by Liza Palmer
I put some dog food in John Henry’s new bowl. He low-walks over to it. Smells it. No. Uninterested. He has to eat something. I look in my pantry. Peanut butter. Dogs like peanut butter. I put a little peanut butter on a piece of wheat bread and drop it in his bowl. I leave the kitchen thinking that I’m the offending factor in his breakfast equation. John Henry follows me.
“Eat your breakfast, sweetie. Come on, now,” I say, walking back into the kitchen. Pointing to his bowl. He looks at my hand. Pointing to his bowl. He looks at my hand. I squat down next to his bowl and point to the bowl. He looks at my face.
Sigh.
THE THING IS, SHE lied, Lisa says as we walk around the Rose Bowl later that morning. Throngs of runners, walkers, cyclists, strollers and leash-pulling dogs circle Pasadena’s venerable New Year’s Day attraction. Southern California’s year-round opportunity for outdoor living is a blessing and a curse. Most days it fills me with guilt for staying inside and working all the time. John Henry is in hog heaven. He happily trots alongside Jill, Lisa and me.
“Not necessarily,” Jill says.
“Not necessarily?!” Lisa asks. Walking these three miles around the Rose Bowl is something I hope will jog us all back into some kind of routine.
“He could have lost his job. He could have discovered her cheating,” Jill says, her thick red hair up in a ponytail.
“Are you saying she deserved it? That there’s some rational explanation for shooting your wife?” I ask, guiding John Henry past a lusty French bulldog.
“Internet down?” Lisa sighs, squeezing past a harried mother, an overzealous yellow Lab and a squirming toddler who’s trying to get out of his overpriced name-brand stroller. Even the strollers here have high standards.
“Of course not,” Jill says.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” I say.
Lisa says, “She obviously made it all up. You’re telling me that between jet-setting all over the world and spouting meaningful yet underappreciated poetry to each other—”
“Sure, the evidence points to some kind of breaking point,” I say, cutting in. “Something was obviously wrong. Very wrong. Brutality like that always has some kind of trigger.”
“No pun intended,” Jill says. A swarm of cyclists pass us on the left as they scream, “On the left! on the left!”
I feel more than a little conflicted. I know in my gut there was a trigger. All evidence points to my conversation with Emma about Harry Sprague and Sean Stone, as well as the conversation we had at the mixer about painting and her reconnecting with Clara. But the catalyst? Could it have been the Harry Sprague situation? Did something about seeing bullying from a position of authority change the dynamics of Emma’s marriage and push Jamie to the cowardly brink? Her own words haunt me now: A bully wouldn’t pick on someone who spoke up, now, would they, Ms. Reid? As if she’d finally found her voice. As if she’d decided that she was no longer comfortable with walking on eggshells. Could it have been the final straw? I shake my head. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
“It’s just sad,” I say with a sigh.
“That bastard almost took everything from us,” Lisa says.
“I know.”
“I’m not ready to be sad yet,” Lisa says.
“I know.”
“And she brought him in there, invited him to the party—knowing that he had some bullshit violent streak like that? I mean, be blind and whatever in your own life, but . . . really? You’re going to just let him loose on people . . . on kids?” Lisa is gesticulating wildly.
“I don’t think she had much say in the matter,” I say. Maybe she thought she could control him?
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Lisa says.
“We’ll never know what really happened,” I say.
“Somebody has got to know something,” Jill says, her eyes darting wildly.
“I’m telling you, no one knows anything. When her sister came to the school after the fund-raiser, it was clear that there was no one. She came to me thinking I had answers,” I say.
“Well, she wouldn’t have said anything to the people at work,” Jill says.
“But no one knew her,” I say.
“That’s not exactly right, though. Is it? We only knew what she wanted us to know,” Lisa says.
“And where did that get her?” I say. This last bit of gossip is right out of a Shakespearean tragedy. Emma Dunham was a sham. Little Miss Perfect had a dark side. More than a dark side. Little Miss Perfect was haunted. A shadow. A shell. But she wasn’t. That’s the thing. That’s the thing that makes me want to scream. She was in there. There was a human being in there, who made jokes about Justin Timberlake, wanted to be a painter, had a younger sister who idolized her and was so impressive that she became the first female head of school at Markham. And she was magnificent. But . . . like a cancer, her secrets took her over. Put her down. The dark overtook the light. But maybe this doesn’t have to be the end of Emma’s story. There’s a legacy here. A sliver of something. John Henry. Emma’s legacy can heal. Be something for Clara and those girls. I can at least try to save the part of her that she loved the most. The part of her that held the most dangerous thing in the world: hope.
“There must have been something else going on,” Jill says.
“Something else? How?” I ask. Jill shrugs and looks off into the distance. I’m just about to repeat myself when Lisa jumps in. John Henry trots along, taking in the general splendor. He’s happy. Tail-wagging happy.
“Bottom line, Emma was Emma. She would rather die than let anyone know what was really going on in her life.” Lisa’s tone is final.
“We’ll never know what actually happened, but I’m sure it’s not as simple as you’re making it out to be,” I say, not wanting to talk about it anymore. Would knowing why it happened lessen the horror?
“Not all marriages are like that,” Jill says.
Lisa and I share a quick look.
Jill continues. “Speaking of happy marriages, when are we going to get down to the business of the backyard barbecue wedding?”
Lisa is quiet.
“What about your family?” I ask.
“What about ’em?” Lisa says, her voice offhand yet annoyed, more commonly known as “the tone you talk about your family in.”
“What about them?” Jill asks.
“Have you told your parents yet?” I ask pointedly.
“No, I haven’t told them.”
“What?!” Jill and I say in unison.
“Look, I’m just waiting for the right time. That’s all,” Lisa says.
“Have you told them about Wednesday? Jamie?” I ask, stopping her now. A group of joggers becomes annoyed with us, tutting and clicking their disapproval as they trot past. Lisa looks annoyed.
“You haven’t told them about the shooting?!” Jill asks.
“Have you?” I ask, looking at Jill.
“Of course,” Jill says; she has her parents on speed dial.
“I don’t want to make any proclamations here,” I say.
“But?” Lisa says, prompting me.
“But if you don’t share this with your parents, you’re going to have to write it off. It’s getting to be too late. You’re going to have to think of a lie and then roll with it. Forever. I mean, I don’t want to sound fatalistic, but . . . it’s getting to that point,” I say. I watch as Lisa runs through all the possible excuses; she shakes her head and is about to say something and then she doesn’t and then . . . I continue. “You know I’m right. And why you’re questioning telling your parents when you helped save the lives of everybody in that room—I don’t know. I would think they would want to know that.”
“I didn’t save the life of—”
“Yes, you did,” I say, touching her shoulder, my face soft.
“Sam . . .”
“You started it,” I say.
Lisa is quiet.
“You know them better than I do, so maybe it’s about telling them and then deciding ho
w to work the wedding . . . I don’t know,” I say.
“It’s your day,” Jill says, cocking her head like an errant teenager.
“Easy, girl,” I say.
“I’m just sayin’. I had to invite all these bullshit people and I’ve regretted it ever since,” Jill says, sitting on a curb now. Lisa and I sit down beside her, pulling our water bottles out. I take out a little dog bowl I bought at the pet store and fill it with water. John Henry laps it up. Laps it up. Looks around. Spills the water everywhere. Nuzzles my (now wet) knee. Lisa offers me a fun-size bag of M&M’s; I put out my hand and she drops in a few. Two red, one yellow. We watch as the stream of runners hurry by, sharing M&M’s and sipping water. We’re clearly missing the point. John Henry lays down in between Jill and me. We absently pet him.
“No, you’re right. It’s the bride’s day,” I say, making a face at Lisa. Cuckoo. Cuckoo.
“What are your parents doing right now?” Jill asks, yawning.
“I don’t know . . . they’re at home,” Lisa says.
Jill and I look at her. Lisa looks . . . stunned.
“You got a cell phone, right?” I ask finally.
“Yeah.”
“Well . . .”
“What . . . now?”
“I mean, you can go over there, but yeah,” Jill says, motioning to a more secluded area. Lisa looks at the small plot of land, covered in wood chips and leading up into the Linda Vista neighborhood of Pasadena.
“Now is as good a time as any,” I say.
“We’ll be right here,” Jill says, tilting her head back. Getting some sun.
Lisa just sits there shaking her head.
“Go on,” I say.
“But leave the M&M’s,” Jill says, extending her hand, her head still tilting back, eyes closed.
“You bitches are unbelievable.” Lisa slaps the M&M’s bag into Jill’s hand and marches over into the secluded area, pulling her cell phone from her pocket.
Jill and I are quiet. Jill brings her head up and opens her eyes. We watch as Lisa dials. Hangs up. Dials. Hangs up. Curses and gives us the finger. We both give her a thumbs-up and a woot woot! She’s now telling us to get lost. Jill offers me the last of the M&M’s with a yawn. I hold out my hand and thank her. Lisa dials . . . she’s talking . . . pacing and talking.
“Do you think we overstepped?” I ask, petting John Henry’s ears. He bends into me, leans into my touch. What a lovey. What a sweet boy.
“Nah,” Jill says.
“Nah?”
“What?”
“I saw Sam in the hospital the other day,” I say.
“And you’re just telling me this now? I just . . . I think we really need to revisit a couple of the foundations of our friendship.” Jill pulls her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose; her blue eyes bore into me, her eyebrows raised.
“You have to give me time,” I say, making a face at John Henry. His floppy ears cock to one side.
“And?”
“It was good. I told him that he wasn’t allowed to act like the other night never happened anymore. It felt good.”
“Good for you.”
Jill is quiet. Pensive. I pet John Henry.
“What are we talking? He’s packing, like, what—ten? Ten inches?” Jill asks, her hands moving in front of her, measuring what she hopes to be the length of Sam’s penis. Joggers, children and babies in strollers stride past. She looks from her hands to me.
I slap her hands down. “Unbelievable.”
Long. Weary. Sigh.
Jill pops the last M&M in her mouth and looks off into the distance.
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but all of this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, you know? I mean, look at you. Just last week we were talking about Ryan this and Jeremy that and now? You’re telling Sam what you want and deserve. I mean, that’s got to count for something,” Jill says.
“I’m terrified I’m going to have to go back,” I say, my voice catching.
“It’s not about going back. Because the girl who told Sam off in that hallway is the same girl I can’t live without,” Jill says, bending into me. Tears pool in my eyes as I tug her close.
“Youuuu . . .”
“It’s true. I don’t want there to be a time when I . . . you’re irreplaceable to me, Frannie. You’ve finally allowed yourself to be the girl I love with a man. And that’s not something that wears off,” Jill says. Lisa flips her cell phone closed and walks back toward us. Jill and I straighten up and await the verdict. Jill raises her hands as if to ask Lisa to help her with standing. At first Lisa rolls her eyes, but then she grabs Jill’s hands and hoists her up. Jill brushes the dirt from her pants as I stand. John Henry is ready to go. Smelling the wood chips, looking at the passersby.
“Well, my mom was crying, but she does that. She prides herself on it actually. Dad just wanted to know all about Grady. But I think . . . I think I got through to them. I think Mom just may let my wedding day be about me,” Lisa says as we start around the Rose Bowl once more.
“Oh, it’ll be about you, all right,” Jill says.
“What did they say about Grady?” I ask.
“I told them just a little about him and said you really have to meet him. He just . . . he just wins people over,” Lisa says, getting choked up. “That’s happening a lot. You guys have that happen?” she says, pointing to her throat like she’s got some kind of phlegm problem.
“Yeah, we were just talking about that,” I say.
“Crying for no reason, feeling all shitty for having it good,” Lisa says.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what we were saying,” I say.
“Frannie here even told Sam off in the hospital the other day. Told him that he couldn’t act like the other night didn’t happen,” Jill says—tattles, really.
Lisa is quiet.
“What? What . . . what’s going on over there?” Jill asks.
“You have to . . . I know something,” Lisa says.
My stomach drops.
Lisa continues. “Grady was talking to Sam on the phone the other day. I heard something about a ‘lady friend.’ I asked what they were talking about, but Grady wouldn’t tell me.”
“I . . . I thought . . . ,” I stutter. I can’t form a thought. I can’t make words. I can’t . . . I can’t believe this is happening again.
“Lady friend can mean a lot of things,” Lisa argues.
“Can we ask why he’s even using that word to begin with? What is he, ninety?” Jill asks.
“A lady friend,” I repeat.
“Was I wrong to tell you?” Lisa asks.
“No,” I say, giving her a forced smile. Lisa looks mortified. “I thought we . . . I thought we had something. There were babies and bathwaters. I wasn’t going to . . . I wasn’t going to throw it out, you know?” I say, spiraling.
“If it’s any consolation, he’s not doing well. This whole shooting has done something to him and it’s not good,” Lisa says.
“I got that,” I say, remembering our talk in the hallway.
“Doing well enough to have a new lady friend though,” Jill says, squirting water into her mouth.
“I thought that he was talking about you. That Frannie was the lady friend in question,” Lisa says.
“Nope. Pass. We’re not doing this. We’re not going to run through the usual tired exercise of trying to fit our “facts” into some kind of fantasy scenario. Enough. He knows I’m here. He knows. He also knows that it’s shitty to walk out on a girl with no explanation after having sex with her. What happened to us in that teachers’ lounge sucked. Sucked. For him . . . I can’t imagine. But it’s time to stop running from us, from those gunshots, from everything. I don’t think he’s ready to stop running. And I can’t blame him,” I say.
Lisa and Jill are nodding. A little scared of me, sure. But nodding.
We’re all quiet as we make the final turn into the parking lot and start beelining to our cars. My cell phone rings. I know Jill se
cretly thinks it will be Sam. I don’t recognize the number. Jill and Lisa stand by their cars, petting John Henry, talking about the wedding, talking about Sam. Jill is trying to get more information out of Lisa. We’re all making our own arguments as to what “lady friend” means.
“Hello?”
“Frannie?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Clara.”
“Oh, hey!” I wave Jill and Lisa down. It’s Clara, I mouth. It’s Clara. They both perk up.
“I wanted to know if you wanted to come over for dinner on Thursday.”
“Sure, that sounds lovely.” I look at John Henry.
“How does seven sound? Do you have a pencil?” Clara asks. I give Jill John Henry’s leash, race over to my car, beep it unlocked and pull a pen out of the cup holder. I find an envelope and write down Clara’s address and home phone. John Henry watches me. My every move.
“Okay, so I’ll see you on Thursd—”
“The girls are dying to meet John Henry,” Clara blurts. I breathe. Deeply and fully.
“Really?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Meet him to keep him?” I’m not bringing this boy over to that house just so he can get his heart broken.
“Yes, Frannie. We’d love to have him. I’d love . . . I’d love to have him,” Clara says, her voice quiet.
“You’re going to love him. He’s . . . he’s just the best,” I say, unable to take my eyes away from him. I did it. I did something. I did something.
Clara and I sign off and I quickly tell Lisa and Jill the news. We’re all over the moon. Something about this orphaned dog finding a proper home in all of this has given us something. A glimmer of hope.
“Before we . . . before you guys . . . I actually wanted to ask you guys. My oldest sister just agreed to be my maid of honor—wait, matron of honor, right? She’s married?” Lisa asks.
“Matron,” Jill says, on familiar ground again.
“I was wondering if you two would be bridesmaids, as well,” Lisa says.
“Oh my god!” Jill says, lunging at Lisa.
Breaking from Jill, Lisa says, “Okay . . . Jesus, we’re all just—”