by Liza Palmer
“I’m so sorry to spring that on you. She showed up here asking about you and . . .” Pamela speaks quickly, motioning for me to take a seat. I stuff the invite in my pocket.
“I thought I was coming in here to talk about my promotion,” I say, dazed.
“I know. I walked in and she was waiting in the anteroom. Dolores just . . . sat there,” Pamela says.
“Did I make things worse?” I ask.
“I doubt things can get worse than they are, Frannie,” Pamela says, pulling two candy bars from one of the desk drawers. She offers me one. I take it. We both tear our candy bars open and take a bite. Breathe.
We sit in silence for another fifteen minutes.
Chapter 14
The Roast
Again: I’m searching in this dusty campsite for the group. They’re leaving. They’re leaving and I’m about to get left behind. The rickety staircases and old dirt roads are confusing. My suitcase is heavy and I question why I brought it. Crack. Crack. It’s coming. It’s coming. Drag the suitcase faster. Run. Catch up. Get them. Crack. But they’re behind me. I’m not . . . I’m not running to something, I’m running away from something. Crack. Crack. My hand is curled around the suitcase’s handle. Slippery. Sticky. Let go. I bring up my hands. Crack. Crack. Blood. Everywhere.
“No!” I jolt awake. Saturday morning. Another terrible sleep. Another morning where I cherish those three seconds between realizing the dream wasn’t real and that reality is sometimes worse than we can ever imagine. I get dressed quickly. After I visit Grady and Lisa at the hospital, I get to finally pick up John Henry at the pound. I haven’t heard from Clara, but I still have hope. I have no idea why . . . but I still have hope.
I walk over to my laptop, set my cup of coffee down next to it. I plop down into my desk chair and wait for the computer to come on.
Once the computer buzzes to life, I click on the web browser icon and navigate myself to one of those review sites where people leave their opinions on everything—from restaurants and hotels to the best neighborhood hardware store and beyond. I type in doggie day care and watch as an entire world opens up to me. I click and read, click and read, and then, finding one that sounds exactly like what I’m looking for, I pick up the phone and dial.
“Southern Comfort, this is Jenny,” a woman’s voice answers. I couldn’t help myself.
“Hi, I’m adopting a dog today and wonder if you have any space available for him?”
“Well, we have a few spaces, but we’d have to meet him and see how he gets on with the other dogs and all that. What are you guys doing later on today?” Jenny asks. Her accent is deeper and twangier than Sam’s.
“Today?” I ask.
“We’re slow on the weekends. This would be a great time to meet him. We have just a few dogs here.”
“I’m picking him up later on this morning. I could be there by noon,” I say.
“You said you’re getting him today?”
“Yes, it’s, uh . . . it’s complicated,” I say.
“I like complicated.”
I smile. “Then you’ll love this.”
“You’re funny!” Jenny laughs. I am really going to hate to bring the room down, but. . .
“I work at a private school over in Pasadena. We had a shooting here on Friday,” I say, starting in.
“Oh my god! I saw that on the news! You were there?!”
“Yeah.”
“I just thought what a shame that was, what an utter shame that was, when I was watching it. Shouldn’t be like that, you know? Shouldn’t be like that.”
“Yeah.” Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack..
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to go on. I just can’t believe you were there.”
“Me either.”
“Got that right.”
“So, the woman who was killed . . . he was her dog,” I say, barely getting it out before the emotion of it strangles me. I exhale. Focus.
“Oh my god,” Jenny says, breathy.
“He’s a good boy. Three-year-old Weimaraner. His name is John Henry and he’s sweet and . . . I just . . . I don’t know how he’ll be around other dogs. The husband had him on quite a tight leash. Had everyone on a tight leash, it seems,” I say, my voice icy and clipped.
“The husband, hm,” Jenny says, clucking.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice dead.
“Well, you can bring ’im on by and we’ll see how he does.” I can hear Jenny tuck the phone into the crook of her neck.
“The thing is—I think it’s only going to be for a few days. Hopefully,” I say.
“Why would it only be for a few days?”
“I want to take him back to her family. Her sister lives in Los Feliz and she’s got three little girls. It’s a home, you know? A proper home. I just . . .” Choking. Tears.
“No, I get it. I get it,” Jenny says, her voice quiet. Finally. Someone. Someone gets it.
“So, noon?” I ask.
“Sounds good,” Jenny says, giving me quick directions to her house. We sign off with hope that John Henry will fit in. I feel myself keeping him at arm’s length. The last thing I want to do is get attached to this dog.
AS I’M WALKING INTO the hospital, my cell phone rings. It’s my mom. I stop and sit on a bench just outside of Grady’s hospital room.
“Hello?”
“Frannie?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I can see my Mom now, sitting at the kitchen table wearing her usual khaki cropped pants with loafers, a cable-knit sweater in a soothing pastel. The last time I trekked up to Mill Valley was just a little over a month ago and while she looked essentially the same, I was caught off guard by the realization that she’s getting older. A little more hunched over, her hair a bit more gray, it takes a bit longer for her to stand. Needless to say, these realizations are unwelcome.
“How do you know something is wrong?”
“Sweetie?”
“I don’t want you to get worried, okay?”
“Frannie, you tell me right this instant what is going on.”
“There was a shooting. At the school. The headmistress was killed by her husband,” I say, my voice calm.
“Was she a friend of yours?” Mom asks. The cell phone crackles as I finally break the news to my parents about Wednesday. I’ll start with Mom and work my nerve up for Dad.
“No, but I didn’t think she was a complete stranger either,” I say, watching people bustle about the hospital. Worried looks, bouquets of flowers. What a gamut of emotions and situations.
“Does she have family?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, here’s the weird part. They live in the Bay Area apparently.” I can hear Mom moving around the kitchen now, the kitchen they just renovated. I told them—go media room! Pool! Cabana! Sunken fire pit! Nope. A breakfast bar and more cabinet space in the kitchen. They even kept their old kitchen appliances. They’re proud of the fact that they still have the same furniture they had when they moved to Mill Valley from the Bronx in 1972.
“What’s their last name?”
“Her maiden name was Stanforth, but her married name is Dunham.”
“I don’t know any Stanforths or Dunhams off the top of my head. I’ll ask around though.”
“The memorial service is at the Marin County Country Club this weekend.”
“So, you’re coming to Mill Valley?”
“It looks like it.”
“Not the best of circumstances, but a nice surprise just the same.”
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Shake it off. Shake it away.
We fall quiet.
This is not a good thing.
“Frances?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“You okay?”
“Sure.”
“It sounds like you’ve gone through a lot.” Shake it away. I ball my hands in fists. The blood. So much blood.
“Yep.”
Quiet.
“You remember Jackie? She live
d on the corner, right here on Miller?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, she had those super-high heels,” I say, remembering a woman who was so fancy I thought she was a movie star.
“When she committed suicide, I couldn’t help but think I could have done something. But I couldn’t have done anything, sweetie. Unfortunately, some people are past saving before you even meet them. Do you get that?” Mom says.
“Not yet,” I say honestly.
“In time,” she says.
“She lied about everything,” I say.
“It looks like that’s the case.”
“Why? Why lie about that kind of stuff?” I ask.
“It’s easier to lie than face the truth. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“Women are competitive, Frannie.”
“I know that.”
“And it seems that Emma was playing to win no matter the cost.”
I think of Jill. “Or the reality,” I say.
“There was no reality.”
“Oh, it got real. It got really ugly, really fast.”
“That’s usually the case. These kinds of scenarios never end well, honey.” Crack. Nope. Nope.
“I know.”
We are quiet.
“You couldn’t do anything,” Mom says.
I nod and nod and nod.
“Frannie?”
“I know.”
“Okay, sweetie . . . your father wants to talk to you about what happened,” Mom says. My dad. The retired police officer can figure out something is wrong from just one half of a conversation.
“Okay.”
“I’ll go finish the roast then,” Mom says.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll let you know about the trip up there. When it’s happening. All that.”
“Okay, sweetie. You take care, okay? Take care?”
“I will.”
“I love you, my sweet girl.”
“LoveyoutooMom,” I squeeze out before a torrent of tears rumbles out in its place. A security guard looks over. A narrowed eye. I smile . . . ish. I mouth that I’m fine. A raised eyebrow. A pause.
“Frannie, honey? Is that you?” Dad says, getting on the phone. Then the sound of a referee’s whistle and my dad’s reaction (not a good one) to the call.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“Hey, sweetie,” Dad says. I always thought there’d be a time when my dad wasn’t a giant, like how you go back to your elementary school and realize it’s actually tiny. But my father has remained larger than life. For all of Mom’s apple stencils and home-baked cookies, Dad’s all guns, tools and bringing home the bacon. Hank Reid, resident tough guy.
“So, what happened?” Dad asks, muting the television.
“There was a shooting.”
“Where?”
“The school.”
“Lay it out for me.”
“Suspect walks in, unloads one into the victim, wings another, couple more into the wall before getting taken down,” I say, getting down to business.
“What kind of gun was it?”
“Guns,” I say, hitting the s.
“Jesus.”
“He had four forty-fives.”
“He meant business.”
“Yes.”
“And where were you?”
“Standing next to the victim.”
“She went down with the first shot?”
“It was a head shot.”
“Someone got winged?”
“Yes.”
“They okay?”
“He’s good. It was a through-and-through, didn’t touch the bone.”
“A forty-five will definitely do some damage.”
“I know.” Blinking back the images. The damage.
“And the other ones went into the wall?”
“Yes.”
“And you were standing next to the victim?”
“Yes.”
“So, one of the shots that went into the wall, it was actually aimed at you?”
I am quiet.
“Frannie . . .”
“I got really possessive of her. It was weird.”
“That can happen.”
“I know. You’ve said stuff about it before. I always thought those people were idiots.”
“Well, now you know.”
“That I’m an idiot?”
“No, sweetie.”
We are quiet.
Dad continues. “How did he finally get taken down?”
I think of Sam. “Someone stepped in. Saved us.”
“Frannie . . .”
“I know.”
“You can never tell your mother about this.”
“I know.”
“Dinner’s ready!” I hear Mom call in the distance.
“Not a word,” Dad says. Final.
“Okay.”
“Sweetie . . . I . . . I don’t know what we’d do if we lost you,” Dad says, his voice heavy with worry.
“I couldn’t let him put another bullet into her, Dad,” I say, the tears welling up finally.
“She was dead, honey.”
“I know.”
“She was a friend of yours?” Dad asks.
“No. No, she wasn’t.”
“Funny way to act about someone who wasn’t even a friend.”
“I know. I know.”
“Okay, sweetie. Your . . . what is it, Polly?” I hear muffled conversation and my dad gets back on the phone. “Polly says you’re coming up here?” More muffled voices. Dad continues. “For a memorial service? Who? Polly, I just . . . The victim? The girl who got shot?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Then . . . sweetie, I don’t understand.”
“I was telling Mom that I was going to be coming up there this weekend for Emma’s memorial service. Emma, that’s the girl that got . . . that got . . .”
“You don’t have to say it, sweetie,” Dad says.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I love you, Frannie.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
I hang up. And sit. On the bench. The phone clutched in my hand. My palm sweaty. I breathe. Deep. The only thing that gets me off that bench is that I’m going to see my parents. And that there’s a Starbucks in this hospital.
I walk into Grady’s room with two coffees just a few minutes later. I’ve gathered myself enough so that I won’t be a sobbing mess when I see him again. I walk in to find the patient sleeping soundly and Lisa curled up in a chair reading a novel. She looks up. A smile. Beautiful. I walk over to her and give her a quick hug, the tray of coffees perched in my hand. I give her the large mocha with an extra shot. She thanks me.
“How’s he doing?” I whisper, settling into a smaller chair next to her with my coffee.
“Better every day,” Lisa says, gazing over at him.
“I just talked to my parents. About what happened,” I say.
“Not fun.” Lisa sighs.
“I’m glad they know. Have you told your parents?”
“About what?”
“About all of it, I guess.”
Lisa is quiet.
“So, no?” I ask.
“No.”
“The shooting?”
“No.”
“The wedding?”
“No.”
I am quiet.
“Yeah, I know. I’m going to have to tell them,” Lisa says, motioning to the very injured Grady.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“My mom is a bit of a drama queen. Everything is a huge deal. Me moving to California was enough for her to call for her smelling salts—and yes, she still calls for smelling salts.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Exactly. She wanted to be an actress. Never made it out of Jersey, though,” Lisa says, dog-earring her novel and setting it on Grady’s bedside table.
“So, she’s just—”
“Dramatic in her everyday life, yes. No, if I want this wedding to be about Grady and me at all, I have to figure ou
t a way to tell her about this so she can’t turn it into the Cleopatra Campanari show.”
“Your mom’s name is Cleopatra?”
“Of course it is.”
“Dude.”
“People try to shorten it to Cleo, but Mom corrects them every time. Plus, it’s just weird to talk about it. Explain what happened. It sounds so . . . gruesome.”
“It was gruesome.”
“Yeah . . . yeah, I guess it was,” Lisa says, checking on Grady. His breathing is deep and slow. Such a strong man. Taken down. Like that.
“I get what you’re saying. It doesn’t feel real. Like you know you’re going to make it out, whereas if you’re hearing someone you love tell that story it would be terrifying.”
“Exactly.”
We’re quiet.
Lisa continues. “But seeing Grady . . . that bullet hit him in the right shoulder. If you really . . . really think about what could have happened with that . . .” Lisa trails off, shaking her head. The scene plays again. Always ready to be relived. Easy to pull it up. Easy to let it play. Jamie shoots the gun with his right hand at a charging Grady. Hits him in the right shoulder and he whirls around, hitting the floor. Slow it down. Back it up. My face drops and the color drains. Slow motion. Jamie fires and the bullet travels across the space between him and Grady. If Grady were one hundredth of a second faster, if Jamie were one hundredth of a faster shot, that bullet would have hit Grady square in the temple. Lisa watches the realization unfold.
She nods. “See what I’m saying?”
“I never even—”
“Grady played defensive end at UT. Watching him get put down like that . . .” Lisa trails off again, not looking at me.
I am quiet. There’s nothing I can say. She has to feel this, no matter how much I don’t want her to. No matter how much I want to make this better, the only thing I can do right now is listen. Be here. Like she was for me.
“I know,” I say, almost in a whisper.
“I know you do.”
We are quiet. Sitting in it. The grainy Super 8 footage of that day. Rewinding and playing. From different angles. Playing the what-if game. Moving the different players around like chess pieces. How did we survive? There’s no reason we should be sitting here. Jamie had every intention of killing everyone in that lounge. The only time I saw any emotion move across his face, other than resolution and demonic detachment, it was annoyance. It bothered him that we were fighting back. Our will to survive was something he hadn’t factored in. He was a coward. He had been so used to people being intimidated by him—dogs sitting when he told them to, women walking on eggshells. The idea of a group of human beings stopping him from dictating how the scene would play out simply never occurred to him. He lost his cool when Grady came at him, but Lisa threw him for the biggest loop. A woman. A woman who wouldn’t let him dominate her. He simply didn’t know how to process that. And in the end, when challenged, like the bully he was, he became the great Oz. A tiny man behind a big curtain.