Mom releases me, and we step into the reception area. Carver is still there, but he’s crouched in front of Duke, a miniature Yorkshire terrier. The little guy is a lapdog with a tremendous amount of long silky steel blue hair. A plaid bow adorns his small flat head. Evidently, Duke is secure enough in his manhood to wear hair accessories. He sits on the leg of his owner, Mrs. Lewis, and licks Carver’s hand: proof that Carver has already won him over.
I watch closely in case Carver has a bag of chocolate chips hiding under his shirt.
Duke stops licking Carver and perks up his ears as Vernon ducks through the front door. Vernon looks like a piece of artwork: bronzed, with a perfectly smooth gleaming bald head. He’s middle-aged but working his way through college so that he can go to vet school.
“Hey, Nattie!” With a hand big enough to hold a litter of cocker spaniel puppies, he balances four carry-out coffee cups in a cardboard holder. At the reception desk, he creates a coaster out of a napkin and sets one of the cups down. “For you, miss. The way you like it: slathered with whipped cream. Nice hair, by the way. Blue is your color.”
“Thanks, Vernon.” I smile.
Mom pulls back from her conversation with Duke and Mrs. Lewis to claim her cup, the only one with a string dangling on the outside. There must be an Earl Grey tea bag floating in there.
“Here’s one for you, too, Carver,” Vernon says. “No whipped cream, right?” No whipped cream? To deprive oneself of whipped cream is masochistic and wrong.
“Thanks.” Carver grins. One of his eyeteeth is slightly crooked over another tooth, an appealing imperfection.
Focus.
“It’s our Saturday ritual, right, Natalie?” I nod. Vernon walks over to Duke. “And how’s this guy doing today?” Mrs. Lewis and Duke steer their saucer eyes to Vernon. “C’mon back,” he says. The three of them disappear into the exam room.
Before Mom follows them, she says, “Carver, Natalie will show you around.” It’s terrific that Mom has finally given me permission to be alone with a guy, but he happens to be the guy who almost killed my beloved Troy. He’s also swindling me out of my sacred space in the room above the garage.
Carver stands with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his no-whip hot chocolate. He rocks back and forth on his feet, waiting.
There is no reason I should take kindly to Carver. Mom brought him here against my better judgment, and although he is very attractive, bordering on hot, disliking him is the only way I can express how utterly pissed off I am at her for giving away my personal space. I didn’t dye my hair completely blue, but I can exercise my free will by being a complete bitch.
It’s settled, then.
I simply need to figure out how to walk backward from feeling drawn to Carver in the first place.
An enlightened owner knows that a dog must earn his respect.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
Unbeknownst to me, the whipped cream underneath the lid of my cup has melted from the heat of the cocoa. I take a sip and it sears my tongue. “Ow!” I shout. Cocoa spurts out my mouth and onto my beige shirt.
“You okay?” Carver asks. My teeth clamp down on my tongue. I nod but know I look like a reject in a wet T-shirt contest. It occurs to me that I should have paid attention to the clothes in my closet this morning instead of grabbing a limp shirt from the floor. (When I sniffed it, I ignored the slight smell of yesterday on it.)
Carver walks toward me and holds out a napkin. Maybe it’s because I live with a grandmother who has no qualms about charging at a stained shirt with a napkin and rubbing the spot until the napkin turns to shreds, but I signal him with my hand to stop. Carver takes a few steps back, still holding the napkin out to me. “Thought you’d want this.”
“No, thanks.”
His helpful hand falls to his side. Afraid of another outburst, I plunk my hot chocolate onto the counter of the reception desk, cross my arms over my strawberry fields, and try to shift the conversation to more important matters. “So do you own a dog?” I need to make sure it’s safe for him to work here.
“No,” Carver says, looking perplexed by my very clear and straightforward question.
Oh, wait a minute.
I get it.
He must like cats, in which case he is completely out of line. One cannot be both a dog person and a cat person; to suggest love for both implies compromise.
Carver takes what looks like a strong yet soft hand out of his pocket and scratches his ear. Perhaps he’s allergic to the sizable amount of dog hair in the room. I’m waiting for him to sneeze.
He doesn’t.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“Well, it’s just that my mom specializes in dogs. She doesn’t treat cats, or birds, even. Just dogs. Are you okay with that?” I ask with sincere curiosity.
“I don’t own a dog now. He died about three months ago.”
“I’m sorry.” I wonder what kind of dog it was and how it died.
“I do have fish,” Carver says with a touch of pride.
“Excuse me?” Did he say fish? A fish is not a pet. People eat fish. Grill it. Panfry it.
Carver walks a bit closer to me. I lean back against the high-topped counter. He says, “Koi. I’ve worked at the San Francisco Botanical Garden the past couple of years and helped take care of them.” He squints with suspicion. “Have you ever seen a koi?”
“Aren’t they, like, carp, or something?” Please tell me why anyone would own or care for carp. They are bottom-feeders. It’s like having a dung beetle for a pet.
“Yeah, they’re a type of carp.” Carver’s eyes light up, as if there are birthday candles in front of him and he’s picturing the wish he’s going to make. “Koi are amazing animals.”
I heartily disagree. There are no Seeing Eye fish or Civil War fish. I don’t recall a fish ever changing the course of history, like a fish on a mission to the moon or a fish leading people in life rafts away from the sinking Titanic.
Carver reads my skepticism. “Koi are intelligent. Loyal. Do you know they can live to be two hundred years old?”
Of course a fish is going to be loyal. It’s in a tank, for crying out loud! It’s certainly not going to jump out if it’s unhappy with you. And you want loyalty? Take a look at the Lab who guided her owner from the seventy-eighth floor of the World Trade Center to safety on 9/11. That is loyalty.
The office phone rings. I bound behind the desk to answer it.
While I pencil in an appointment for Helga, a greater Swiss mountain dog who is experiencing a recent change in behavior—from independent to clingy—Carver boldly opens the door to the supply closet next to Mom’s office and extracts a broom.
I pretend not to notice him, but the bristles against the tile floor swoosh in rhythm with the loud drumming in my chest, the rapid beat of my stupid heart.
Ensure that your home is dogproof by touring it on all fours.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
Saturday is our busiest day, so Carver never gets an official tour of the clinic. He spends most of the morning and afternoon shadowing Vernon but is not allowed to go into the kennel area, where the dogs are kept.
This should give Carver an accurate glimpse of my mother’s personality. A reputable SAT score may buy you a ticket to Elizabeth Kaplan’s makeshift veterinary internship program and allow you to gain full access to her daughter’s sacred space, but it’s not the open sesame into the kennel run.
After work, Vernon helps load the back of the Land Cruiser with Carver’s bulging black duffel bags. I hesitantly hand over my key to the room above the garage to Mom, who gives it to Carver—a transaction I’ve been dreading, made more painful by its happening sooner than I thought it would.
Mom drives us home, Carver in the back, me in the front. I’m self-conscious about what he might think of my dull profile, but I remind myself that this is someone who not only may have a secret affinity for cats, but also has a verified adoration of f
ish.
At home we’re met by the dog entourage. Carver pushes through the door, fearless. With full force, Otto sniffs his crotch. “ Ohhhhhh-kay, buddy,” Carver says.
“Settle!” Mom’s voice is firm and effective. Even Carver and I stand a little straighter. Otto pulls back and sits. Southpaw and Pip can barely lasso in their excitement, but they also obey Mom’s command.
“Natalie, why don’t you take them out?”
“It’s okay,” Carver says. “They’re just excited.”
“Go ahead and put them out, Natalie,” Mom says again. “Don’t want you to be too overwhelmed, Carver.” She is actually considering Carver’s feelings. I sprouted from this woman’s loins; where is the consideration for my feelings?
“Who is there?” Grandma yells from the kitchen in a shrill voice. The smell of Swiss cheese and nutmeg wafting toward us softens the blow.
I herd the dogs out back and return to the kitchen, where Grandma takes a casserole smothered in melted cheese out of the oven. She wears the apron I gave her about ten years ago that reads “I love gamdda.” My small smudgy handprint is still on it. Carver leans in and offers to shake Grandma’s oven-mitted hand. “I’m Carver. Nice to meet you.”
She gives him a head-to-toe-and-back-again scan. “Dinner is ready.”
We settle into our chairs around the table. Carver sits between Mom and Grandma. Mom brandishes her napkin at her side until it lowers like a parachute onto her lap. “I’m sure you’ll find that the biggest perk of living here is my mother’s cooking.” Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.
The dogs start barking outside. Someone knocks at the door. “I’ll get it,” I say.
I open the door, and Maryann McClure’s mother is standing there in a peach pantsuit with corresponding nail polish. The likeness between Maryann and her mother is shocking. Namely the glossed lips and the gum-smacking mouth. “Hi, Mrs. McClure.” I’m fearing for my life right now.
“May I speak to your mother, please?” If Fu-Fu were here, I’d be rubbing my fingers to the bone. Is this about Maryann’s slumber party? Is Mom going to find out there was no parental supervision there? I didn’t lift my shirt or swig wine, but I’m feeling guilty, doomed.
Mom approaches, wiping her hands on her napkin. “Who is it?” I step to the side.
“Your daughter stole our dog,” Mrs. McClure says accusingly.
Relief. This is about Bogart. Mom looks at me, confused.
“He’s at Kirby’s house,” I explain.
A pained expression spreads across Mom’s face. “You stole her dog?”
I ignore her question. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McClure, but Bogart was in need of food and water.”
Mrs. McClure crosses her arms over her well-endowed chest. Her gum chewing becomes more rapid. “Are you trying to say we don’t take care of our own dog?” She wasn’t home the night of Maryann’s party, so I’d go further to say that she doesn’t have the radar on her daughter, either.
“Will you excuse us for a moment, Mrs. McClure?” Mom asks. Mrs. McClure busies herself with her gum while Mom pulls me into the living room. “What are you doing?”
“Mom, the dog was neglected. You’ve always taught me to care for animals that need it. I was just doing the right thing.”
Mom gives me a sideways glance. “You could have called the humane society.”
“Like we did with Pip?”
“We found Pip, Natalie.”
“Yeah, in someone’s yard.”
She glares at me. “He was abused. Bleeding.”
I follow her back to the front door, where Mrs. McClure is checking her cuticles. “Sorry about this,” Mom says, as if I’ve done something wrong. Humph. “Natalie, call Kirby and let him know that Mrs. McClure is coming to get her dog.”
I give Mrs. McClure directions to Kirby’s house and call to tell him that he’ll have to return Bogart. There is no such thing as a quick phone call to Kirby if you catch him excited about something. This time it’s a video game. “I kicked royal ass in Resident Evil, Natalie. I beat my own towering top score!”
After the phone call, I pass Grandma in the living room watching Bobby Flay grill sea bass on TV: one example of how people in this world regard fish.
I find Mom in the kitchen. No sign of Carver.
Mom doesn’t notice me in the doorway just yet. She sits at the kitchen table gently petting Southpaw, whose head is snuggled in Mom’s lap. Mom bends down and kisses Southpaw’s head. Southpaw nudges her muzzle closer to Mom’s belly. Mom tenderly rubs her ears. “Good girl.”
That is all I’ve ever wanted to hear from Mom. And she just said it to the dog—who is simply breathing and being a dog. Southpaw does not have to earn an A on an algebra test, walk through the door before curfew, or drive Grandma to the senior center. She gets to be told that she’s a good girl for existing.
I should be ashamed of myself for feeling jealous as I watch Mom dote on Southpaw, but there is honestly nothing more I want in the world than to have Mom tell me that I’m a good girl without my having to do anything but be myself.
I clear my throat and get Mom’s attention. Southpaw trots over to me for a quick pat on the head.
Mom rinses off the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher while I finish my dinner. She doesn’t mention the scene with Mrs. McClure. Perhaps deep down she knows I did the right thing by taking Bogart. I wish she would tell me when I do something right. More often than not, I know I’ve done something right when she doesn’t say anything. She sure doesn’t bite her tongue when I do something wrong.
Mom leans over the sink to scrub it. “Carver went upstairs to his room,” she says, as if I’m wondering where he is.
“I’m going to get my albums.” They are rightfully mine. Mom can’t argue with that.
“Be quick about it, then,” she says. “He’s probably eager to settle in.” Mom turns away from the sink and faces me with a sponge still gripped in her hand. “I do want to make sure we’re clear about this, though.”
This can’t be good. “Clear about what?”
“Boundaries. Carver is a guest in our home.” This is all she needs to say for me to understand fully. She is telling me in Momspeak that if I should attempt to jump Carver’s bones, she will annihilate me.
Here I am again, on the Ferris wheel of Mom’s trust issues. I really wonder if Dad knows how much his affair has ruined my life.
* * *
Standing at the door to the room above the garage, I can hear music from the other side. Elton John. “Benny and the Jets.”
Carver’s found Dad’s records—ahem, my records.
Good. Now it’s my turn to take something from him.
A dog derives meaning through its sense of smell.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
When Mom and Dad split, Dad wanted me to have his albums and turntable. After we moved here, I set up Dad’s stereo in the room above the garage. I’d listen to record after record, trying to decode the message I thought Dad was leaving me. The voices of Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, and Cat Stevens grew on me, but I still felt lost inside the lyrics. Which was Dad’s song to me?
I take a deep breath and knock, then cough from holding my breath too long.
Carver opens the door in the middle of my coughing fit. “Let me get you some water.” He waves me in and shuts the door behind him. (He obviously hasn’t read Mom’s rule book regarding closed doors.) Despite my coughing, I reach down and pet Fu-Fu while Carver gets me a drink, as if I’m a guest in his room.
After five Dixie cups of tap water, the hacking stops. Carver walks over to the stereo and turns the volume down.
Seeing someone in this room hurts my stomach. I look around at the record player, the books on the shelf, the stacks of magazines: it’s only a room, I guess. But when I’m in here alone, it’s so much more than that.
“I was hoping there’d be music,” says Carver. He must have seen the old turntable and headed straight for the bo
xes of albums, because his duffel bags are still lumped on the floor, unopened. “I only have my iPod, which is fine, but I didn’t expect there’d be speakers. And albums! It’s like I’ve walked into the ultimate anachronism.” Anachro-what? Bet that’s an SAT word.
I wrap my arms around myself even though it’s not cold. “Yeah, my dad left those for me.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Carver’s eyebrows dip sympathetically. “Sorry.” His mom must have told him about Dad’s fling.
“Yeah, well. I’m gonna take the albums out of your way.”
“Out of my way? This collection is amazing. Led Zeppelin, Ella Fitzgerald, Nick Drake.”
“It won’t take me long to get my stuff” I say this like we’re divorced and I’ve come to get my things. I grab The Manifesto of Dog, by Dad, from the bookshelf. It’s a hardback with a red cover lettered in gold.
“What’s that?” Carver asks.
“A book my dad wrote.”
Carver nods. “My mom said he’s a dog aficionado.”
“The Dog Guru,” I say, correcting him. With the thick book in my hand, I go to box number one of five filled with records. I put the book on top of the box and squat down in an attempt to lift it. Of course, it weighs a thousand pounds, so I can’t even move it. How humiliating.
Carver leans down on the opposite side of the box. “I’ll help you.”
“No, that’s okay.” He’s less than a ruler’s length away from me. I notice that his eyes are not light green but, more specifically, olive green. I can feel the pixie on the performance mat in my stomach. “It’s just going to take me a few trips.”
I straighten up and walk empty-handed toward the door. “I’ll get this first,” I say, hoisting up Fu-Fu. I’m disappointed that she didn’t ward off the intruder who happens to be hypnotizing Pixie right now.
“I can help,” Carver offers again. Does he have to be so freaking nice?
“No,” I say, more firmly this time.
I realize I am stroking Fu-Fu behind the ear and immediately stop, hoping Carver doesn’t disregard my tough-girl facade because I was petting an inanimate object. I really am trying to be tough.
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