The Dog I Loved

by Susan Wilson

  Shadow is beside me, his head lowered and his ears pricked at the sound of the knob turning. I grasp a handful of his neck skin, balance my weight against him, so, so grateful to have the bulwark of his presence as I face my mother.

  She is nothing like the image I carry in my mind. The last time I saw her, my mother was a new widow, bent under the weight of having cared for a terminally ill husband for the better part of a year. A year that saw repeated hospitalizations and then permanent residence in the dining room, the room she had been so proud of as a young mother. The room where she had once been matriarch over joyful family gatherings, not death. She’d looked bruised and old in her belted trench coat and Naturalizer pumps, leaning first against Paulie and then Bobby as the priest intoned the words of the committal service over the casket.

  This woman is straight and slender and dressed in Ann Taylor slacks. Only the Naturalizers on her feet resemble what I remember of my mother’s sartorial habits, and even those are pretty trendy-looking. I realize that my father has been gone for almost seven years. I have been gone. It all seems to blend, one thing into another—my father’s death, Tilley’s death, Charles’s death, my deathlike existence in prison. But months, even a year or more, had transpired between each of these events. Still, it is a blur, and as I look at my mother, I realize for the first time that the bulk of my twenties were spent in separation from her, from my family. I will be thirty-one this next birthday, and no longer a girl. I wonder if she will see that.

  “Rosie.” She says it almost as if she’s not surprised to see me. Almost as if she’s been waiting. I half-expect her to add “Took you long enough.”

  “Mom. I’m here.”

  “I can see that. Where’s Teddy?”

  “In his room. He’s giving us a few minutes.”

  My mother starts down the short hall to the bedroom.

  “Mom. Wait.”

  She rests one hand against the wall. Unlike me, she doesn’t have a giant dog to support her. I leave Shadow with a quick stay gesture and reach out to touch her.

  Most people will say that their mothers have shrunk, but mine seems taller, firmer, and far more rigid. “Don’t.”

  “Mom. Don’t keep pushing me away. I don’t know why you hate me so much.” I drop my hand, step back. Then I do as any good Irish woman would. I put the kettle back on the electric stove and heat water for tea. I grab three bags out of the Barry’s box and a fresh cup for her; my used mug is still on the table beside Teddy’s. I plop the bags into the cups, retrieve the milk from the fridge, and send Shadow to scratch on Teddy’s bedroom door, pointing and saying, “Go get Teddy.”

  The dog does. His comprehension amazes me.

  “Sit down, Mom.”

  To my relief, she does.

  Teddy rolls back into the kitchen area. “I’ve got cookies.”

  I think that only the Mad Hatter’s tea party could be any weirder.

  With tea bags dunked and cookies shared, milk poured, sugar asked for and received, we finally face one another across the table. And say nothing. So I break the ice. “When I was in prison, the only tea you could get from the commissary was Salada. You remember Salada? The boxes used to come with those little ceramic animals. You had a collection of them, didn’t you, Mom? Don’t I remember a tiny horse and a goat?” Okay, I’ve used the p word. Prison. Let’s get this party started.

  “Where did you get the dog?” My mother asks this just as Shadow has nuzzled up to her, his expressive brown eyes beneath the bushy eyebrows seemingly beseeching a cookie from her, so it’s not that much of a non sequitur.

  “He showed up, where I live. Just sort of joined me.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “On the edges of a place called Dogtown. In Gloucester. I’m the project manager for a family foundation renovating an antique house. For now, I’m living in it.”

  Okay, so the conversation is like one that any two strangers might have. It’s a start. She hasn’t left the building yet. Teddy dunks his Chips Ahoy.

  “I trained dogs in prison.” Again I use the word prison. Do I detect a flinch in my mother? “I told Teddy he should look into acquiring a service dog. They can be such a help. And company, too.”

  “Can you imagine my shame?” Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Yes. But you have to remember that I was failed by my defense.”

  “I mean how you treated us. Throwing your family over for a rich snob.”

  “I killed that rich snob.” I am not sorry for the words I’ve blurted, but I am a little shocked at them. “By accident, but I was leaving him. I was trying to get home that night. Brenda Brathwaite was coming for me.”

  “You were our only daughter; your duty was with us during that time. You chose Europe and diamonds and the glitter of New York over being a good daughter, helping me with your father. And with Teddy.”

  Teddy sits up straighter in his chair. “Leave me out of this.”

  “I came. I helped.”

  “Not enough. Swanning in every couple of weeks to spend half a day, that’s not helping. And then threatening our very home? Siding with that man?”

  “I have told you over and over, there was nothing I could do.”

  “Because he was your sugar daddy, your puppet master.”

  I won’t lie; I was half-expecting this characterization of Charles. She’s not wrong, not really. I was Eliza to his Henry Higgins. He not only dressed me; he chiseled away at my flaws—as he perceived them. Duty to family. Filial love. All eyes must be on him at all times. All his needs met in exchange for the trips, the rings, the clothes, the expensive haircuts. Loyalty to him. No distractions. “You’re right. And I was very young. I’ve learned a few things since then. You have to give me a chance to mend things.”

  “Your father was very hurt.”

  I get up from the table. Shadow watches me but stays beside Teddy. I dump out the dregs of my tea into the sink, which is filled with dirty dishes. There is no dishwasher in this starter apartment. I grab a sponge and turn the water on full blast. I don’t want her to see me cry. I don’t want her to know that she’s gotten to me.

  “Mom, that’s not a fair statement.” This from Teddy. “He didn’t know she wasn’t there. Not at the end.”

  If Teddy intends this to help, it doesn’t. It just serves to hammer home the fact that I was absent when he passed and that is something no one, not even I, has forgiven me for. So I say so. “I wasn’t there, and not a day goes by that I don’t feel terrible about it.” I turn away from the sink. “But”—I point my soapy finger—“you were the one to throw me out.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “No, Paulie was the one to shut the door. But you never stopped him.”

  Our voices are starting to rise, and I hope that the neighbors are all out on Saturday errands. I hope that the receptionist in the foyer doesn’t start to worry, or, worse, call for help. But at the same time, it feels good. Not so much the argument, but the fact that we are in the same room, facing each other. I have been so very alone. For some reason, Susannah comes to mind. She was very alone, too, except for her dog. As I have been except for mine. She’d accepted what life had thrown at her, moving into that hovel in Dogtown, making her house calls, keeping body and soul together with whatever she could find to earn or barter for. I shrug on a little of her courage and walk over to my mother, who has her teacup clenched between her hands. I set my hands on her shoulders. “Mom, I love you. It’s okay if you don’t love me, but you’re not going to lose my love.”

  Teddy very quietly, for a man in a wheelchair, leaves the table and opens the front door. He snaps his fingers at Shadow, who follows him without my say-so.

  My mother and I are in the room alone together. I have so few memories of its ever being this way; there was always someone else in the room, in the house. Teddy primarily. A constant presence. We were never the mother/daughter pair to go shopping together or cook together or share girlie chat. Although I wa
s assured I was the longed-for daughter, now I wonder. Maybe I was just a mistake.

  My mother lets go of her grip on the cup. She takes her right hand and touches mine, which is resting on her shoulder. Pats it. Her hand is very warm, very soft. I can smell the Herbal Essence in her hair—the same fragrance I remember from my youth. “Where did you get that awful dog?” We’re back at the beginning.

  “He came to me.”

  “And you say that you train dogs?”

  “I did. It was a program that paired puppies to be trained as service dogs with prisoners, and, Mom, it made all the difference in my life.”

  “Would Teddy really benefit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you help us look into it?”

  “Gladly.” I gently squeeze her shoulders.

  * * *

  As I drive away, Shadow once again recumbent on the backseat, I call Meghan again. This time, she answers and I win this round of telephone tag. I quickly fill her in on Teddy and my suggestion that she come demonstrate Shark for him. “Your brother?” Meghan knows all about my family dynamics.

  “Yeah.” I am filled with a happiness I haven’t had in many a year. “My brother.”

  Traffic through the tunnel is thick, but I don’t care. Maybe it isn’t that I’m filled with happiness; maybe it’s closer to say that I’ve been emptied. The weight of my estrangement from my family is gone. We will never be perfect, but at least we can be together. Grievances will no longer be a wall between us. Of course, this assumes that Paulie and the rest of them will be persuaded to come around to accepting me back in the fold. By the strength of the hug that my mother gave me when we parted, I think she’ll make that happen.

  Shadow

  He is very happy to be back in the car, heading north. The swirl of emotion that he’s observed coming from Rosie has his nerves on edge. The man and the other woman were so hard to befriend, and yet he has the sense that they are very well known to Rosie. It wasn’t just the touching at the end of the visit, something that he’s begun to expect from her; it was the way they all handled their mugs, and some of the expressions on their faces were so like Rosie’s, even the timbre of their voices. When he and Rosie left, he had the distinct impression that this would not be the last time they saw these people.

  As she drives, Rosie is making conversation, and although he can’t understand all of her words, or those of the voice coming out of the ceiling, he does pick up on the general tenor of happiness Rosie is exuding. He’s never sensed this much of it in her before, and it makes him think that something is changing.

  Rosie

  11th December 1832. Have bidden Goody Mallory’s shack good-bye. With relief, I have accepted Dr. Bellingham’s invitation to board with him. In exchange, I will attend those cases not requiring his particular attention. He has kindly allowed me the dog. He says that his son will benefit from the dog’s companionship.

  –Susannah Day’s journal.

  I am sitting in the historical society’s reading room. Shelley Brown is opposite me. Beside me, in its archival box, is the portion of the journal that has been in my possession. Shelley has had the society’s librarian bring out the remainder of the journal, and we wear white cotton gloves to look at it. “She’s saved.”

  “Saved?”

  “From Dogtown. Dr. Bellingham has offered her a place to live.” I feel tears prick. I take a big breath. “The Homestead Trust will pay to have it digitized.”

  Shelley gives me a wondrous smile. “That is really good news.” She accepts the box from me with as much dignity as if I had been handing her the Host. “Would the family spring for getting the whole journal done? Access for everyone.”

  “I don’t see why not, but maybe we’d better have a cost estimate done before I ask.” I’m getting better at the project manager mentality. Cost, cost, cost.

  It feels a little bit like I’m sending a favorite aunt to a nursing home, this giving up of Susannah’s journal. She has kept me company through many a long, dark night in my secluded old house. Her voice has kept me from feeling completely devoid of human contact. I can almost hear her speaking voice. I think she would be an alto. Her voice never pitches up; she never whines. Her lines are declarations, not complaints. She cares about her neighbors even as they show little care for her. See how I’ve put her in the present?

  After I leave Shelley and the journal, I take a detour that leads me to one of the older cemeteries, the one with the Bellingham cenotaph. Tucker’s family’s graves have recently been groomed, mums in fall red and gold have been planted. When I told him that I’d been to see my mother and brother, he gave me this look of surprised satisfaction and then put his arm around me. “Good. Good.” And then he went back to filling nail holes in the Sheetrock. I stand here at his family plot and see how he is more alone than I am. He’s got his work and he’s got his weekend visits from his kids, but he’s also got time to take care of this sad place. I never hear him speak of a date, or a lady friend. Any number of times now we’ve shared a restaurant meal, coincidentally having chosen the same place at the same time. He and his business partner, who was also his best childhood friend, bowl once a week and sometimes grab beers after work, but I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe that’s the sum total of Tucker Bellingham’s social life. I would think that every middle-aged divorcée in Gloucester would be after him. He’s attractive, if in a bearish way.

  I move on from Tucker’s family plot, studying each gravestone along the way to see if I can answer the question that is dangling in front of me. If Susannah ended up essentially Edward Bellingham’s nurse/housekeeper, did she stay there for the rest of her life, or did she end up going back to Marshfield? The very last entry in the pages that I have been reading of her journal mention a letter from a nephew with an invitation to come to Marshfield, to help his new wife with their baby. Women were indeed chattel. Come not because you need a home with family, but because you will be useful. I secretly hope that she told him to kiss off; where was he when she was living in Dogtown?

  Shadow is sniffing all around the most ancient of the collection of gravestones, almost as if he’s able to identify the tenants below us, who are, of course, no longer so much as dust. I linger, reading the epitaphs, the remarkable and the unremarkable notations, all that is left of these people; no one is alive who can remember who they were, whether they were kind or mean, fun-loving or dour. Here and there, a familiar name from Susannah’s diary. This Alma Pierce, could this be Susannah’s gossipy neighbor? Here is a Richard Daltry. I recall the Daltry name from her list of patients. There, his wife, Anna. I get this weird little thrill to recognize names. It’s a little bit like finding Jane Eyre’s grave. Names in a book become names on a gravestone that I can touch. I begin to leave pebbles on the stones. You are never dead until no one remembers you.

  Shadow has come to a stone across the lane behind the Bellingham cenotaph. It’s a granite stone, no doubt quarried at Halibut Point, in Rockport. He has his nose deep in the thin grass. He throws me a look and I get my answer. The dog has found it for me; this is Susannah Day’s resting place. I bend and scrape off lichen that obscures the lettering. I’m hoping, I guess, that these words will tell me everything I want to know about her last days. At the very least, I know that she did live out her days here in Gloucester.

  Benjamin Day, lost at sea 1832; Susannah, his wife, died 1834. Healer. Friend.

  Someone cared enough that she isn’t totally alone in death; now she is with Benjamin. But it’s the two little descriptive words, Healer and Friend that move me to tears.

  * * *

  I wake up in the middle of the night with the dog draped across my middle. He’s nuzzling me, and for a nanosecond, I dream that I am being made love to. What I have been dreaming is far from that of being loved. I have been dreaming of Charles. It isn’t an exaggeration to say that I haven’t dreamed of him in a very long time, but this new threat from his mother has reignited the long-suppressed fears. Befo
re I was sent to prison, I dreamed of him every time I closed my eyes. As much as he filled my thoughts in the day, he expanded his presence into my nightmares, appearing most often as a heavy weight crushing me beneath it. Sometimes the weight was a bar of iron; other times, it was a giant bell, and I was under it. But I always knew that it was Charles in his metaphorical guise. I would wake up gasping, sucking in air, as if I were being suffocated. Once I was in prison, the dreams of suffocation, the bearing of a great weight devolved into being caged, and no waking ever helped dispel that. My waking and my dreaming were one and the same. Until Shark, until the program that moved me from cornered to capable.

  Shadow licks my cheek, dismounts. This time, I really do have to suck in a lungful of air; my dog isn’t light. I sit up. Dawn is graying the sky, the first intimation of the new day. It’s late enough in the fall that I know it’s already close to six-thirty. Hardly early for someone having to make the trek to Connecticut and get there by one o’clock. I’m still sleeping in the kitchen, even though the two upstairs rooms are now empty and insulated, although not yet painted. Maybe when they are, I’ll move up. But for now, the kitchen is cozy with the woodstove, and certainly convenient should I have to get up in the night, as the only functioning bathroom is still the one off of it. However, the upstairs rooms, with their six-over-six windows, do afford a nice view of the trees, full green pine and denuded oaks. It’s not the view that Susannah and Benjamin would have had—that would have looked out over stony fields—but the regrowth is pretty in its own way. I’ve gotten used to the clack and squeak of windblown limbs. They no longer frighten me. Not as much as the day’s agenda of deposition and the unnerving sense that I might lay eyes on Mrs. Foster.

  One thing is certain: Although Tucker has offered to keep an eye on Shadow, that dog is going with me.