Lydia’s Party

by Margaret Hawkins

  The thing had stowed away! Norris almost pulled over and shoved it out of the car right then and there. Easy enough—and Norris was wearing pointy boots, if it needed encouragement. On any other day she would have.

  • • •

  She glanced in the mirror again. The dog stared back.

  Norris supposed she’d take it to one of those places—just drop it off as soon as she got back—where they’d scan it for a chip and send it home if it had one, although somehow Norris knew it wouldn’t. Or it would and they’d call and the people would lie and say, Oh, it wandered away. Then they’d promise to come and get it but they’d never show up and the place would put it down. Norris knew—it’s what she’d done with Sam’s dog, twelve years before.

  Where would she even keep a dog? And it would ruin her floors. She stepped on the gas.

  • • •

  Norris was doing seventy, seventy-five. The snow had started again. Probably, Norris thought, she should slow down. But she wanted to get past her own exit before she changed her mind.

  • • •

  The dog, sensing opportunity, had moved into the front seat. Now it sat next to Norris, on top of the shocking pink envelope. Just sticking out, from under the dog’s haunch, Norris could see a pink triangle and a glimpse of Sam’s handwriting, on the back of the little Xeroxed map that showed where the VFW hall was. There, Sam had scrawled elaborate, carefully worded directions to the free municipal parking lot—“for overflow, in case you’re late and there’s a crowd!”—as if he could sway her with that, as if the prospect of inconvenient parking were the reason she hadn’t wanted to go. She pressed a little harder on the accelerator. Hold on, Sam, she thought. If she kept steady and didn’t stop, in two more hours she’d be in Traverse City.

  • • •

  The snow came harder and harder now. Cars were parked on the side of the highway, lights on, waiting out the storm. Trucks barreled past, hurling piles of snow and salt on Norris’s windshield, rendering her blind for seconds at a time. Someone skidded off the road right in front of her and rolled into a ditch. Finally, even Norris had to slow down. She could hardly see the road ahead of her. Her mirrors had iced over by then, and in the time it took for her windshield wipers to make a full pass across her window, more snow lodged there to obscure the view. Her side windows steamed up and the car filled with the dank, musty scent of the dog. On any other day she would have pulled off the road, given up. But she couldn’t stop now.

  • • •

  At least her timing was perfect, Norris thought. At this rate, she’d arrive well after lunch, just in time to catch the band. With any luck, there’d be leftover meat loaf, for It. Maybe she’d even dance.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not exist without the help of three amazing women. Jo-Ann Mapson, gifted writer and generous spirit, happened upon my first novel at the La Farge branch of the Santa Fe Public Library, and, although she’d never heard of me, recommended it to her agent. Deborah Schneider, now my agent, too, believed in this book, buoyed it (and me) up with unflagging zeal, and found it a home at Viking. Carolyn Carlson, my inspired, tireless editor there, understood the book instantly, then offered suggestions and insights that made it better. I cannot thank you three enough.

  Thanks to everyone at Viking Penguin who helped: Clare Ferarro, who said yes; Beena Kamlani, for her smart and subtle editing; Ramona Demme, for everything; also John McGhee, Winnie DeMoya, Paul Lamb, Roseanne Serra, Nancy Resnick, Nancy Sheppard, Laura E. Abbott, and Carolyn Coleburn.

  Thank you, also, to the artist residency selection committee at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and Shanna Linn, who made it possible for me to work in pristine quiet at the Roger Brown House in New Buffalo, Michigan. Thanks to Tom Hawkins and Sylvia Carter for their continued moral support and to Steve Knoebber for digital magic.

  Thanks to my friends, whose encouragement, intelligence, and high spirits sustain and inspire me every day, and in memory of one, Suzanne Quigley (1949–2012), who left the party too soon.

  Finally, these acknowledgments would mean nothing if they didn’t conclude with love and gratitude for Fritz Lentz, who put up with me during this long process and helped in countless ways. Writing a book can be hard but I doubt it’s as difficult as living with someone who is. You made it easier (and so much more delicious). Thanks, F, for a thousand salads and a million laughs, and for your ideas and imagination, which make the world more interesting.