by K. L. Cook
“It’s okay now, girl,” Mrs. Tate said. “Don’t you worry.”
Laura turned on the porch light, and Manny clamped a floodlight to the pen. It had been very hot, even for this time of year, though when nightfall came, it cooled off, so everyone put on old sweaters. Greta’s eyes were bloodshot and runny from labor, with black droplets, like candle wax, in the corners near her nose.
Around eight, after Rich was in bed, the dogs down the alley started barking and howling, aggravating Fay, then Greta, who both barked back. Greta paced the pen rapidly, panting, then turned in tighter and tighter circles. Suddenly she let out a whimpering growl, squatted, and out slithered a watery black sac, the size of Laura’s cupped palms. When Fay had litters, she’d always torn the dark-veined sac immediately, bit at the cord, and licked at the puppy’s face until the nose and mouth were clear. Greta sniffed at the twisting sac, pushed it over with her paw, sniffed again, but didn’t break the thin membrane. Then she walked to the other side of the pen, indifferent.
“Laura, quick, bring me the sewing kit and washcloths!” Mrs. Tate shouted. Laura ran inside and got the kit from the counter and warmed the cloths that her mother had set out.
When she returned, the puppy still lay in the corner in its sac. Manny and Mrs. Tate had entered the whelping pen and were blocking the dog with the stick and rake. Mrs. Tate reached down and grabbed the puppy, backed out of the pen with Manny following. She sat down on the ground and broke the membrane with her finger. Mucusy fluid dribbled down her arm and onto her sweater. She laid the slick pup on her lap. It didn’t seem to be breathing.
“Manny, get me some thread from the kit. Laura, take one of those cloths and wipe its nose and mouth. Hurry now. But be gentle.”
As Laura wiped, her mother knotted the small end of the cord and then took the cloth and finished cleaning the pup’s face.
“It’s not breathing,” Laura said.
Her mother turned it over and patted it firmly on the back, then reached into its mouth with her finger and pulled out a thimbleful of blackish green gum. The pup whimpered. Fay barked, followed by Greta. Mrs. Tate leaned over the fence and set the pup down on the papers in front of Greta. The dog eyed her warily, then sniffed at the wet bundle. Greta reached out and pawed the pup, knocking it on its back. It rolled over and shook its tiny head quickly, rooting. With her hind leg, Greta kicked it across the carpet until it lay against the wall with shreds of newspaper stuck to its wet fur. Fay barked sharply three times. Greta seemed spooked. She turned and growled.
“It’s okay, Greta,” Mrs. Tate soothed.
But Greta growled again, and then, in a rapid dart, she lunged toward the pup, snapped viciously twice, then raised it over her head and shook it. Blood spewed over Greta’s face.
Gene and Laura screamed.
“Oh, my God!” yelled Manny. “She’s killing it, she’s killing it!”
“Stop her, Momma!” Gene hollered.
Mrs. Tate, who had fallen back stunned, clutched at the rake, knocked it over, then grabbed it again in the shadows and whacked Greta three times on the head until the dog dropped the puppy. Greta bit at the iron brace. They all heard the click of teeth on metal, and then she leapt back in the far corner and crouched into a snarling coil. Mrs. Tate kept her in the corner with the rake’s splayed end. Wet, black-red spots darkened the dog’s white-and-tan coat.
“Manny, get in there and get the puppy.”
“I can’t go in there.”
“Yes, you can. I’ll hold her here. Take your stick.”
“But—”
“Do it!” her mother shouted, her voice so deep and ferocious that it stunned them all, even Greta. They turned to her, their eyes wide. They’d never seen her like this before, the lamplight shining electrically over her hair, her face caught in a shadowed scowl.
Manny crawled in. Greta barked savagely, growling, throwing herself against the rake, letting herself be stabbed by the tines, but Mrs. Tate held her in the corner while Manny grabbed the puppy and jumped back out of the pen. Greta snapped at the rake again as Mrs. Tate dropped the gate over the opening.
In the floodlight, they inspected the puppy. The back of its neck had been severed almost clean through. The head was barely connected to the body. Gene staggered backward and vomited on the stump. Laura took one of the warm, wet cloths and wiped her brother’s face. Manny went inside and brought back a small paper lunch sack. Mrs. Tate placed the pup in it, twisted the top, and sent Manny to the other end of the yard to bury it. Then she went inside and washed her hands, held Gene until he stopped shaking, and put him to bed. She finally came back outside.
“Why’d she do that?” Laura asked.
“Because I touched it, I think,” her mother said quietly. Her anger from before had disappeared. “She smelled me on the pup.”
“Is she gonna have more?” Gene asked.
“Yes. I think so.”
“What are we gonna do?” Laura asked.
Her mother shook her head and stared at Greta, who lay panting in her whelping pen with her eyes half shut.
“Manny, let’s put Fay in the pen with her. Fay will show her what to do.”
“She’ll attack her,” Manny said.
“No, I don’t think so. It’s me she objects to.”
They let Fay into the pen. Greta barked and growled at her at first, but Fay paced the pen away from Greta, then sat and watched the younger dog until Greta calmed down. Then Fay went to Greta and began licking her face and the still-torn ear. Greta snapped at her, but not with the viciousness from before. Finally she let Fay stay beside her.
Within the half hour, Greta began whimpering again. She turned tighter and tighter circles, and then she squatted. Out came another sac. Greta sniffed it, pawed at it, and then, as before, ignored it. Fay nosed her way to the sac, broke it open with her teeth, and began licking the mucus from its face until the pup squealed. Then Fay ate the sac. The pup was lighter-colored than the last one, tan with white-and-black marks, and bigger. Fay nosed the pup toward Greta, who lay in the far corner, recovering. Greta immediately stood up and walked away. Fay lay down next to the pup to keep it warm.
By midnight Greta had delivered five more puppies and lay in the corner of the pen, exhausted and alone. From what the family could tell, at least four of the puppies were alive. One puppy never moved or made a sound. Although Fay kept them warm, they were squealing from hunger, but Greta wouldn’t do anything. Manny brought a saucer of warm milk. They let Greta out of the whelping pen, and then Mrs. Tate pulled each pup from the pen and finger-fed it. They waited another hour, but Greta seemed to be through with the births. She licked herself, eyeing Fay every once in a while, growling at Mrs. Tate and the kids whenever they spoke.
By two in the morning, Mrs. Tate told Manny and Laura to go on to bed.
“What’s going to happen?” Laura asked.
“It’ll be all right. Dogs have been having puppies for years without our help. They don’t need us.”
“But she’s ignoring them,” Laura said.
“It just may take her longer to figure out what to do. Besides, whatever happens will happen. I’ll stay here awhile. Fay will help her. Laura, check on Rich and Gene, and then you and Manny go on to bed yourselves. You got school tomorrow.”
“Let me stay and help, Momma,” Manny said.
“There ain’t nothing else to do.”
“What if she goes crazy again?”
“I said I’d take care of it. Go on to bed.”
“But—”
“Don’t ‘but’ me, Manny. I said go on!” That same flash of anger, that same scowl, was on her face again. “I don’t want any backtalk now. I want you all in bed!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Manny and Laura said in unison.
“And stay there,” she said, pursing her lips. They nodded. “If I need you, I’ll come and get you.”
Manny and Laura went into the house, washed up, then nodded off. About an hour later, Laura heard
her mother open the kitchen door and go into her room. Shortly after that, Fay and Greta began barking. Mrs. Tate got up again, then returned to bed, even though the dogs’ noise intensified. There were growls, snarling and biting. And then more terrible sounds.
Manny and Laura went to their mother in her bed, pleaded with her to do something, but without opening her eyes, she said flatly, “There ain’t nothing we can do. Now go on to sleep.”
Her right arm was crooked over her forehead, and she just lay there on top of the covers, wearing the same blood-spattered pants and sweater, her shoes still on. But her eyes remained closed. Laura and Manny watched her for long minute, waiting for some other word or gesture from her, an acknowledgment of their presence. But she didn’t move. Laura couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.
“Go on now,” she finally whispered, her eyes still closed. “Do as I told you.”
In bed they listened intently to the squeals and yelps, the snarling, the growling, and that other sound, the sound they couldn’t identify but understood the next day. And then, still worse, the black silence afterward. How can she sleep through that? Laura thought, astonished. That must be what being an adult was about, being able to sleep through suffering, to adjust yourself so it doesn’t matter, or matters less, hardening yourself the way roast gets when you cook it too long. From tender to rock.
The next morning the puppies were gone. Greta had jumped from the whelping pen and lay with her face pointed toward the shed, asleep. They could see her belly, bloated, dried black blood streaked and speckled over her coat. Fay was sprawled in the whelping pen, whimpering, two claw rips across her left shoulder and one above her eye. Her head was on her paws, her eyes closed. The shredded newspaper was dark and wet. Laura was sure she saw small pieces of bloody fur scattered in the pen.
When her father returned home that evening, her mother explained that there was nothing to do but let it happen.
“Nature’s way,” she said, an edgy irony in her voice.
Mr. Tate shook his head in confusion, then quickly a thin hard shadow congealed over his face, and without a word, just in one long dreamlike sweeping motion, he fetched his gun from the top of his closet, opened the back door, and strode to Greta’s pen. From inside the house, they heard the shot, like a thunderclap on a cloudless day, and then a second shot, which seemed even more of a jolt. Mrs. Tate sent Manny out, and he and Mr. Tate put Greta in a potato sack, tossed her in the back of the pickup like a load of grain, and they drove away to bury her.
17
Homecoming
The letter came in the afternoon mail. It was postmarked from West Germany, and all of them waited anxiously for their father to get home. When he did, they thrust it in his face, but he just studied the envelope for a minute and then set it down on the kitchen table.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Gene asked, incredulous.
“Soon enough,” Mr. Tate said. Laura saw the smile at the corner of his lips as he turned away, and she knew he was merely keeping them in suspense.
“Supper ready, Laura?” he asked.
“Almost.”
He took a shower! She finished heating the leftover ham, green beans, and applesauce, put a plate of buttered bread on the table, and Manny stuck the letter onto a fork and placed it on their father’s plate.
Oh, how he took his time. They heard him shaving, singing to himself in the bathroom. Cruel! Finally he came into the kitchen. Manny, Rich, and Gene were seated. Laura stood by the icebox. Her father’s hair was wet and slicked back. He looked down at the plate, where the letter lay, and smiled. He sat, picked it up, studied it.
“Where are my reading glasses?”
“Here,” Gene said.
Gene and Rich leaned in, and Laura stepped closer. Her father put on his glasses and lifted the envelope into the light from the window, then turned it over. He put his knife to the back and slit it halfway, then stopped.
“Let’s say the blessing.”
“What?” Manny exclaimed.
Mr. Tate folded his hands.
“Open the damn thing,” Manny said. They laughed.
“Manny, you can lead us tonight.”
“When was the last time we said a blessing?”
Mr. Tate opened his palms on either side of him and smiled serenely. “Laura, Rich, hold my hands. Now, Manny, I know it’s been a long time since you’ve conversed with the Almighty, but it’s really very simple. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’”
“You’re a ruthless—”
“‘…hallowed be Thy name.’”
“God is good, God is sweet,” Manny chanted, “open the letter and then we’ll eat.”
Gene and Rich fell into a fit of giggles. Laura smiled but looked anxiously at her father. She wanted that letter read as much as anybody.
“Read it,” Manny said and tipped his chair back so that he was perched precariously against the wall. “Pretty please.”
Her father smiled, picked up the letter, sliced through the rest of the seal, took out two handwritten sheets, and began reading it. Silently.
“What does it say?” Gene asked.
Laura went behind him, wrapped her arms around his neck. “Is she coming?”
He held the letter close to his chest so that Laura couldn’t read and then he continued without saying a word, but his expressions changed melodramatically. His eyes grew wide. Then his mouth dropped, and he wrinkled his face up into a comic boo-hoo.
“Well, what’s it say?” Manny smirked.
He hesitated a beat before saying, deadpan, “They’ll be here for the Fourth of July.”
“Next week?” she asked.
“Looks like it.”
“Yahoo!” Gene yelled. Manny beat his fists on the table so the silverware rattled.
“Careful,” Laura said.
“She’s coming home! She’s coming home!” Rich screamed, although Laura wondered if he even remembered Gloria. He’d seen the postcards and heard the other letters. But he was a toddler when she left.
“Are they all coming?” Manny asked.
“Yep,” Mr. Tate said. “Jerome has a two-week furlough.” Laura was surprised to hear him say Jerome’s name. It sounded strange coming from his lips, and she figured he was trying to get used to it himself.
“Where will they sleep?” Gene asked, suddenly worried.
“Don’t worry, son. We’ll figure it out.”
Except for occasional pictures, they had not seen Gloria since she eloped. She had tried to come home several times, but Jerome’s furloughs kept getting shortened or canceled. Or she was pregnant and couldn’t travel overseas.
Laura remembered how furious her father had been with Gloria when she first eloped, even forbade her name to be spoken, threatened to have the pilot arrested or, more outlandishly, court-martialed, but their mother had calmed him down. And after a while his anger subsided, though, before Laura’s mother left, he didn’t like to talk much about what Gloria had done, and if the subject came up, he’d scowl or leave the room.
He was not a man easily angered, though they all had seen and knew him to be capable of a startling rage. Once, years ago when Mr. Thomason caught Manny shoplifting at the general store, Mr. Tate had whipped him viciously with a belt for almost five minutes, a torturously long time for a whipping, as the rest of them listened in shock in the living room. Manny was quiet at first, but then he cried out and then screamed in pain.
“You ever gonna do that again?”
“No!” Manny whimpered.
“What?”
“No, sir!” and the beating went on until Manny was so tired he could scream no more. Their mother walked into the room. She said nothing, but her silent presence was enough to stop the whipping. And then she came back into the living room where the rest of them sat with their heads down, too afraid and ashamed to look at each other or her. They looked up when their father emerged from the room moments later, the belt in his hand, scowling. They could hear Manny
in the bedroom, sobbing.
“What are y’all looking at?” They cast their eyes down again.
That was the worst incident. They never saw him that enraged again, not even much later, right after their mother left, though his whippings were plenty hard, even when doled out judiciously, and you didn’t push him.
A few months after their mother left, Mr. Tate finally forgave Gloria. It was difficult to harbor a grudge against her forever. He spoke of her almost as his favorite child, and when others mentioned Jerome’s name—which they generally avoided doing in his presence—he no longer frowned, though he still referred to him only as “the pilot.”
Gloria had two children now—Julie, who was two, and the baby, Carroll, a boy’s name that Mr. Tate thought too girlish. There had been postcards and letters, which they eagerly awaited. Gloria was a good letter writer. She had a way of depicting herself in a comical light, punctuated by lyrical passages that suggested an intelligent sensitivity, and her letters lived vividly in their imagination, as if she had been designated as the family traveler, the one who sends back news to the home front.
“The life of an air force pilot’s wife,” Gloria wrote in one of her letters, “is full of glamour and glory.” Then she contrasted the wonder of visiting magnificent places—the Mediterranean, Italy, Greece, and Switzerland—with the reality of moving from one base to another, the housing too small (“we’ve moved into a lovely little closet”), the dirt everywhere (“the air force has a policy of shipping all bomb rubble to the junior pilot houses—gives the wives something to do”), the bugs (“flying cockroaches,” “horse-flies the size of Oklahoma,” “mosquitoes who decided to picnic on my legs”), the mediocre base food (“I’d rather kiss Nikita Khrushchev than eat another canned tomato”), the pecking order of not only pilots and officers but also of officers’ wives (“who seem to get fat from swallowing pretty little idiots like me”).