Bettyville

  It is interesting, gratifying even, to watch this almost human let down his guard, warm up, grow less frightened. I have watched him transform from a pup reluctant to leave his mat or crate to a daring household forager who considers it his God-given right to poop copiously in the middle of the living room. “Get some OdoBan,” a neighbor advises when I share our housebreaking problems.

  “How much,” I ask, “do I take?”

  . . .

  On Betty’s journey, I have learned something I had not known: I am very strong, strong enough to stay, strong enough to go when the time comes. I am staying not to cling on, but because sometime, at least once, everyone should see someone through. All the way home.

  When Betty got an infection, we went back to the hospital and I returned to my early drives across the dark countryside and my mind turned often to High Hill and the old farmer making his way to his truck on his cane in the cold wind. I have kept going too. Through all the years. Maybe it is time to give myself a little credit.

  Sometimes it is okay to be broken open, even if it is sadness that finally connects you to everything you are feeling.

  . . .

  If I scream at Raj after he has an accident in the house, Betty glares at me harshly. “Now is that any way to talk to him?” she asks.

  “Be still,” I say. I am tempted to greet him in the mornings as my father once did Toto: “Hello, you old tail-wagging sonuvabitch.”

  I tell Raj I love him, dozens of times a day. I want him to feel okay—safe, at home in the world. Betty doesn’t hear me when I bend to whisper to him. She seems to have become a little more deaf since her cancer and her memory has declined along with her ability to walk unassisted. Something in Betty’s head is surrendering. It is harder and harder for her to keep her balance when walking. After the ten o’clock news, on the way to her bedroom, she stops every two or three steps and looks around, uncertain and shaky, as if on a long trek. She no longer pauses to check the hymns.

  Night after night, I follow behind her with my hands on her hips to keep her steady until we reach the bedroom where she puts on her gown, a nightly challenge as it is hard for her to raise her arms. She is always relieved when the gown, soft on her shoulders and my cheek when I hug her, is finally on.

  I have ice cream when she is sleeping. I keep an old-fashioned long-handled teaspoon hidden in a cabinet and use it to ferret out pieces of chocolate and caramel from the bottom of the carton before anyone else can get to them. I call it my digging spoon. Betty is outraged when she discovers that the chocolate nuggets or bits of candy bar are missing. “This is supposed to have Heath Bar in it,” she cries out.

  “Toffee causes tumors,” I tell her.

  . . .

  In another life, the gods may send me someone powerful or glamorous to share my existence on this earthly plane. But in this one, for now, Betty and Raj are fine enough. Already they are conspiring against me; I expect to be out of the will in about fifteen minutes. I ponder the question of whether there is an organization designed to rescue humans from rescue animals.

  “Do you not understand that he doesn’t know what you are saying?” my cousin asks when she hears my endless conversations with my dog. “He’s not human!” I say, “I know he’s not human, but I think I may be a Labrador.”

  I will move on. This won’t last forever. For now, the sound of Raj’s paws clicking on the floor as he prances makes me almost as happy as Betty’s occasional smiles. If I go to the store, she insists on looking out for Raj; she hates to see him have to go into his crate. When I return, I find them on the couch together. He is our loving friend, our little black dog.

  Since he arrived and she became more engrossed in his activities, she makes her sounds much less. He is the noisy one now. I know this home is just for now, but I treasure our days. I feel different than when I arrived. Nothing magical or radical, just a little more comfortable with myself. A few more pieces have shifted into place. In my head there is a kind of early-morning quiet. Because I have come through for her. It has taken me so long to feel okay in my own skin, but I feel better, more at home in the world. Most days.

  . . .

  “What,” Betty asked suddenly one afternoon, “will you do in the future, after I’m gone?”

  “Marry Dr. Tennan,” I said. It just flew out of my mouth.

  “You could do worse,” she said.

  . . .

  Sometimes I think of how it will be when I am old. I am lying in my bed in the Liza Minnelli ward at Villa Fabulosa. I can hear the old queens singing songs from Evita in the Madonna Conference Room. Madonna is gone, but her cone bras and bones are on display at the Smithsonian Institution.

  Someone comes into the room, tucks the sheet under your legs, asks if you are feeling like you can sleep tonight. He may or may not really be there at all; maybe you just need someone to listen, to answer. But you think he is there, a real person to break the night.

  He is a kind man, and in the end, kindness is everything. The night is suddenly lonely. You cannot get your bearings. You have no idea where you are, so you ask questions, to try and keep from forgetting everything, who you are, where you have come, the people you loved the most:

  “Where am I from?”

  “Missouri,” says the man. “You have told me about it, the rivers and flowers and trees.”

  “That town I remember with the foreign name?”

  “Paris. It is gone now, I am sorry to say. There were floods, but the people you knew were gone before.”

  “The roses are gone?”

  The roses were beauty, faith, sharing, work, perseverance, memory, consolation. The roses were care.

  You picture pink petals floating on still water.

  “What is the capital of Portugal?” you find yourself asking.

  “Lisbon.”

  “Who am I from? Who were my people?”

  “Betty and George?”

  “She almost married the governor. My father would not have liked it. He loved her.”

  “What is that stuff you drink at Christmas?”

  “Eggnog.”

  “Where is the place I said was pretty?”

  “The green yard behind your old house.”

  “Who am I from?”

  “Betty and George . . .”

  “Where will I go when this is over?”

  “To see them.”

  The young man leaves the room and you begin to say your prayers. You remember the days she said them with you, her hand on your shoulder, gentle and almost frightened, as if she was scared to break you, as if she was scared the world would. She knew you would have to be strong.

  Acknowledgments

  I always wanted to try to write a book and it has taken a lot of people to get me to the final page. I must thank my agent, Betsy Lerner, my buddy who possesses many rare attributes, including the gift of real friendship and that rare thing, the kind of generosity that actually desires great things for her friends. My editor, Carole DeSanti, has taught me—I wish I had learned this years back—that the best editing is done with a whisper. She has offered a rock-solid foundation of advice, edits, and encouragement, along with the time to do one more draft.

  The writing of this book has been a relay, and every time I fell and lost hope there was someone to pick me up and carry me to the next day’s work. The bane of writing is self-doubt; the gift is friends, real friends, who save you. Kathryn Shevelow and Sara Switzer, both fabulous and wise critics, have been there for me every second since page one. So has Ann Patty. I have felt them strongly in my corner; what a gift, lasting and true. Lauren Lowenthal, a brilliant woman, demanding in the best and most helpful ways, showed up just in time to get me to the end, kicking and screaming. Jennifer Barth, well . . . thank you, Jennifer, for so many things, including your readings and endless aid to the cause, my cause. I am grateful to you and
for you. Nancy Collins: Thank you for your considered comments, your love and humor, and, most of all, for the title, which I recognized immediately when you uttered it.

  There are so many more to thank: Adrienne Brodeur, Betsy Cornwall, Walter Owen, Beth Kseniak, Johnathan Wilber, Rux Martin (who edited the first draft), Deanne Urmy, Edward Shain and Laura Popper, William Middleton, Debbie Engel, Rob McQuilken, Casey Schwartz, Marie Brenner, and Steve Weinberg. Amanda Urban has been a great booster for years. Vanessa Mobley, Terri Karten, Jonathan Burnham, and Helen Atsma also helped provide the confidence to get to Bettyville and back.

  Anthony Shadid continues to inspire me every day; I so wish I could thank him in person. Lucinda Baker has been my partner in tough times and a wonderful cousin. Carol Crigler has given endless support to my mother and to me. For decades now, Paul Giorgianni has put up with my complete looniness and tendency to forget appointments. Lastly, Raj Hodgman has been a great partner in the labor, despite a weak bladder and the tendency to howl.

  Thank you, Viking, all of you, for buying this little book and rising to support it. I appreciate the work of Chris Russell, Roland Ottewell, Paul Buckley, Hal Fessenden, Nancy Sheppard, Gina Anderson, Carolyn Coleburn, Paul Slovak, Clare Ferraro, and everyone who helped me bring these pages home.

  Author’s Note

  Memoir and memoirists labor under suspicion and I wanted to fess up about cosmetics used and make some reassurances. All conversations quoted here occurred though sometimes—intentionally or because of the tricks of memory—have been combined or moved in time. Digressive discussions have been shortened. There has been editing, but not at the cost of essential accuracy.

  For reasons of privacy and respect, the names and details surrounding some of the characters have been altered. A few very minor characters are composites.

  The imposition of structure to any story, I have discovered, alters realities. Scenes plucked from the fabric of life are changed, inevitably, when removed from a larger context. Nuances of character are sometimes lost to the considerations of narrative. I regret that, but have done my best to remain fair, generous, and faithful to truth. Still, this is only my Bettyville, created from memories filtered through time, arguable perceptions, and my own consciousness. Other travelers may have their own stories, thoughts, interpretations. My greatest wish is to hurt no one, though I believe we are often the most triumphant when revealed at our most human.

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