Just Like That

by Nicola Rendell

  He grumbles as I turn my back on him, my fist full of the promised cookies. I toss one through the air, and he catches it in mid-air with a snap of his massive jaws.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I see it’s Skype. It’s her. Holy shit. I take a deep breath and hit the green video button. “Penny?”

  Skype makes its weird whooshing noise, and then I hear her. “Russ?”

  There she is, as pretty as ever, even half-pixelated and fuzzy. In the background, I hear clattering dishes and some laughter. “Hang on,” she says, and she disappears from the video feed. A door creaks, and then returns to the frame, which is when I realize she’s got me on a bed. She lies down on her stomach, with her feet crossed behind her, knees bent. I can see down into her cleavage, but it doesn’t distract me from her sparkling smile.

  “Russ, I can’t see you.”

  Man, I love this house, I love her little world, but this town needs three cell towers and a visit from Verizon right fucking now. Doesn’t matter though. All that matters is her, frozen in a smile. Absolutely adorable.

  Except then she says, “I think your thumb is on the camera.”

  Goddamn it. I used to be so suave, and now she’s turned me into a guy who doesn’t even know how to use a smart phone. I pull my thumb off the camera lens, and my own face pops up in the window at the bottom of the screen.

  “Hi!” she says, clapping with happiness as the video buffers to catch up to her.

  “Hey there, beautiful.” I sit down on her sofa, and she beams. She flexes her feet behind her, her adorable toes wiggling, the sexy line of her calf making me think dirty things already. “How’s everything up there?”

  “Oh, fine! He’s okay! We just brought him home. But listen to this,” she drops her voice and glances off-screen. “Grandpa has a girlfriend!”

  Once again, I don’t know the guy, but I’m all for him. “That’s fucking awesome.”

  “I know!” Penny says, barely a whisper. “And she’s so nice. She’s moved some of her stuff in so she can stay to look after him, but I’m just too tired to make the drive back today.” She looks down at the keyboard, away from me, as a huge face-contorting yawn hits her. And she’s still pretty. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” I reassure her. “Don’t you worry. We’ve got time.”

  She blinks back some yawn tears. At least I fucking hope they’re yawn tears. “We don’t.”

  “Shhh. Stop that. You do what you’ve got to do. Guppy and I are doing great.”

  She places her hand to her forehead, and grits her teeth like she can’t bring herself to believe that, no matter how sure I sound. “Really?”

  “We jogged on the beach, all the way to the end of the Point. No problem from Miss Muffet, and only one plastic flamingo destroyed.”

  She snickers in her hand. “He averages one a day. Usually. Depending.”

  “And holy shit, he can run. I haven’t had a running partner like that since I was in basic training.”

  Penny giggles, her shoulders going one way, her tanned calves going the other. “You’re sure you’re okay? You’ve got plenty to eat, plenty to drink?” Her gaze moves around in a rectangle for any sign of inconvenience, it seems. “Got the Wi-Fi working? Maisie hasn’t reappeared and cut out the crotch from all your pants?”

  “We’re good. No Maisie. Yet. And here.” I hit the camera-reverse button and give her a shot of Guppy, who’s holding steady with the death stare because I still haven’t made good on the cookies. “I was about to leave. He’s waiting for…”

  “Oh, my God, don’t say it,” Penny gasps, laughing. “Hey, little man!”

  I stand up and flip the camera back around, holding it out to him so he can see her too. He might be smart, he might have thoughts, but it’s clearly pretty fucking confusing that his mom is now inside a little box and her head fits in my hand. “How’s my Guppy? Is Russ taking good care of you?”

  Guppy cocks his head ninety degrees, total Scooby Doo.

  “Are you being a good boy? Are you having fun?”

  One-eighty in the other direction. Guppy leans forward and sniffs curiously, but when he realizes that the lady in my hand can’t be his mom because there’s no mom smell, he flops downs tragically onto his bed, like he’s been shot in a duel. I turn the phone around so I can see her, and see she’s put her chin into her hands, fingers just touching her cheeks.

  “He’s good. I made him eggs for b-r-e-k-k-i-e, which were a hit. Over-easy.” I give her a wink and a click of my tongue. “Way better than hardboiled.”

  She breaths out a big sigh of relief. “Thank you, Russ. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t there.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Seriously. My total fucking pleasure.” That’s the honest-to-God truth. It’s my pleasure and my honor to look after her, to do everything I never knew I needed so badly to do.

  She scoops her hair up and twists it over one shoulder. “Is it silly to say I miss you?”

  The words hit me like a warm wave because it’s the same thing I was thinking. “Fuck, I miss you, too.”

  But then, from somewhere on her end, I hear someone call out, “Where’s my Lucky Penny?”

  “Shoot, I should go,” she says. “I’ve got a Scrabble game with my name on it. Thank you again, Russ.”

  “Stop thanking me. Take care of yourself. I’ll call you later?”

  “That’d be great. Bye. Thank you again,” she says, and blows me a kiss before the screen flickers to black.

  For one second, I stay there, staring at my phone. One blown kiss hurts. Saying a big goodbye to her, after this week—the idea makes me sick.

  But we’ll figure it out. We have to fucking figure it out.

  In the meantime, there’s shit to do. I stick my phone in my pocket and give Guppy the rest of his cookies. He doesn’t even chew them, but just downs them like vitamins. I give him a pat on his huge head and grab my gum from my pocket. I unwrap it and flip my hat around backward, thinking about where to start. “If you were a crooked golf developer with an anagram shell corporation,” I ask Guppy, “where would you be right now?”

  No answer, of course. But on the upside, no growl either.

  I turn the gum wrapper over in my fingers. I think back to the day I met Dickerson and consider the best way in. Then I pick up my phone again. I google Dickerson Golf International and call the front desk via Skype.

  “A.R. Dickerson Golf International Main Office, Kathleen speaking,” says the secretary.

  “Morning, Kathleen. This is Bruce from SafeShield Auto Glass. Mr. Dickerson phoned us to say he’s got another nick in his windshield. Tried his cell, but you know how it is.”

  She sighs. “Do I ever.”

  “I’m calling to confirm that Mr. Dickerson will be at the office this morning about eleven. We’ve got our mobile tech coming to fill in the crack. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, he’s actually going to be…” I hear some typing. “Yes, he’ll be at the Manatee Municipal Golf Course. His tee-time is at 10.”

  Goddamn it. Sometimes I hate this job, but sometimes I fucking love it. “I appreciate it, Kathleen.”

  “You bet, hon,” she says, and click goes the line.

  Done and done. I grab my shoulder bag and my camera. As I’m leaving the kitchen, I notice that the trash can is almost full, and is ready to go out to the bin. I grab hold of the sides of the bag, hooking one finger over each red loop.

  But as I’m doing it, everything goes into slow motion. Somewhere inside me, something says, Oh fuck…

  To my left, Guppy leaps wildly from his bed and bangs into the wall, a full-on holy-shit-the-world-is-ending panic. “Dude, it’s good!” I say, and let the bag go, but that makes it all so much fucking worse. I hear the grinding, thread-ripping noise of his claws trying to find some purchase on the area rug. He’s like something out of Looney Tunes, moving too fast for his feet. He ricochets into the coffee table, sending the remotes
flying.

  He freezes. For a millisecond, we hold still, staring at each other—him with his haunches low and his ears flat against his head, me with my arms up in the air like it’s a bank robbery.

  “We’re good, Guppy. It’s okay.”

  But it’s not. Because then, all by itself, the weight of the garbage in the bag makes the whole thing suck down into the can, filling the air once again with the noise from hell.

  He’s a white streak, tearing off down the hallway. Thump goes his face into a door, bang goes the door knob into a wall, followed by the bang-bang-skitter of a hundred and fifty pounds of deeply traumatized dog taking cover. In the bathtub.

  * * *

  I head to the bathroom, cookie jar in hand. Guppy knocked over the drying rack, and there is lingerie everywhere. At first, he’s invisible, and I’m not even sure he’s in there until I get far enough into the bathroom to see all the way in the tub. He’s flattened himself against the bottom with his legs splayed out at all angles, and he’s shaking so hard that his toenails clack against the porcelain.

  “It’s okay, buddy. I’m sorry about that. I forgot. My bad. Won’t happen again.”

  A tremor of terror rolls through his massive body. He cowers in the corner, and mashes his face into the drain.

  I put one cookie on the edge of the bathtub and sit down on the bathmat, beside the upturned rack. I move one of her pretty bras aside, briefly held hostage by a pink bow between two bra cups. But then I get back to the mission and add another cookie to the row, and another beside it, until the whole selection is lined up. Red, green, dark brown, light brown. The full buffet.

  He considers the line of cookies but he doesn’t lift his head, paralyzed by bone-deep terror. PTSD doesn’t just happen to military guys. Fear is fear. I get it. So I go slow, and easy, and let him calm down on his own.

  “It was nice to see your mom, right? She misses you.”

  Guppy blinks and glances at the cookies. I straighten their curved edges along the lip of the tub. He flattens his ears a little more, and I give him some time. I let my head fall back against the soft towels behind me, which smell like her and me together now. I study the sketch of a sand dollar, framed above the toilet, and the wicker rack under that, with all her perfumes and her makeup. I see a bottle of Advil, and a prescription bottle just visible inside the cabinet. A squeeze tube of aloe, and some spray-on sunscreen.

  I lean forward and open the cabinet under her sink. There are dozens of bottles, boxes, and brushes, crammed into bins and baskets. Right up front is a bottle of something with a picture of a dog on the front, and leaning up against that is a rubber brush, bright blue and embossed with the shape of a paw. I imagine her giving Guppy a bath in this bathtub and how much fun that would be to see. And then my mind takes a sudden detour…to her giving a baby a bath. From way down deep in my gut comes a wave of hope, the start of a hardly formed dream. It’s irrational, unexpected, and overpowering. But that? Fuck, that.

  I close the cabinet and refocus on Guppy. Another wave of fear makes him tremble hard, like he’s hypothermic. I let him sniff my hand and give his ears a scratch. His fur is soft, his ears warm. Every scratch gets a groan. He pushes back into my hand with his muzzle, and he rolls slightly onto his side, and it feels so good he gets jimmy legs.

  Groan-snuffle. But as I ease up on the scratching, the shaking hits him again. I double down on the rubs, paying attention to each side of his wet muzzle, digging my fingers into his thick fur around his face. I unbuckle his collar and drop it on the bathmat, scratching all over where he can’t reach with his paws. “You’re good. Totally good. All safe and sound.”

  It’s helping, but it’s not enough. He’s still in lockdown, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving this house while he’s acting like this. I reach into my pocket and open Skype to give her a call. One ring. Three. Six. I’m about to give up when the blue screen shows connected.

  Her face pops up on the screen as she’s sinking her teeth into an apple. “Hi!” The camera jostles along as she heads out onto a patio, passing a grill and a shelf full of empty pots. “You okay?”

  “We had a situation. With the trash.”

  “Oh, no. Is he in the tub?”

  I turn the camera around and give her a view of Guppy, then flip it back to me. “I really didn’t even think about what I was…”

  She tucks the mouthful of apple off into one cheek and waves one hand in front of the screen. “Don’t worry. It used to happen to me all the time. Can you make it so he can see me?”

  I grab a washcloth and set it in the soap dish. Carefully, I prop my phone on top of it, leaning it against the shower wall. I situate the forward-facing camera so it’s angled toward him and so his face appears in the frame for her to see, too.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Banana,” she says, in a soft just-for-them-voice. “You know that. It’s okay.”

  For an instant, when he hears her, his ears shift so they’re not so smashed up against his skull anymore, but then they go back to where they were.

  “No one will ever hurt you again, you know that. It’s okay to be scared. You’re a good boy. Such a goooooooood boy.” His tail speeds up a little, whacking the side of the tub with every wag. “Maybe Russ could go get you your armadillo.”

  As soon as she says the word, I’m up and looking for it. I scan the hallway and then his toy basket, gnawed to shreds at the edges. I hear her talking to him, her sweet voice echoing through the bathroom. I see a one-winged turkey, a three-legged cow, but no armadillo. But then it hits me. I pull off the sheet from the bed and there it is, tucked into his nest from earlier this morning.

  Back in the bathroom, I put it in the tub with him. “See?” Penny says. “There’s Armadillo.” Guppy nudges it with his nose. Penny whispers, “Make it squeak, Russ!” So I do, three times in quick succession, one squeeze on top of the other until it makes a dying animal sound. Guppy snatches it out of my hand, stuffing it into his mouth and breathing into the green shell. “Eeeeee-kaaaaaa,” goes the armadillo. Penny lets out her contagious giggle, and Guppy tilts his head, dropping the armadillo onto his paws.

  He pushes his nose against the screen, right onto Penny’s face. He snuffles and sniffs, and his tail bangs once and then twice on the porcelain.

  “Who’s my good boy?” Penny asks.

  Guppy answers with a huge lick across the front of the screen, sending the phone flying, and Penny laughs from the bottom of the tub.

  As Guppy resumes Operation Destroy Armadillo, I right the phone and crouch down on my knees to get into the frame. The thumbnail shows the armadillo face closest, then Guppy’s snout, and then me way back behind. I give him a pat and ask quietly, “Will he get out of the tub? Or is this going to be an…all-day thing?”

  She looks at the screen, studying Guppy. “It depends. Sometimes I can get him to calm down, if he didn’t get too spooked. Was it just the noise of the trash bag or…”

  “Whole shebang. I had it halfway out of the can.”

  Penny groans. “Well, there’s some Rescue Remedy in the cabinet, but you have to dose him with about a quart of the stuff for it to have any effect. He’ll be okay though, Russ. You go on with the day. Don’t worry.”

  But fuck, I do worry. This woman trusted me with her dog—a dog with special shampoo and fancy food, who gets hardboiled eggs specially cooked for him, who’s got a custom-made collar and a bed in every room. This isn’t some mangy stray chained up outside a chop shop. This is her child. I’m not going to fuck this up. So I scratch his ears again and say, “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, beautiful. We’re good.”

  “Okay, gotta run,” she says, all breathy and happy, and ends the call.

  Guppy sinks his head down between his paws, breathing into the armadillo. I’m not sure that seeing her helped, because now he’s not just freaked out but also missing his mom even more.

  So I think back, way back, to when I was a ki
d, recalling memories I haven’t allowed myself have in ages, because they’re too fucking painful. But they’re there, and for Penny I let myself fall back into them.

  When I was about six, when we were living in San Diego, we had a dog that my mom brought home from the pound, where she volunteered. We named him Buck. He was a scruffy little mutt, blind in one eye. He wasn’t too keen on people and spent most of his time sleeping on my parents’ bed. But the one thing in the world that he truly loved was the car. Window cracked, didn’t matter where we were going, as long as he could come along. So I figure it’s worth a shot. “Guppy. You like riding in the car?”

  He raises his face instantly, staring hard at me, so focused that not even the armadillo squeaks.

  Now we’re talking. “Yeah? You like the car? Car-car?”

  His tail starts thumping.

  “Want to go do some recon with me in the car-car?”

  He skitters up to standing, his back feet sliding until he finds his footing. Then he plants his huge bear paws by the drain so he’s got his front end down and his ass straight up, with his tail wagging like crazy.

  “Want to go spy on Dickerson…in the car-car?”

  Which is when Guppy drops his armadillo, clacks his paws one more time on the tub, and answers with a huge, happy, “Rarf!”

  46

  Russ

  Guppy and I find Dickerson on the seventh hole of the Manatee Municipal Golf Course twenty miles north of town, with a cigar in his mouth and his putter in both hands. I’m parked off the fairway, behind a chain-link fence covered with fake ivy, on an access road marked MAINTENANCE ONLY. I’ve wedged the Suburban up against the gap in a gate to get a direct line of sight.

  The view is dismal. All the signs are faded, and the grass is singed with too much sun. I’m not even totally fucking sure the palms are real. I take my camera from the console and zoom in on the green. Dickerson puffs on his stogie and does that thing golfers do, like they’re trying to level out their shoeprints on the turf, or like they’ve got a hemorrhoid that’s giving them hell. Today he’s rocking another old-school velour tracksuit, this one a brownish purple.