Atticus

by S. Bennett

  Atticus starts his booming barks, but Bernard says in a firm voice, “Sit. Stay.” The barks continue, but Atticus doesn’t come flying into the foyer. “Quit barking, you daft dog. Here… have some pepperoni,” I hear him say.

  The barking stops and I take two steps to open the door, putting a smile on my face. Darren stands there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand—not surprising—and a bright smile of his own. His dark hair is washed and styled in a loose, wavy sort of way I always loved, and he shaved. He’s wearing pressed khaki pants and a polo shirt. He doesn’t have many clothes that are considered dressy as he hates wearing them, so it sends a message to me that he was making an effort.

  Darren’s gaze rakes over me appreciatively, spending extra time on my hair. I didn’t bother doing much… just letting it hang casually over my shoulders and the most makeup I have on is a small coating of mascara. I’m wearing shorts and a tank top because it was another scorcher. Besides… it’s pizza and baseball night and one doesn’t dress up for such functions.

  “You look beautiful, Hazel,” Darren says.

  “Thanks,” I say, resisting the urge to duck my head and hide my eyes. I also don’t need to hear him repeat that or add additional compliments like I used to crave. That relieves me greatly.

  “Here… these are for you.” He holds the bouquet of white roses to me. I’ve never liked roses much, but Darren doesn’t know that. Out of all the hundreds of questions he ever asked to get to know me, he never asked what my favorite flower was. Perhaps that’s just not something that’s important to relationships. He certainly wasn’t a flower giver during our marriage.

  “Thanks,” I say again, and reach for the flowers before beckoning him inside.

  When I invited Darren over tonight for beer and baseball, I had to fill him in a little bit on what to expect. I didn’t offer much… just that I was living in the apartment above my employer’s house and we had a Friday night tradition. I didn’t want to accept a “date” from Darren, and I didn’t really want to be alone with him.

  But I did want to be in his presence—to see if I could get my gut to talk to me about what I should do. I wanted to talk to him in an easy environment, and this provided the perfect way to do it. Oley and Bernard were on board as well.

  I lead Darren into the living room, noting both Bernard and Oley are standing to welcome him. Atticus comes immediately to my side. This is unusual as he normally will back away from strangers.

  Darren ignores my dog but moves to shake hands with the other men as I make the quick introductions.

  “And this is Atticus,” I say, resting my palm on top of his head. He’s tall enough now that I don’t even need to lean over to do this.

  Atticus doesn’t bark or move back from Darren. Instead, he presses his side into my leg. His ears are perked as he watches Darren and his eyes are unblinking in a hypervigilant way.

  “You have a dog?” Darren asks in surprise.

  “I do,” I tell him with a level of pride in my voice I don’t think I’ve ever shared with him before. Which means I never had pride in much of anything when I was with Darren. “I rescued him when he was a puppy.”

  “He’s cute,” Darren says offhandedly before his head cuts to the TV. “What’s the score?”

  I can’t help but smile to myself as I turn for the kitchen, so I can put the flowers in some water and get Darren something to drink. Atticus follows behind me.

  He’s cute?

  That’s all he had to say about the most awesome dog that ever existed?

  My gut was starting to talk to me.

  ♦

  Granted, watching the baseball game with Darren, Oley, and Bernard was fun. Darren’s a completely outgoing guy and has never met a stranger. He fit in well with the other two men, and they were very polite to him even though I know they don’t like what he did to me.

  For my part, I observed, nibbled on pizza, and reassured Atticus. He insisted on sitting on my lap for most of the time. Let me say, having a seventy-plus-pound dog sit on my lap isn’t the most comfortable or ideal situation, but I’m so used to it now I’m able to manage pizza while petting him.

  Darren barely spared Atticus a glance unless he was trying to engage me in conversation.

  After the game, Oley runs Bernard to his storage unit. I invite Darren out on the front porch so Atticus can do his business before we call it a night, and I am ready to call it a night.

  We sit in the chairs and start rocking while Atticus sniffs around the flower beds. He squats to pee, and it’s a distinct possibility he will do that for the rest of his life. His neuter on Monday went fantastic and he hardly seems to know he lost his balls. I took the cone of shame off him after the second day when he hadn’t shown any interest in licking himself down there, probably because I was incessantly feeding him those yummy treats I’d bought him.

  “So what’s the story with the dog?” Darren asks with actual interest in his voice. It’s not lost on me that he’s already forgotten Atti’s name.

  “I found him in a ditch,” I say as we watch him do his business. “Discarded. Broken. Abandoned. Hurt.”

  Darren’s head slowly turns, and his eyes fix on me. His mouth is set in a grim line. It’s obvious he understands I’m not just talking about Atticus right now.

  “I’m sorry,” he says in a rough voice, but I also hear a little frustration that he has to apologize again.

  “I know you are,” I say as I gently put a hand on his forearm. “And I appreciate it and accept it.”

  “But…” he drawls, sensing there is indeed a “but”.

  “But…” I reply with a smile as I withdraw my arm. Atticus has found a stick, and he’s lying in the dewy grass to chew it while we talk. It’s like he knows to give us privacy, so I can focus my attention solely on letting Darren down. “I have changed so much these last several months. I’m not the same woman you married.”

  “Of course you are.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”

  My gaze turns toward Atticus, and my heart swells just looking at him. “That dog changed me. For the very better. And though I accept your apology, and I even forgive you, Darren…” I turn back to face him, letting him see the truth on my face as well as in my words. “Our marriage is over.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks quietly, but I can hear he’s already accepted defeat in his tone. My refusal to let him back in my life was given with too much confidence for him to fight.

  I nod. “Yeah. I’m sure. I mean… had you found me before I found Atticus, I’d have gone back to you. But I’m stronger and value myself in a different way now.”

  “I know I should hate that dog, but that’s good, Hazel,” he says, and I’m relieved to see a smile. “Are you really happy here?”

  “I am. Very happy.”

  “Are you sure you can’t be happy back in our home? You could obviously bring Atticus.”

  “I think,” I tell him thoughtfully, “that I still need to be alone for a while. This ability to love myself is pretty new to me, and I’ve still got growing to do.”

  Darren stands up from his rocker, and I do the same. Atticus raises his head from his stick to watch us with interest.

  “Well,” he drawls in resignation, taking both of my hands in his. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I will.” I give him a slight squeeze in reassurance.

  Darren leans in to kiss me on the cheek. When he pulls back, he stares deeply into my eyes as if he’ll see something within that he can use to change my mind.

  Another sad smile from him when he realizes there’s nothing there but resolve.

  Later that night, after Darren leaves and I clean up from the pizza party, after Oley returns and heads to bed, I sit up in my apartment with Atticus. I run a brush through his fur, pulling it in straight lines down his spine. He shudders with every stroke as he stands before my perch on the couch. Sometimes if feels so good to him, his back legs shake in ecstasy.

>   “You like that, huh?” I ask, running it down his back again.

  Both legs quiver in response. I stop brushing him, only to have him swing that big head of his and push it into my chest, demanding more.

  I laugh and resume my strokes. His coat is getting so pretty the older he gets. It’s getting longer and glossier. It’s not as wavy as some pictures of Bernese Mountain Dogs I’ve seen, and he still hasn’t quite grown into the big pouf of hair on the very top of his head. It’s longer than the rest of his hair and spiky, like Tina Turner’s.

  I pull the brush through Atticus’ coat, running my other hand in its wake, reveling in the softness of his fur. It’s the same fur I eat about a pound of a week because it still gets all over the place and most mornings I wake up with my face buried in it somehow.

  “Darren didn’t put up much of a fight,” I say to Atticus pensively. “I think that was very telling.”

  Atticus looks over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised.

  So I explain. “If he really missed me… if he really wanted to make the marriage work… he wouldn’t have accepted what I told him so easily. That told me a lot. It told me that I did a good job listening to my gut. He wasn’t a man who would ever value me in the right way, and I deserve better than that.”

  Atticus chuffs in agreement.

  Laughing, I pull his head into me, so I can kiss the top. I give him a few scratches under his chin before resuming the brush strokes.

  “Besides,” I add for his benefit only. “You’re the only man I need in my life.”

  Atticus gives a bark of agreement.

  I had planned to take off to the beach tomorrow after I did some yard work around the house. Oley said he had no plans, so I was free to use the car. I’ve yet to take Atticus there, and it seems silly not to take advantage of the huge playground where he can run free. It’s forecasted to be cloudy with a chance of some late afternoon showers. It means the beach will be cooler than normal and mostly deserted except for those wanting to get some fishing in.

  But tonight was monumental. I pretty much declared my almost seven-year marriage to Darren over, signaling to the world I’m a stronger, more secure Hazel Roundtree.

  It gives me the confidence to confront the shame I’ve been carrying around over my estrangement from my family.

  I think rather than a day at the beach tomorrow, I’m going to go see my mother.

  It’s long overdue.

  CHAPTER 31

  Hazel

  I pull into Oley’s driveway and put the Impala in park. He’d felt like getting out of the house this morning, so he ran up to the clinic with me to feed and exercise two boarders. Turning to face Oley as he undoes the passenger seat belt, I pick up the green folder that was on the seat between us. Handing it to him I say, “So… um… If you get a few minutes, could you review this?”

  Atticus—who has been sitting nicely in the back—hangs his head over the front seat to look at it with interest. Oley’s eyes drop down for a brief glance without opening the folder and then back to me. “This better not be your resignation.”

  A soft smile plays at my lips and it’s another way that Oley shows me how valued I am. Shaking my head, I say, “I actually did a new business and marketing plan for you. I’ve been working on it in the evenings. I pretty much had to Google how to do it, but I feel like you’re in a position to expand the practice.”

  Oley blinks in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.” I’ve been working on this for a few months, actually. While there are some things Oley just can’t do, like complicated surgeries because he can’t stand that long, he could expand other areas to make up for it. One of my big recommendations is to expand the boarding side of the business because I can come out during off hours to care for the animals. In going through his books, this used to be a significant stream of revenue. I think it can be again if we get the word out.

  Oley and I stare at each other a moment, and he finally nods. “I’ll look at it this afternoon while you’re visiting your mom.”

  That’s good enough for me and I watch silently as Oley gets out of the car, using his cane for leverage to hoist himself out. He doesn’t say goodbye, but merely closes the door.

  I wait for Oley to make it inside his house before I put the Impala in reverse. Atticus and I head to my mom’s house.

  I grew up in a three-bedroom brick home on the north side of Jacksonville. It was closer to Camp Lejeune as well as my mom’s part time job at the mall. It sits in one of those neighborhoods that hovers somewhere between lower and middle class. Some of the homes are well maintained and some of them look like the Griswolds live there.

  She was a mom first and foremost, but Alicia Milton is a hell of a gardener and so our yard was always beautifully blooming with some type of pretty flower or bush. While my father was responsible for mowing the lawn and trimming, she took care of all the ornamental flowers and perennials that made our house shine. My father’s praise never came easy, but when he would tell my mom her flower beds were the prettiest in town, she would bat her eyelashes and say, “Oh, Peter… stop exaggerating.”

  Despite her humble words, it was obvious the praise meant the world to her because she’d strut around like a peacock and hum love songs while doing the household chores. As a kid, it always made me giggle, but as an adult, I realize how much my mom needed approval from my father.

  Before I turn the car off, I throw my arm over the back of the seat and crane my neck to look at Atticus.

  I give him a stern glare. “You have to be on your best behavior today. I need the Atticus who knows all the obedience commands and does them without needing a treat in return. Furthermore, if my mom has any food out on the counter or table, you are to absolutely leave it alone. Are we clear?”

  Atticus shoves his face in mine, giving me a big slurp of his tongue up my cheek. I immediately wipe it off on my shoulder, proclaiming, “That is so gross.”

  We exit the car, and Atticus walks beside me at a perfect heel on leash. Before I knock on the front door, I glance down at the summery dress I had chosen to wear. I wanted to look nice for my mom. I’m walking in with many years of preconceived notions she has about me and most of them are well deserved.

  As I was putting my hair back in a barrette while getting ready, I took a moment to marvel over how much I had physically changed in the past several months. Overall, I just look happier in my face. I don’t look as old. I think some of that may have to do with the fact I quit smoking, but I think most of it comes from inside me.

  Moreover, I’ve been eating regular meals because I can afford to now, and I’ve put some weight on. I hadn’t realized how sickly I’d looked until my face actually filled out a bit. I swear it’s shaved ten years off my appearance.

  Lifting my head, I knock sharply on the door. When it opens, my mother is standing there with a multilayered expression on her face. Mostly just genuine shock to see me since it’s been well over three years—not since my dad’s funeral. But there’s more hidden deep in her eyes. Her gaze roams all over me in a hungry way… a mother starved to see her child. It shreds my heart to know the pain I’ve caused her. I see the relief on her face that I actually look healthy.

  She sees what I saw in the mirror earlier. Glowing skin, clear eyes, and healthy curves.

  “Hazel,” my mother breathes out in relief. Her eyes mist up, and she clutches her hands to her chest. “You’re here.”

  I nod, ignoring the lump in my throat. “I’m here.”

  My mom’s gaze drops down to Atticus, the pup sitting quietly by my side. The minute they lock eyes, his tail starts thumping against the concrete porch. “Who do we have here?”

  I look down at my furry love with pride and open affection. “This is Atticus. I rescued him when he was a little puppy back in March.”

  “He is absolutely gorgeous, Hazel. And he looks to be a very good boy.”

  My mom bends over and holds her hand out to him to sniff
. He immediately gives it a lick and then ducks his head, brings it underneath her palm and giving her a hard nudge to indicate she should quit wasting time and start scratching him. My mom laughs in delight, putting both hands to his head to give him serious rubs behind his ears. I guarantee Atticus is a much better prospect on her front porch than some of the losers I used to parade around back in my younger, wilder days.

  “Well, both of you come on in,” she says as she steps back over the threshold and pushes the door open further for us to enter. I don’t question my mother’s seemingly easy acceptance of letting a big dog into her house. We never had animals growing up, so I have no clue what my mom thinks of them, per se. But I suspect she is not going to do anything to prohibit my entrance into her home when she has been craving this for a long time.

  I take in my surroundings. Nothing has changed. The living room looks the same. Same furniture, same pictures on the mantle, same everything.

  Except… I see pictures of Liz, her husband Trey, and her son Benji mixed among the others. They look beautifully happy, and my nephew is utterly adorable. My chest squeezes over the time I’ve lost with him.

  My mom has certainly changed, though. She looks older. And of course, she is. But in the three years since my father’s funeral, she has stopped caring about her appearance. Her hair is liberally peppered with gray, something she would have always chased away with color when my dad was alive. Her facial skin looks saggy, and she looks far too skinny.

  I wonder if I’m the cause of these changes or if my father’s death is, or perhaps a combination of the two.

  “Come on into the kitchen,” my mother says as she heads that way. “I just brewed some sweet tea.”

  I unclip Atticus from his lead, and we both follow my mom.

  “Sit down.” My mom points at the kitchen table that holds only four chairs. I do as she asks, and Atticus comes to dutifully lay at my feet. I’m not sure if he made the same perusal I did of the kitchen when I walked in, but there is absolutely no food left out for him to pilfer. Either he made that same determination, or he is just being good like I asked him to.