission. When they walk the streets of the town, he keeps close to her side. He is well aware that she appreciates his presence, especially when males approach. A creature less attuned to the language of movement wouldn’t notice her subtle shrinking when men are near. He is alert to it, and keeps himself close whenever men are present, whether those working in the house or those on the street. It is his duty.
Rosie
I feel Shadow’s wiry coat beneath my fingers; he rests his head in my lap as I read further in Susannah’s daybook. It has evolved from a quotidian recording of accomplishments and accounting to what one might consider a proper journal, used to record thoughts and impressions, fears and hopes. When I was in the early days of my incarceration, the prison psychologist had suggested that I jot down my thoughts in a journal, telling me that it might help me figure out why I was there. Maybe even alleviate the depression. I tried for a while. It was something to do.
“Goody Mallory’s dog has followed me home,” Susannah wrote.
I get a little chill at those words. I put my hand on my dog’s head.
I was called to attend Mrs. Dalton’s lying-in. When I returned home, having not been offered the courtesy of a ride, I walked the quickest way, through Dogtown, past Goody’s now-empty house. I did not see the dog, but I felt as though I was no longer alone. Seeing no one, I took it that my tiredness was playing tricks on me. Upon arrival at my own door, the cur made his presence known. I tried to chase him off, but he was obdurate. I shut my door on him, hoping that he’d haunt someone else.
Mrs. Dalton’s lying-in did not go well. I am growing too old to endure the long wait for a babe to make its appearance. When her labor did not progress, Mr. Dalton sent for Dr. Bellingham. Bellingham will have my fee. I am sent home with only a meat pie as payment. Perhaps that is what attracted that beast to my door, the scent of it. I cannot pay my rent in stale meat pies. I still have no settled accommodation. I do not wish to become another widow’s lodger.
I shared the meat pie with the dog. He was very grateful. I will allow him to stay.
I love that she’s kept him. I read between the lines and see that her dog, like mine, is filling an empty space.
* * *
I bump into Tucker again, this time at a place in Rockport, Roy Moore’s Fish Shack. It is jammed, and I am waiting for a table when Tucker walks in. Seems like the right thing to do, so I ask him to join me. Funny, it’s quicker to get a table for two than a single. Fish cakes and beans. Yum. We share an appetizer of fried calamari. Naturally, the talk centers on our common project, the Homestead, which leads me to bring up the journal we found. “I’ve been curious about something. Susannah mentioned a Dr. Bellingham. Any relation?”
“Our most illustrious ancestor. Elijah Bellingham. His father was a fisherman, but he inculcated a love of learning in his one and only son. Sent him to Harvard. Couldn’t keep him off the Cape, though, and he came back to practice medicine.”
“That’s cool. And you’re a direct descendant?”
“He was my fifth-great-grandfather. My dad was named Elijah. Fortunately, they went with a different tradition when they named me and my brother.”
“What was that?”
Tucker points to himself. “Mother’s maiden name, also a longtime Cape Ann family, and my brother was given her favorite boy’s name, Steve. Stephen.”
“Are you the elder?”
“I was.”
I note the past tense. I wonder if I should ask about it, but our desserts have arrived.
Tucker licks the last of his blueberry pie off the end of his fork. “So, what did this Susannah woman say about my ancestor?”
Dr. Bellingham’s name had come up in several entries, always in relation to a patient she either was attending or thought she would attend. Apparently, from what I can gather from the arcane style of her writing, women, mothers-to-be especially, were turning more and more often to the doctor instead of to Susannah, who had been a local midwife. I tell Tucker this, then add, “I think she was in trouble. She asked this Baxter guy if she could stay on, but he wouldn’t barter anymore. He wanted cash and she was cash-poor.”
“Because this Doc Bellingham was horning in on her territory?”
“Maybe.” I push the remainder of my pie aside. “Do you think she ended up in Dogtown?”
“I suppose so. Although I think that Dogtown was pretty much defunct by her time.”
I start rooting around in my purse for my wallet. “You know, she had a dog.” I pull out my share of the tab. “She wrote that he followed her home as she walked through Dogtown. She said that he belonged to one of the old ladies—somebody she called Goody Mallory.”
“You seem to have gotten really caught up in Susannah’s story.”
“Do I?” I laugh. “Well, I have gotten kind of attached to her. Imagine, here’s somebody who lived in the same house I’m in. Who had a good life, and then trouble, and, well, then a dog.”
“Like you?”
For the first time I wonder what, if anything, Tucker has been told about me.
“Yeah. Like me.”
* * *
I thought that the only thing that might mitigate Charles’s anger at me and Tilley was to act on his wishes about my parents’ house, now just my mother’s house. I would become complicit with Charles in persuading my grieving mother that she had no choice but to give up the house where she and my father had lived for forty years, where she’d raised her six children. Where she had lodged memories in every nook and cranny. Yes, I chose the wrong battle. I knew that I couldn’t talk to her, so I approached it in another way. I went to Paulie.
On the face of it, what Wright, Melrose & Foster was doing wasn’t altogether unreasonable. One last house on a block destined for improvement was an obstacle but not terminal to the project.
“Paulie, they’ll get it in the end. You have to help her see that she can get so much more if she just asks for it.” I was in Charles’s study, a place that felt more appropriate to this conversation. Tilley played at my feet. I wanted to make this call when he wasn’t around, to talk without being cued as to what to say. To do this in my own way. I picked the puppy up and put her in my lap, fully aware that what I was doing was bargaining for her continued presence in my life.
“It’ll kill Teddy.”
“Paul. Teddy is a grown man. He won’t die from leaving his childhood home. He might even benefit from it.” I believed my own rhetoric. I felt like I’d stumbled upon a truth, and I pressed the issue. “Isn’t it just possible that Mom has, well, enabled Teddy?”
“Enabled, how? By caring for him? How do you enable someone so physically disabled? You make it sound like he had a choice.”
The cell phone in my hand began to feel hot to the touch. Tilley was still on my lap and I realized that I was clutching her neck skin in my fingers to the point where she wriggled to get free of me. “That’s not what I mean. I mean that if he had a place to live where he could be better accommodated, he might develop some independence. She might get a break.” I put the puppy down.
“Rosie. Isn’t it enough that she’s lost her husband? Does she have to lose her home, too?” Paulie sounded tired, weary of my badgering. “I swear to you, if your boyfriend’s company pulls this eviction off, we will never forgive you.”
“It’s eminent domain, not eviction. They will pay fair-market once. If she negotiates with them now, she’ll get a better deal.”
“Listen very carefully, Mary Rose Collins. You will never be forgiven. You will have chosen the wrong side. Are you willing to chance that? Do we mean so much less to you than Pretty Boy? You like the money; you like the high living. We represent your upbringing, Rosie. And that’s why you’re on his side, pretending to be something you’re not.”
I was shocked, to say the
least, that my eldest brother, the most adult of all of us, could resort to this kind of threat. “I’m just trying to get Mom the best option. I’m looking out for her, and you all have your heads in the sand. You can’t prevent it. Don’t you get that?”
“Perhaps not. But that still puts you on the wrong side. That still makes you a traitor.”
“That’s harsh, Paulie. For just wanting to do the right thing.”
“That ship sailed, Rosie. The right thing would have been to keep your mouth shut when you were here, when Mom was so vulnerable and we had more important things on our minds.” I heard my brother suck in a deep breath and I thought that he was trying to calm himself down. “Your moral compass is screwed up, Rosie. Frankie was right, you’ve swallowed whatever high-priced Kool-Aid that bastard is feeding you. You ran away that day. Don’t you get it? You should have come back. You should have shut your trap and sat there like a good daughter and been with us when Dad passed. Not run back to your cushy life in New York, showing up at the funeral all decked out in fancy high-priced clothes, never letting go of that man’s arm for fear you’d show some freakin’ emotion.”
I was beyond words. So much hate spewing from my eldest brother’s mouth.
“Do you all feel this way?”