The Dog I Loved

by Susan Wilson

  Rosie

  I dress in my new trousers, slip into the luxury of my new silk blouse. It needs a little something, but I no longer have a box full of nice jewelry. I insert my only pair of earrings into my earlobes; after so long with not so much as a stud, the plain gold hoops were my first out-of-prison purchase. I have no idea what’s become of the two years’ worth of presents that Charles bestowed upon me. The clothes, the jewels, the really nice coats, the shoes. I walked into Mid-State Women’s Correctional Facility in my plain black skirt and blue blouse and walked out of it six years later in the same outfit. It begs the question of what can Mrs. Foster possibly think suing me will get her other than me back in her life, live and in living color. Sitting across from her in some courtroom, going over the tragedy of her only son’s death in minute detail yet again? Revenge is such an outdated motivation, good only for television productions and romance novels.

  My calendar’s notification alert reminds me that I’m due in Connecticut at one. Even if the traffic sucks, I’ve got plenty of time. It’s only seven-fifteen. Shadow stares at his still-empty bowl. In the dim light of the west-facing kitchen, his gray is pronounced. Susannah never referred to the dog who followed her around by any name. Did he outlive her? Did he meld back into the woods of Dogtown whence he’d come? Whence I really believe my dog came? This place, isolated on its narrow road, edging against the haunted precincts of Dogtown, still sets me off on flights of fancy despite the physical improvements. For the first time, I wonder what I will do when this project is completed. Where will I go? I feel the first glimmerings of nostalgia for this kitchen. It has been a sanctuary without doubt, albeit one with challenges. Shadow nudges his bowl with his nose. Looks back at me. Who’s trained whom? I think.

  I’ve put the black-and-white photograph of Grandmother Baxter with her dog, Boy, on the mantel above the kitchen fireplace. If there is one nice thing about this trek to Connecticut for the deposition, it’s that I’ll be staying with Carol tonight. Needless to say, I’m hoping that Meghan and her beau will be there. I have yet to meet Marley, and I’m excited about the prospect. Anyone who is important to Meghan is important to me.

  I dump kibble into Shadow’s bowl and debate making coffee or just heading out and grabbing some on the way. I hear a truck horn. It’s early, but Tucker often catches me in my pajamas. Well, he won’t today. We have spent too much time together in this house to stand on ceremony, and he comes in without knocking, trusting that his horn will have alerted me.

  “Here.” He hands me a paper cup of coffee, sets a white bag from the Stop & Shop bakery on my table. “You need your strength for the journey.”

  “Funny.” I pop the lid off, add sugar and a dash of milk. Hand Tucker the carton.

  “You look, um, nice.”

  “You mean dressed like a grown-up?”

  “Hmm.” He sips his coffee, then opens the bakery bag and extracts a sticky bun.

  “So, what’s your plan for the day?” Don’t I sound all clerky?

  “I got a guy coming to estimate the paint job.”

  That sounds like something I should be present for, and I say so.

  “I’d say yes, but he’s only got today to come by. Didn’t you say that you can’t get out of this trip?”

  “I did.” Needless to say, I haven’t apprised Tucker of what this Tuesday trip to Connecticut is all about. As far as he knows, it’s Homestead Trust business and Pete Bannerman is simply the Trust’s lawyer.

  “You want to pick out the colors?” Tucker lays a trifold sheet of sample colors, all from the Williamsburg Collection.

  I shrug. “Whatever is authentic.”

  He gives me a pleased smile. As if Tucker Bellingham would tolerate a shade of cream that wasn’t period-correct.

  I go to the fridge and pull out a yogurt. No sticky buns for me, thank you very much. “I found Susannah Day’s gravestone yesterday. She’s behind the Bellingham plot. Close but not in it.” I show Tucker the picture of the headstone on my phone. Friend. Healer.

  “That’s really nice.” He hands me back my phone and then sits, stroking his goatee for a meditative moment. “I hope that my ancestor was good to her.”

  “I think he was. I think that he respected her.” I sit down at the table. “She never said a bad thing about him in her journal. I mean other than noting that he was horning in on her practice.”

  “That’s a Bellingham. Kind of oblivious.”

  Oblivious. I wonder.

  Maybe it’s time for Tucker to know a little bit more about me than that I’m the project manager foisted on him by the Homestead Trust. “Tucker, I think there’s something you should know about me.”

  And so I tell him that I spent almost six years behind bars for an accident. That I was advocated for on the recommendation of Meghan Custer; that I was subsequently employed by the Homestead Trust. I don’t look at him while I give him the thumbnail version; it’s the first time I’ve rehearsed this particular phase of my life and I’m a little wobbly in my delivery. In some ways, Tucker is the perfect audience. I don’t actually work for him, so he can’t fire me. He’s not a boyfriend, so he can’t dump me. He’s not a relative, so he can’t shun me or deny me. He’s a guy who is a workplace friend, and if he pulls his friendship, I’ll be sad, although maybe not devastated.

  “So, there you have it.” I begin to bustle around the kitchen, tying up the half-empty trash bag, running water to rinse out the sink. I realize that I’ve been sweating a little as I’ve told Tucker my story and now I’m chilled in my thin blouse. I haven’t stirred up the woodstove this morning, so I pop open the firebox, poke the embers, and add a few pieces of kindling. He’ll be warm while he waits for the painter.

  “Let me do that. You don’t want to put a hole in that nice blouse.” Tucker moves me aside, sets two pieces of cordwood into the firebox, closes the door. “You should get on the road; traffic is going to be a bear up the line.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll text you the estimate if he gets it to me before you get home tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Shadow precedes me out the back door. I snap the handle of my wheelie suitcase up. Tucker takes it out of my hand. He follows me out to where Shadow waits to be let into the car. I pop the hatch; Tucker sets the bag inside.

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you soon.”

  Tucker shakes his shaggy head. “Thanks. For telling me.”

  “I had to.”

  A slow grin comes to his face, and he strokes his goatee. “You know, I already knew. But I’m glad you wanted to tell me.”

  “All this time?”

  “Pretty much. Pete called me the second day you were here.”

  “Jeez.” I start to laugh and open my arms to give him a hug. Just to continue with the bear analogy, it really is like being bear-hugged to receive Tucker’s embrace in return.

  * * *

  Tucker was right. I had completely underestimated, and the traffic was horrible. I barely make it to my destination in time. Rather than having a little breathing space so that I could take Shadow for a walk, collect my thoughts, and power through this, I am still shaking from the intensity of having to speed the last hour and the two near misses that I’d dodged along the way. And I have to pee.

  Pete Bannerman’s vintage Oldsmobile is parked in the lot beside the courthouse. I slide my car in next to it, take a deep breath, and climb out, opening the back door for Shadow.

  “Rosie! We were getting worried.” Pete appears from across the parking lot. It is only the second time I’ve seen him in the flesh, and once again I am struck by his jockeylike build. This time, he’s in a charcoal gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a blue-and-red-striped rep tie. I can’t help but imagine that he was the butt of many a frat house prank. It makes me like him even more.

  “Traffic was horrible. I thought I’d allowed plenty of time.”

  “No matter.” He spots Shadow, who is lifting his leg against a handy sig
npost. “Whoa. Are you going to tell me this is a service dog?”

  “What, and start the day off with perjury?”

  “He’s going to have to wait in the car.”

  “Then I’m not going in. I need him.”

  “Then I guess he’s a service dog. What do they call them? Emotional support?”

  “Well, that’s exactly what he is. His name is Shadow and he’s my emotional support dog.” I snap a leash to Shadow’s collar. “Don’t forget, that’s what I did in prison, trained dogs.”

  “So he’ll be on his best behavior.”

  “I guarantee it.”

  “Shall we?” Pete gestures toward the steps leading into the courthouse. I swallow hard. The last time I saw those steps, I was being escorted in. I wore orange; my hands were manacled. The truth is, I didn’t go up those steps that time; I was led in through a discrete back door, made to wait in a cell, and then taken into the courtroom. Despite that, I truly believed that I would be set free that day, that I would walk down those steps. I sat where defendants sit; my feckless public defender was glancing at her phone, texting back and forth to someone who was far more interesting than I. I looked out at the few people in the courtroom, Cecily Foster and her legal team, Charles’s cousin, and a couple of friends there for support. For me, no one. No one.

  The deposition will not take place in a courtroom, but in a small room down the long, cold hallway.

  “Pete, can I have a minute? I’ve got to…”

  He nods. “I’ll let them know that you’re here.”

  I ask Shadow to sit and stay and then push open the heavy oaken door to the ladies’ room. And there is Cecily Foster.

  What’s interesting is that she doesn’t seem to recognize me. Dressed as I am, in the plebeian attire of an average woman of little means, I have a split second of leisure to study her, to see for myself that she actually doesn’t have horns. She’s wearing a silver gray suit made of some shiny material that absorbs the faintly pink glow of sunshine coming through the frosted window. She’s carefully drying her hands with a rough brown paper towel. The knuckles on her left hand bear the weight of thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds—her engagement ring, an anniversary ring, and, on her pinkie, the ring that, if I am not mistaken, Charles had given me.

  I had been assured that I would not see Cecily Foster during this part of the process. Somebody had gotten that wrong.

  I enter the nearest stall, fairly confident that she hasn’t recognized me and that maybe she’ll be in the deposition room before I finish. I wait, rip off a handful of toilet paper. Wait some more, but there is no sound of heels heading for the door, clicking against the white honeycomb-shaped ceramic tile. There is no sound except the slow wiping of hands with harsh brown paper towel. I realize that she’s waiting for me.

  I can sit here like a coward until Pete gets so nervous he comes banging on the door. Or I can tidy myself up and stalk out of this stall, wash my hands, and leave with my dignity intact.

  This woman has intimidated me for the last time. I have been among women for whom intimidation is an Olympic sport. Giving it and taking it. I have been surrounded by men who were even better at it, adding the threat—and sometimes action—of sexual predation to the mix. What more can Cecily Foster do to me that her son hadn’t already done? Kicked my self-esteem to the curb. Went beyond cruel to punish me. She wants to sue me for wrongful death? I should countersue for mental cruelty.

  “Rose?” Her voice has changed. It sounds reedy. Or maybe she’s as nervous at seeing me as I am at seeing her.

  I flush the toilet, pull myself together, and exit the stall.

  “Hello, Cecily.” I won’t further infantilize myself by calling her Mrs. Foster. I wash my hands, running the water hard, hitting the soap dispenser three times. Scrub, scrub, scrub. I look at my image in the spotty mirror over the sink and wish that I’d done better than just pulling my plain brown hair into a loose bun; that I’d put on lipstick instead of ChapStick. I can see her behind me. As usual, she is immaculately put together, but there is something different about her, and then I realize that during the intervening six years since I last saw her, she’s aged beyond where Botox allows the impression of youthfulness. She looks like she’s wearing a mask, a Cecily Foster mask. I think she’s had a face-lift, and instead of bestowing a Fountain of Youth rejuvenation, it’s turned her into her own caricature.

  “I didn’t think that I would see you here.” Her voice is whispery, and I wonder if there is something wrong with her vocal cords.

  For some reason, the last time this woman and I met in a bathroom comes to mind. The night of Charles’s unfortunate accident. How she admonished me about my “behavior.” This time, I turn and look right at her. “Neither did I. I really didn’t think that I would ever have to see you, or hear you, or think about you again. I’ve been punished enough, don’t you think?”

  “If I did, we wouldn’t be here now. You plea-bargained your way to a twenty-year slap on the wrist that, somehow, you’ve managed to get out of. Rose, you killed my only child.”

  I can’t dispute that. The facts stand for themselves. “And you and I both know that it was an accident. Wrongful? Perhaps he shouldn’t have walked around behind the car. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gotten drunk and been incapable of driving home. Perhaps he—”

  “Stop.”

  I hear this faint scratching at the ladies’ room door. It’s Shadow. His acute hearing has picked up on the scene behind that door. I glance at the door but don’t open it. Cecily and I face each other over that honeycomb tiled floor. I haven’t shut the faucet off tightly enough, and there is a slow drip coming from it. It plinks into the sink. I lean back and tighten the faucet but don’t take my gaze off Cecily. Is it snakes you have to keep your eyes on, or lions, to make sure they don’t strike? With her artificially wide-open eyes, it is the cobra I imagine, hooded, angry, ready to bite. Until, to my utter shock, tears start to flow from her wide eyes, and her immobile face struggles with the emotion behind the mask.

  I pull a few tissues from the box on the counter, hand them to her. She dabs her eyes, then buries her face into the wad. Her shoulders shake, and I do the only thing possible: I touch her. I have never touched her before. She has never embraced me, not even after two years of my being Charles’s girlfriend. I put my arm around her shoulders, shocked at how bony she is beneath the shantung silk of her suit. She is half a head shorter than I am, another shock. To me, she had always seemed towering. What is even more shocking is that she lets me. Indeed, she presses her head into my shoulder. What else can I say? “Go ahead, let it out.”

  The storm is over in less than two minutes and she swiftly collects herself. “Oh dear. I look horrible. I can’t…”

  “Cecily?” I pull a towel out of the dispenser and wet it. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  And I am. I have never told her that. “I am sorry, not just because this horrible mistake changed my life forever but also because it changed yours. I understand. Charles was your son and you loved him and he was all you had. I get that. I never intended for what happened to happen, despite how angry I was. How unhappy.” There, it’s out. The words that I have withheld from her for so long. Words that, maybe, I’ve owed her. “I’m so sorry.”

  Shadow woofs softly at the ladies’ room door. Pete will be charging in here any minute to see what’s keeping me. I wait for her to say something. Anything. She pats beneath her eyes with the wet paper towel. Plucks a dry one from the dispenser. Pulls open her handbag and roots around, extracting an old-fashioned compact. She leans over the sink, and I realize that we’re done here. I’m dismissed.

  “Good-bye Cecily.”

  “Rose. Thank you.” She keeps her gaze on her own image as she says this, but there is a faint smile, a release.

  Shadow greets me as I exit the restroom, acting as if I have been gone forever.

  Shadow

  This place is so beyond his experience that he nearly mi
sbehaves when Rosie closes the heavy door between them. He wants to call to her, to bark, to let her know that she shouldn’t walk away from him. That man, the small one, keeps a careful hand on Shadow’s collar, but the dog figures that if he jumped up and tugged, the man would let go. It’s only that because he can smell Rosie behind that door, and hear her voice, that he remains fixed in place.

  The words are indistinct, Rosie’s and another woman’s, but the pain is not.

  Epilogue

  I stand at the second-story window, looking out over the backyard, and spot two deer munching on the lilies I planted in the fall. Why the dog doesn’t chase them off, I cannot say. He seems to have a détente with them, as much as he’d assault any predator that should wander into the yard. Not that any ever have. I have a dog.

  Today is my last day in the Homestead. I’ll miss this view and the easy access to Dogtown, but I’m excited to finally have a place of my own, one with all the amenities a modern apartment can offer, including, thank God, a dishwasher. I’ve decided to stay in Gloucester; it’s been a refuge and a place of healing, and although I could, maybe should, go back to the Boston area, Cape Ann is close enough to my family that we can see one another anytime we so desire. Besides, Tucker offered me a job as his office manager. He’s never had one before, and I can’t wait to get started whipping his business into administrative shape. I’ll be the voice of Dogtown Construction.

  The Baxter family will be arriving in dribs and drabs for the dedication ceremony Carol has invented. There are trestle tables set up already and a bunch of rented folding chairs. Rather than have everyone struggle to come up with a pot-luck item and then have to travel some distance, they had me hire a caterer. I had carte blanche and have organized a traditional New England lobster boil. The weather gods have graced us with a perfect July day, not too hot, and only a little overcast, with an onshore breeze.

  Meghan and Marley will come with Don and Carol. Meghan’s mom and dad are scheduled to fly into Boston and drive up by noon. The rest of the far-flung clan have either already arrived in the area or will be here soon. My mom and Teddy are coming. After meeting Meghan and Sharkey, Teddy has decided to pursue getting a service dog of his own. He’s applied to the prison program I was involved with, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.