The Dog I Loved

by Susan Wilson

  * * *

  “Where’s Tilley?” Charles said nothing. A knock on our door. A flicker of reaction from him. Doris from next door: “I’m so sorry; I think that your dog fell from your balcony. You’d better come.” Silence. A knowing silence. The crushed body of my little dog. What did you do?

  Charles remained silent, sitting in the damaged club chair, stroking the ruined leather as if it were a living thing. “What did you do?” The answer, a bald-faced lie: “I didn’t touch her. She must have squeezed through the rails.” Except that I had stretched wire cloth across the rails to prevent just such an accident. If he had just pretended to be shocked and sad, I might have bought his innocence.

  * * *

  Ice water might have filled his veins, but molten lava was building in mine.

  I sat in my seat at the wedding reception and drank one glass of champagne. Every other glass of wine poured for me over the several courses of dinner I slid over to Charles. I stubbornly refused to dance with him, not caring what the others at our table thought. Cecily happily took my place. She was one of those middle-aged women who keep themselves in such good shape that they don’t look ridiculous on the dance floor, and Cecily had moves like a much younger version of herself. Every now and then she’d throw a glance my way, a self-satisfied look on her face. I think she saw the end of my relationship with Charles, and that suited her just fine.

  It was, of course, a perfect midsummer evening, and the wedding reception took place under a grand marquee on the sweeping lawn of the massive faux Newport manse that was the Bigelow family home in Connecticut. By the time the wedding party had performed all the obligatory elements—the toasts, the first dance, yada, yada—I was bored and so weary with the anguish of what had happened, not just Tilley’s brutal end but all of it, my father’s prolonged dying, the alienation from my family, which seemed permanent. I was enveloped in a miasma of grief and with it came this curious inertia. I knew that I had to get out. I just didn’t know how. Somewhere along the line, I’d become emotionally disabled.

  I left our table and skirted around the dance floor until I was out on the lawn and heading toward the house. I wanted a private place to make yet another call for help. I had left so many messages on Paulie’s phone, I was pretty sure I’d broken it. And then I had a flash: There were other people besides family I could call. I thumbed my contacts until I found my old friend Brenda Brathwaite. Okay, maybe it had been a year or more since I’d done more than hit “Like” on one of her Facebook posts, but a friend was a friend, right?

  When she answered on the first ring, I burst into tears.

  “Rosie? What happened? What’s wrong?”

  At the sound of her voice, I melted into a warm puddle. I don’t actually recall my words; I only have the impression that I was blathering, incomprehensible, and it took her a few tries before I settled down enough to ask her to come get me.

  “Where are you?”

  “Litchfield, at a wedding.”

  “It’s after nine now. Are you at a hotel?”

  The devil is in the details, they say, and the fact was that this wedding would be long over by the time Brenda could drive all the way from Boston, and there was no place I could wait for her. I didn’t imagine that these perfect strangers were going to let me sit on their steps deep into the night. “No. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Okay.” The good news was that Brenda was clearheaded and not suffering the surfeit of emotion that was clouding my brain. “Can you go home with him? Get back to the city? Then get out, go to a hotel?”

  “I don’t have any money.” How mortifying it was to say that.

  “Go to the train station. I’ll buy you a ticket and you can pick it up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Be smart, Rosie. Don’t let him know what you’re going to do.” The implication was that my grand boyfriend, for whom I had sacrificed my family, was dangerous.

  After calling Brenda, I spent a few minutes in the powder room, freshening up. I had to repair the smudged mascara and hope that the redness of my eyes wouldn’t be obvious in the soft lantern light of the marquee. I ran a brush through my hair. As I walked out of the small room, there was Cecily Foster. It looked a bit like she’d been waiting for me.

  “Rose, Charles is looking for you. Where have you been?”

  The flip answer would, of course, have been “The bathroom, obviously.” Instead, I kept my mouth shut and waved her toward the open door of the powder room. Instead of going into the little half bath, she grasped my upper arm in a clench. “Charles hasn’t appreciated your behavior today. You would have been wiser to behave like a loving girlfriend instead of a child in a snit. What do you suppose the Bigelows are thinking? What is wrong with you?”

  Cecily had imbibed enough that her reserve was slipping; she fairly hissed, and clearly didn’t realize exactly how loud that hiss was. I was embarrassed for her, and furious. “Did Charles happen to mention why I might be angry with him?”

  “Something about your dog, your foolish insistence on getting a destructive dog. Those chairs are family heirlooms.”

  “Did he tell you that he threw her off the balcony?” I wasn’t even trying to keep my voice down. “That he killed her?”

  Cecily blinked. Her mouth went hard. “I doubt that very much.” Ice water in the veins indeed. She looked at me with utter contempt.

  At that moment, a cluster of bridesmaids appeared, heading for the powder room. There we stood, Cecily Foster and Charles Foster’s fiancée. I’m sure we looked like we were about to spit in each other’s faces. If there was one thing I’d heard over and over all the way from the city to the Litchfield Hills, it was how wonderful Tatiana Bigelow was, how beautiful, charming, and, oh, gosh, suitable. The gaggle of pink-flounced bridesmaids would surely communicate to the lucky bride that her ex’s fiancée was an out-of-control head case.

  My heart was beating so hard, as if I’d been running a marathon. I jerked my arm out of Cecily’s grasp.

  I had the last lick. As I passed the cluster of women, I rolled my eyes, suggesting that Mrs. Foster was the one not quite in control.

  The reception had wound down to just a few stragglers when Charles came up behind my chair and put his hands on my shoulders. “Time to go. Where’s Mother?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t going to break my silence. I watched as he went off in search of Cecily, and noted that he was swaying, a gentle side-to-side movement that suggested he was pretty drunk. Charles wasn’t a man to overindulge, but this wedding—that of his could-have-been wife—coupled with my sliding my wine to him throughout the evening, had broken through his reserve. I saw him slap an old classmate on the back, and literally guffaw in the man’s face. Oh, yes, Charles was in no condition to drive the two-plus hours home. But I needed to get back to the city. My salvation was waiting at Penn Station in the form of a prepaid ticket.

  Charles had his mother by the arm and the two of them were making their way slowly toward the circular driveway of the house. I’d spoken to the valet, and the car was sitting there, idling in neutral. I decided that it would be best if I drove us home. Charles never let me drive if he was in the car, but I was certain that this time he’d see the wisdom of my being the designated driver. I slid into the driver’s seat, began adjusting the rearview mirror, the seat, the seat back. Charles handed his mother into the backseat, an awkward maneuver in the low-slung two-door muscle car. I waited for him to get into the front passenger seat, but instead, Charles’s face appeared at the driver’s window, startling me. He rapped on it. “Get out.”

  I rolled down the window.“No. You’ve had too much to drink and I’m the DD.”

  “You can’t drive a stick.” He was derisive, but it didn’t deter me.

  “I certainly can.” Not entirely true, but not untrue, either. My father had taught me years ago on his old Bronco.

  I just needed a minute or two to get used to the car. I knew I’d probably strip the gears and that
would set Charles off, but it was better than his driving us off the road. But this was a vintage Camaro with a heavy-duty clutch and a hair-trigger transmission. Not my father’s Bronco.

  Charles leaned his hands on the roof of the low car and leaned closer to me. I could smell the whiskey he’d had as a nightcap with that fraternity brother. He swayed a little.

  The valet came over. “Sir, let her drive. You don’t want to wreck this car.”

  Charles shot him a look. “Fine.”

  The valets were lining up cars in that circular drive and there was now an Escalade ahead of me. It was clear that the driver wanted to get going, and I needed to back up to let him out. I put the clutch in, feeling that tension of the heavy-duty mechanism fight against my left foot in its five-inch heel. I ground the stick shift into reverse. I knew that I would stall if I didn’t get the gas-to-clutch ratio right, so I hit the gas at the same time I let go of the clutch and the car flew backward. I heard the thud, felt the Camaro roll over something. Then my world closed down around me.

  It was a terrible accident. But Cecily Foster had powerful friends. And she believed that I had motive to want to kill her beloved son.

  * * *

  For some reason, I am sitting on the floor of the landing between the two upstairs rooms in the Homestead with a large gray dog on my lap. Shadow literally holds me between his paws and rests his big head on my shoulder as I am overwhelmed by memories. I served my time for a sin I didn’t mean to commit, and now Cecily Foster is going to rake me over the coals again, punish me further. What will become of Shadow if I get carted off to prison again?

  Shadow

  She is surrounded by things and he has to climb over them to get into her lap. Something has frightened her and he can’t figure out what it is. He has sniffed every corner, listened hard, and nothing external seems to be amiss. It is inside of her, this thing that has caused her to breathe as if she’s been running, this thing that has produced streaks of wet down her cheeks. Once again, he feels as though he needs a human tongue to make this outburst stop. He has only his dog tongue and he uses it lavishly to stanch the panic.

  Rosie

  Meghan says that I should just focus on the here and now and not worry about the future. She means I should stop dwelling on the threats and just look to the things I have some control over, like doing my job. Which, today, is to sit down with the invoices and write some checks. Shadow throws me a plaintive look, sort of an Aww shucks. Can’t we play a little hooky first? I tell him no. We must persevere. I promise him that a good long walk through Dogtown is in order afterward. I’ve gotten quite comfortable in those woods now, and they no longer give me the creeps. I can find my way to the reservoir and back along two different trails without feeling like I’m on the verge of being lost. Most of that is because Shadow leads the way. I fear nothing. Not even the gunfire from the firing range abutting the trailhead off Cherry Street. The first time I heard it, I nearly dived for cover; but now I know it’s just target practice at the Cape Ann Sportsmen’s Club. Still, I always hurry by.

  Now that I’ve inventoried and pretty much cleared out the generational detritus from upstairs, the most recent project for Tucker’s crew is to install Sheetrock and insulation in those bedrooms. There was some talk of simply leaving the lathe and plaster, but in the end the family decided that they shouldn’t err on the side of keeping it authentic and expect humans to be comfortable in here year-round. Tucker and his team will begin the painstaking installation of Sheetrock so that the beams will remain exposed but the humans won’t freeze to death. The pop pop pop of nail guns is augmented by the on/off/on roar of the compressor that runs them. Then there is the scritch scritch whir of drills. I realize that my teeth are on edge and my dog has abandoned me for the great outdoors.

  Gathering the envelopes and pulling on a jacket, I head out to join him. I’ve grown complacent living out here in isolation, and my keys are in the car, along with my wallet and, I notice with a little chagrin, my phone. There are no text messages, but the log indicates that Pete Bannerman has called three times, twice from the office and once from his cell phone. Shoot. So much for Meghan’s advice. I tap Pete’s name. Shadow stands between my knees as I sit on the granite bench.

  “Hey, Rosie, I was getting worried.”

  “Sorry, I left my phone in the car and I just saw that you’d called.” I feel this weird little sense of pleasure in hearing Pete say he was worried about me. He’s such a nice guy.

  “I met with Mrs. Foster’s lawyers yesterday. I want to bring you up to speed.”

  I always assumed that the expression “heavy heart” was a metaphor, but as he enumerates the many ways that Cecily Foster won’t give up on punishing me, my heart does indeed feel like it’s taking on ballast. I always thought you couldn’t be tried for the same crime twice; although there had been no trial per se, just a plea bargain excruciatingly extracted out of my confusion and my PD’s reckless disregard for the truth. As the Advocacy challenged in its brief, there really had been no crime. What happened was an unfortunate accident. Except—and this was Cecily’s cudgel—I had motive. According to her, I was exacting revenge for my poor dead dog. As painful as it is, I understand her logic, but I know, as angry as I was with Charles that night, I didn’t intentionally kill him. But there was one brief moment when I wasn’t sorry.

  “I think we’re going to have to prove that you were in fear for your life.” I’m brought out of my thoughts by Pete’s comment.

  “I was; it’s hard to live with a man with such cruel tendencies.”

  “And it’s commonly thought that animal cruelty leads to domestic abuse.”

  “Yes. Charles separated me from everyone I loved. Isn’t that also indicative of domestic abuse?”

  “It is.”

  I see where Pete is going with this. I have had plenty of time to look back over my time with Charles and come to the same conclusion. For six years, I lived with women who had endured unspeakable domestic situations. Mine was a paler version, but I related to their entrapment in households of fear. I hadn’t been screamed at or punched, but Charles’s silences were surely a form of abuse; the way he was able to cow me with a look. Even his generosity became a form of control, a way of turning me into his paper doll. I slide my ponytail through my fingers, look down at my sturdy cheap sneakers. I have a mystery stain above the left knee of my Levi’s. I am comfortable with all of it. I never expect to walk down Newbury Street again, and I don’t care. I had my Cinderella moment, and those glass slippers were painful.

  “We need to set up a time for depositions.”

  “What, take a day off from my exacting job?”

  “Half a day. Next week. Tuesday.”

  “Of course.” We sign off and I am no lighter of heart than before. A deposition, where I will be effectively grilled by a friendly lawyer and an unfriendly one. And I have nothing to wear.

  My phone rings again; it’s Pete.

  “Rosie, I don’t want you to worry. You’re not being defended by a hack this time. You’ve got me.”

  “Oh, Pete, I know that. Thank you.” I smile down at my feet. He’s right. This time I have a real advocate.

  “We’re in this together. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know that you won’t. I trust you.”

  “So, no bad thoughts. Just good ones. Promise?”

  “I do.” And I don’t.

  * * *

  Saturday morning and I’m in my car, heading toward the massive Burlington Mall to find something appropriate to wear to the deposition. I’d poked around in the Main Street shops of Gloucester and had then gone over to Rockport to poke around in its boutiques, but I’d found nothing that seemed just right. I don’t know what I have in mind, but I just know even my favorite consignment shop didn’t have it. Maybe it was just that I was ready for a foray into a larger environment than I had been comfortably inhabiting these many weeks. I remember thinking when Meghan and Carol were here that it was
time for bright lights, and now I’m going to them. I hope that I won’t be dazzled and run for the comfort of my dimly lit temporary home. Shadow lounges, if that is a good description of a dog who is longer than the backseat of my car, behind me. His long legs hang off the seat. He’s got his head propped on the armrest of the back door. I can’t say that he looks comfortable, but he seems okay with it. The temperature has dropped into the mid-forties, so he’ll be fine in the car while I do my thing in the mall. I won’t linger. Even as I find a parking place, I can feel my urge to do this fade. I haven’t been in a crowd for a very long time. I haven’t been in a mall for even longer. I sit, gathering my resources, and watch families go by, young couples holding hands and an older couple, she with her arm through his. I’m here all by myself. Solitary shopping. Pairs of teenage girls reinforce my sense of solitude. Shopping should be shared. How will I judge what I try on? I wish that I had the guts to claim Shadow as an emotional support dog. But I won’t.

  Meghan and Marley are back together and she sounds as happy as I have ever heard her. Marley’s dog, Spike, features prominently in her conversation, as if she and Marley now have stepchildren of whom they are fond. Spike is Marley’s emotional support dog, and I know from my time training dogs in prison that all dogs can be labeled as such, but those for whom that is their singular role are so deeply embedded in the psyche of their guardians that it is impossible not to see the difference. I glance back at the recumbent Shadow and acknowledge, not for the first time, that he performs that role for me perfectly. I don’t know what I’d do without him, and I will insist that he accompany me to the deposition. So there. Even if I have to buy him a fake red vest.