The Dog I Loved

by Susan Wilson

  “That’s because you were trained; you were doing what you had been prepared for. No one is prepared for love.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m not in love with anyone. Except Shadow, of course.”

  “They really are enough, aren’t they? Who needs men?”

  “Well, let’s not get weird here.”

  Meghan laughs again. Rosie, whose life is so upended, can always make her laugh. “Do you think you’ll ever do it again? Love, I mean.”

  “No.”

  “I think that you will. The right man, a kind, giving man, will show up someday and treat you the way you should be treated.”

  “I’m pretty happy right now. It’s not perfect, but I am happy enough. I don’t think I’m lacking anything. Maybe I’m even happier than the happiest day I had with Charles. With him, there was always this balancing act, this need to keep things steady.”

  “It’s what you sacrificed your family for, always having to pour oil on his emotional waters.”

  “Yes.”

  “Still no contact?”

  “No. Tucker is on my case now, so you don’t have to be.”

  “I won’t. So, nice segue. What’s new in the house?”

  As Rosie details the current goings-on in the house, Meghan tests herself. Is it possible for her to stop Rosie mid-description and blurt out, “I put your name in for the Advocacy. I suggested the Baxters give you a chance”? They sit there, the words, filling Meghan’s mouth. But they will not come out. She just can’t imagine that Rosie won’t question her prolonged silence, consider it a hostile act. Maybe not hostile, but certainly inexplicable. Even Meghan knows that her keeping her own kind act a secret is inexplicable.

  “Well, it sounds like things are going well.”

  “There is one thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mrs. Foster, Charles’s mother, is filing a civil suit.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  * * *

  As soon as their call ends, Meghan hits the speed dial for Carol and Don.

  Shark

  Shark performs all of his tasks joyfully, and is rewarded with Meghan’s approval and a round of the tug-of-war game. But he knows that her heart isn’t in it, and very quickly the game is over. Today she and Spike’s person spoke words that put both dogs on alert. There was a sharpness, a blade’s width of anger in their voices, although they spoke softly, privately, in that place. Even Shark could smell the disarray in Marley. Respectfully, he let Spike do her job, just as he did his with Meghan. When they parted, it did not feel right. And now, curled into a ball at Meghan’s feet, Shark concentrates his whole being on Meghan’s soft sighs.

  Rosie

  In order to distract myself, I take Shadow to the beach. Otherwise, I would be chewing my nails over Cecily Foster’s machinations and drinking too much coffee. Pete has promised to do what he can to stop it. But, I wonder, can he? Who am I kidding? I may be out and about and picking up random bits of shoreline detritus, but I am sick with worry. Almost as soon as I let my thoughts drift to the problem, Shadow is there, grabbing my unfocussed gaze into his brown eyes. Woof. It is an uncanny echo of something that Susannah writes: “The dog holds his eyes upon my own as a sheepdog will eye his charges into motion.”

  “Are you a sheepdog?” I ask.

  Shadow shakes himself from nose to tail and then play bows to me, clearly hoping I’ll throw this nice piece of driftwood for him.

  My only consolation against Cecily’s threat is that she doesn’t know where I am. Pete has promised me that all contact will be through him. I picture him, this little man dressed in suits made for boys, standing up to the legal giants of the Foster family’s firm. His fists are balled, his chin is lifted, and he has a pugnacious look on his beardless face as the giants aim their lances at his chest and run him through.

  I shake my head, much like my dog shaking his to clear his thoughts. No. Pete may be small, but he’s big enough to give the Foster’s firm a run for their money. This I have to believe, and then wonder how I’ll be able to afford him; there has been no suggestion of any more pro bono for Rosie Collins.

  The day has grown chilly, the October sun giving way to an early dusk. Daylight saving time will be ending before long. I’ll be going to bed at six-thirty if I’m not careful. Shadow and I head back to the house.

  * * *

  There is a car in the yard. I don’t recognize it, a black Lexus with Connecticut plates. No one is in the car. Shadow is on the alert, his smallish ears at attention, his whippy tail straight out, slightly elevated. He lowers his head but doesn’t growl, withholding judgment.

  The grass muffles our footsteps as we go around the side of the house to the back. There is a woman standing there, her back to us as we approach. She’s staring up at the house, her fingers just touching her mouth, as if hiding a reaction.

  I let the fear-inspired tension go, giving space for curiosity. “Hello?”

  I’ve startled her. She’s a slender woman, dressed in good jeans and a pair of really nice boots. “I’m Carol. Carol Baxter.”

  I notice that my dog’s tail is beating a happy rhythm. “Rosie Collins.” And, because it seems appropriate, I add, “Project manager.”

  “And who’s this?” She’s clearly not put off by a big wire-haired mutt who is giving her the canine once-over. She bends at the waist and gives him a good thumping pat.

  “Shadow.”

  She straightens. “After my grandfather passed, my grandmother got a dog kind of like this one.”

  Baxter. I get it. “You must be from the Homestead Trust.”

  “I am. I’m sorry for dropping in like this, I should have given you warning. But would it be possible for me to take a look inside?”

  The flippant side of me might have said: “It’s your house,” but I have nothing to be flippant about. I smile and gesture toward the back door. “Right this way.” And, like any tenant, I hope that I’ve left the place in good order. Which, of course, it isn’t. A lot of it is under plastic while the second-best parlor’s ceiling is being pulled down. “It is a bit of a hard hat area, so watch your step.” I lead her inside; all the while my mind is spinning. Have I just met my mysterious benefactor? Do I have the guts to ask?

  Happily enough, my kitchen, the only room under my control, is tidy and the woodstove is still warm to the touch, lending it a cozy feel. Carol stands in the middle of the room, then steps to the table, touches the surface, and points to the standing lamp that I’ve placed beside it. “My grandmother’s lamp. I remember it so well. I knocked it over once and let my brother take the blame.”

  “Mrs. Baxter?”

  “Gramma to me, but yes. Henrietta Fitzwarren Baxter. The last of the family to live here. Can you imagine?” Carol runs a hand over the mantel, where I’ve set a collection of crocks that Tucker pulled from the crawl space beneath the kitchen ell. I’ve placed them in descending order of size. “Can you imagine all these Baxters in an unbroken chain being born, growing up, and dying here?”

  “It’s an old house.”

  She moves toward the first parlor. “Can I go in here?”

  “Just watch your step. The workmen aren’t very good at picking up their toys.”

  We spend half an hour touring the house and inspecting the work. I assume that’s why she’s here, to see if the bills are in line with the progress being made. I’ve tried hard to keep it that way.

  We venture up the stairs to the two bedrooms, both of which are packed with the detritus of generations of Baxters. I don’t know why, but I apologize. “I’ll be doing an inventory in the next few weeks.”

  “I used to sleep up here. Spent the nights worrying about mice crawling into bed with me. I was such a city kid.”

  “They’re persistent, but we’ve pretty much conquered them.”

  Back downstairs, I offer Carol a cup of something, tea or coffee. I want to ask her one important question: Why me? Why did the Homes
tead Trust take on an ex-con as a project manager? More to the point, what’s the connection between the Homestead Trust—the Baxter family—and the Advocacy for Justice? Is there any?

  Carol accepts a cup of tea and we go outside with our cups to sit on the stone bench. A nor’easter has been predicted for three days, and I can feel the moisture in the breeze as we go out. The sky above us is a grim gray color, streaked by the contrails of jets leaving Logan. The brand-new cedar shingles on the back of the house seem to glow against the scrim of gray.

  Carol sighs. “Wow. A lot has changed, what with the restoration. But, you know, there’s still enough of what I remember to get me all sentimental. Like this bench. And that gnarly apple tree. I used to climb it.”

  “Did you live here? With your grandmother?”

  “We came every summer for two weeks up until I was in college. Then, well, once Gramma passed, no one had the time or interest in the house. But no one wanted to sell it, either. So it just sat, and we, the children and grandchildren, put together a family trust to keep the house in good-enough repair and pay the taxes and insurance all these years. We’re all finally at a point where we can get the old place in good repair and begin to use it again.”

  My tea is cold. I set my cup on the edge of the granite bench. Carol is looking out over the yard, which I have brought back under control with the help of a good mow crew. The breeze ripples through the trimmed rye grass. The stone with Boy painted on it is prominent, and Carol touches it with a toe. “Gramma’s dog.”

  Shadow, who’s been lying quietly, shifts and rests his chin on my feet. I ask my question. “Why me?”

  She doesn’t do the “What do you mean?” dodge. “You were recommended to us.”

  “By whom?”

  I have spent enough time with evasive women, women who keep their secrets closely held. There is a shuttering of the face. Eyes dart to the side; hands touch lips. No, I didn’t take your shampoo; no, I didn’t touch your stuff.

  Carol drops her eyes to the ground, digs a little rut into the soft dirt with the toe of her boot. “A friend.”

  “Yours, or mine?”

  Carol takes a deep breath and my heart beats in dread and joy. She touches my knee. “You ever take a pinkie pledge?”

  “Uh, yeah, when I was a kid.”

  “Well, I took one and I have to keep it.”

  Shadow leaps to his feet as I burst into laughter.

  Shadow

  The nor’easter that had been making him restless has finally abated, the wind gusting only now and then and the rain pushed well offshore. He doesn’t think these things, but senses them, feeling the breeze lift his fur, breathing in a less salt-tangy air. After a night of heavy rain and blasting wind, the dawn is sparkling with welcome sunlight, dappling the grass beneath their feet. Crows in the boughs above carry out a call and response, three caws made, three caws answered. He barks at them, sitting so boldly in the apple tree. They ignore him and he accepts their disrespect.

  A truck pulls into the yard. Shadow eyes it, sniffs. Wood, with a hint of machine oil. Another truck wheels in. The day is beginning. Shadow trots into the attached barn and lets himself in through the dogtrot. It’s his newest trick, letting himself in and out now that someone—he doesn’t know who—has made a swinging flap in the lower half of the door.

  His person is also aware of the arrivals. She’s dressed and sipping from a mug. “Got to do a supply run,” she says. He doesn’t understand the words, but he absolutely understands the meaning. He swings his tail. A car ride!

  She talks to him the whole ride and he comprehends only that she’s in a mood of some anxiety. Of some turmoil. As she often does when her mood thickens, she grasps the skin of his neck and holds on. He keeps his big head thrust between the two front seats so that she can touch him when she needs to. They made the usual rounds, three places he must wait in the car and two places where he is welcomed. Finally, they stop at the big building where she’ll let him out to sleep under a grand tree. She pulls out a canvas bag filled with those objects she stares at for hours at a time. They all smell like other people’s touches.

  Meghan

  Meghan hears Carol come into the room. “Out here.” She’s sitting on the patio outside of their hotel room. The view of Good Harbor beach is stretched out in front of her, down the hill from their delightfully old-fashioned and dog-friendly hotel. Not that she has to worry about dog-friendly, not with a legitimate service dog by her side, albeit a snoring one right now.

  Carol drops into the plastic chair beside Meghan. Hands her a glass of wine.

  “So? How was it?”

  “It sure doesn’t look like Gramma’s house anymore.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “I like her. I like her dog. He reminds me of the dog Gramma had, the one she had after Grampa died. Boy.”

  For a brief moment, Meghan is hopeful that Carol is not going to bring up the subject, but then she says, “Meghan, I’d really like to drive you over there.”

  Meghan sets her glass down on the little plastic table between them, zips up her jacket. The setting sun has left them in the shadow of the building. In the distance, the water has turned dark, and lights are coming on in the homes at the foot of the hill. In another half hour, the sea and the shore will blend into a blank space, punctuated only by the occasional bright spot of some vessel’s running lights. “Did you tell her?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I did invite her to dinner tomorrow night. She suggested a place called the Azorean.”

  Meghan faces Carol. “Well, have a good time.”

  “Don’t be a child, Meghan. This has gone on long enough. She has another battle to fight. She should have all the information she needs, even if that means your having to give up this false modesty of yours.”

  “False modesty? You think that’s what this is? Humblebrag?”

  “Maybe. Self-indulgent anyway. She helped you gain your independence; you’ve helped her gain hers. Let her know. What’s the worst that can happen? She feels grateful? It’s not like that Chinese proverb that if you save a man’s life, he owns you.”

  “I think it’s that you own him.”

  “Whatever. The point is, isn’t it time you let Rosie decide for herself whether or not being done a kindness is a relationship killer? If feeling gratitude is a bad thing.”

  Meghan is silent for a time, long enough that Shark gets to his feet and shoves his nose under her hand.

  Meghan had arrived on that last training day with Rosie, the sense of hope and joy so enormous that she could barely speak; her gratitude over what Rosie had done for her had effectively rendered Meghan speechless. She had applied herself to the work so hard, as she had always undertaken training. Meghan had never entered into anything without applying her entire being into accomplishing the task, whether it was on the obstacle course or the rifle range. And so it was with learning how to work with Shark. And that ethic had given their official work together a seriousness, a life-and-death aura. But at the end of their sessions, in those few minutes when the work was done, Shark was resting from his labors, and they had time to just be two young women waiting for Meghan’s escort to arrive, they’d entered into a friendship that had seemed so likely, so normal. On that last training day, even as Rosie got a little weepy, Meghan found herself too burdened by respect and an overwhelming sense of indebtedness for what Rosie had done for her to utter a word of thanks. Rosie was an inmate, and they were not allowed to hug good-bye. Sitting here on the cement patio of the hotel, looking out over a darkening sea, Meghan knew that if they had been allowed to touch, she would have wept along with Rosie, and said thank you.

  “I put her name in to the Advocacy because I knew that she was deserving of a second chance. I didn’t do it to be thanked.”

  “Again: Why don’t you let her decide that?”

  * * *

  At the Azorean, Meghan and Carol
are already seated, Carol in the booth, Meghan’s chair positioned at the end, when Rosie arrives. They see her before she sees them. They watch as Rosie speaks to the hostess and then falls in behind her, being led to where they wait. Where Meghan waits, feeling as if this is a surprise party and they are the only guests. Which, looking at the expression on Rosie’s face, it is.

  “Oh my God! Meghan!”

  That hug that they weren’t allowed to have when Rosie was an inmate finally happens.

  Rosie

  It takes me a moment to wrap my head around the fact that Carol Baxter is the cousin Carol whom Meghan lived with while training with Shark, which means that she, Meghan, is part of the extended Baxter family of the Homestead Trust. It takes another moment to figure out that there are no coincidences in life. The look on Meghan’s face compels me to ask my question again, only this time as a statement. “You’re my benefactor.”

  Meghan’s expression could be best described as caught between shame and relief.

  “And the Advocacy? That, too? Getting my release, that was you?”

  “Not exactly. Don Flint, Carol’s husband, listened to your story. He’s on the Advocacy board.”

  “Okay, that’s one degree of separation. But who suggested me?”

  “Well, I did.”

  I look around, “Where’s Sharkey?”

  “Home. I mean at the hotel. I’ve got Carol, so I gave him the night off.”

  I won’t lie; I’m disappointed. I sit down, sliding into the booth opposite Meghan’s cousin. To say that my brain is spinning is an understatement, and I am relieved when the server comes by with our drinks. I open the extensive menu but can’t read a word. I close it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  It’s as if Carol has vanished. I don’t see her; I see only Meghan’s pained look.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I say it more gently this time, but she doesn’t answer.