by Allie Larkin
I think I stayed at the Cowells’ for a few days, but I can’t remember being there after that first night. The blankets in their guest room smelled like mothballs.
Mrs. Cowell bought me a black dress for the funeral, and my mother was mad instead of grateful, because she thought it was tacky when children wore black. I was grateful. I wanted to mourn the right way. I wanted to do all the things that were supposed to be done, because I had messed up everything else. I wasn’t strong enough to press his chest in. At least I could show how much I missed him.
I wanted to be his big brave girl, but when the pallbearers carried the casket into the church, I cried so hard I started to choke. Nan scooped me up in her arms, and I spent the entire service on her lap, like an infant, head to her chest, so I could hear her heartbeat.
After the funeral, before my mother sold the lake house, I swam to the dock every day to lie in the spot where he died so I could try to imagine what he’d felt as he was leaving. So I could feel like maybe he was still there. I’d watch the clouds and talk to them, telling them what they looked like. I was too timid to talk to my dad, but I hoped somehow, wherever he was, he’d overhear me say, “You look like an ice cream cone. You look like a dragon.” And he’d smile, because I was right.
My mother hated it. Sometimes, she’d beg me not to swim, promising trips to the movies, butterscotch sundaes, video games. Sometimes she’d yell and scream. But as soon as I got to the water, she stopped trying. It was scary to have that power over her—to get my way without consequence. I swam well into fall, every day after school, in my t-shirt and underpants so I didn’t have to go in the house when the school bus dropped me off. In early November, she sold the house and moved us to a condo. I would have kept swimming until the shore iced up. I didn’t even feel the cold.
It was only after we left the lake, when I couldn’t feel the weight of the water and lie on the dock in my father’s spot, that the fear started. I’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, trying hard not to think about blue-black water lapping against the dock, the depths where he could have disappeared. The kids at school made fun of me for falling asleep at my desk.
Once, in college, I went to the library and looked up the newspaper from that day, hoping to unearth a memory. The Peanuts cartoon didn’t have words.
* * *
“Kay!” Nan shouted when she found me and Bark huddled together on the floor. “Come on. Get up!” She helped me to my feet.
I sobbed into her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do this. You’re not alone. Don’t do this alone.” She wiped my face with a dish towel and made me drink a glass of water.
We slept in her bed. Bark snuggled between Nan and me. They fell asleep fast. I rubbed strands of my hair between my fingers and tried to see the ceiling in the dark. The storm drifted away, further and further, until I was sure the rumbling I heard was only in my head. Finally, in tune with the rhythm of their breathing, my heart slowed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I didn’t hear Nan get up. What finally woke me was the sound of Ruth howling on the patio. Actually howling. Like a wolf, but if a wolf could howl with a Bronx accent. And then I heard lots of laughter.
Bark looked at me like he wanted an explanation.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Sometimes Ruth howls.”
He stared into my eyes to assess my concern level, then rested his head on the pillow with a sigh. My eyelids felt thick and swollen. I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the chatter, even though I couldn’t hear the words. I rubbed my temples, hoping to clear my head. I was still wearing the bracelet Luca gave me years ago. The leather was cracked, browning at the edges, but it looked good on my wrist, like something missing replaced.
Bark nudged me with his nose, gently at first, then with more force, trying to push me out of bed. I wanted to stay put until Nan’s friends left, but he licked my face and whined.
“Okay,” I said. “I get it. Okay.”
I ran Bark to the front yard to pee so he wouldn’t have to face the crowd on the patio. He sniffed the entire perimeter of the yard before settling on the perfect spot, but right as he was about to go, a car drove by and scared him, and he had to go through the entire process all over again.
When we got back inside, Althea’s arching laughter echoed through the house. Bark’s legs shook. His feet slipped on the tiles. I unclipped his leash and let him run to my room.
“Katie, we’re out here!” Nan called, like I might not know otherwise.
The sliding glass door in the kitchen was open. Nan, Marta, Ruth, and Althea were at the patio table drinking coffee, a basket of muffins in front of them. I tried not to look at the pool. I was still wearing Nan’s black dress, now stretched out of shape and covered in dog fur.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Ruth said, tearing open a Sweet’N Low packet for her coffee. When I was a kid, I used to ask her which cat.
“Kaitlyn went out with Maureen last night,” Nan said.
Althea gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’ve been there. Drink water.”
I wondered if she meant she’d been there in a general way, or if she’d actually gone drinking with Mo.
Nan pulled out the empty chair next to her for me to sit down. On a good day, when my brain felt steady and my skin was thick, I could probably manage breakfast on the patio. But I was still struggling to shed the thoughts that flooded my brain during the storm. Sitting by the pool to chat with the ladies would be like squeezing a lemon with a hand covered in paper cuts. I pretended not to notice Nan’s gesture, and rummaged around the cabinets looking for cereal instead.
“Where’s Bitsie?” I asked, because it seemed more polite than questioning why everyone was at our house.
“Bits sleeps in on Fridays,” Nan said.
“Is she okay?” The only cereal I could find was Grape-Nuts. I gave up and poured myself a cup of coffee. I leaned against the counter in the kitchen, still in conversation range, but once they got talking amongst themselves again, I could sneak away.
“Bitsie’s fine. She stays up late watching How to Get Away with Murder.” Nan pointed to the muffins on the table.
I shook my head. There was probably some kind of weird ingredient: alfalfa, or bean curd, or broccoli.
“I tell her to record it, but she won’t,” Althea said.
“Not after that one time.” Nan shot Ruth a look.
“How was I supposed to know she hadn’t watched it yet?” Ruth said, holding her hand to her heart.
Marta shook her head. “I don’t watch. Too violent.”
“You think everything’s too violent,” Ruth said.
The coffee was hot, but I drank fast, my eyes tearing.
“I hear you’re making us mermaid costumes, Kay,” Marta said.
“A bake sale makes more sense.” Nan studied my face as she spoke. I knew I was puffy and tearstained.
“But this is more fun, Nannette!” Ruth said, shimmying her shoulders. “Live a little!”
“I think it’s a lot of hassle for a silly thing,” Nan said.
Ruth took a quick breath like she was about to say something, but held it instead. She folded her empty Sweet’N Low packet into halves until the paper wouldn’t bend anymore.
Nan stared into her coffee cup and let the silence get awkward.
“Kate, why don’t you bring that pup of yours out here to say hi?” Althea asked.
“He’s kind of shy. It’s probably not the best—”
“It’s fine!” Ruth said. “We don’t bite.”
Marta shook her head. I couldn’t tell if she was agreeing with Ruth or protesting.
“Maybe I can help,” Althea said. “I spent a lot of time working with Jax after Sam died.” Althea’s husband, Sam, had been a cop. Jax was his K-9. When I was a kid, Sam let me stand on his feet at Nan’s parties, and we’d dance like I had with my dad. He died in an on-duty car accident when I was in high
school.
“The ladies would love to meet Bark,” Nan said, pushing the change in subject.
I could so clearly imagine Bark, panicked by too many new people at once, backing into the pool. “He doesn’t know how to swim. The patio—”
“Oh, Kay.” Nan sighed. “Dogs can swim. You don’t have to teach them.”
“That’s not true,” I said, but no one heard me.
“He’s cooped up in that room,” Nan said. “Let him out!”
I hated the implication that I was mistreating him. He wasn’t cooped up, he was hiding. And it wasn’t for lack of care or work or training that he was the way he was. He’d been afraid of his own name when I got him. The shelter paperwork had him listed as “Lucky,” but when we called him that, he backed away, ears flat against his head. I’d spent months with treats always in my pocket, conditioning him to learn his new name. I trained him to sit and shake, lie down, and come when called. I’d even taught him hand gesture commands. Now, as long as he wasn’t scared by something else, he did everything I asked, perfectly. He’d come so far, but he still wasn’t one of those dogs who could run into the middle of a group of strangers, tail wagging.
“I had so much fun playing catch with him yesterday. He’s lovely,” Nan said with the same kind of exuberant pride Marta had when she talked about her granddaughter’s dance classes.
I didn’t want to argue with Nan in front of her friends. Not after I’d been so much to deal with the night before. I felt like I had to show her I was a normal person with a normal dog. I wanted her to have something she could brag about.
My stomach wobbled as I walked down the hall to get Bark. He was sprawled across the bed using Mr. Waffles as a pillow. Maybe I was wrong and Nan was right and he’d be fine.
“Come on, buddy,” I said in a high voice, trying to sound excited. I jogged toward the doorway.
He didn’t budge.
“Do you want a treat?” I asked, grabbing a handful of Zuke’s from the bag on my dresser.
His left ear turned in my direction.
“Treat?”
He sighed.
I kissed his head. He took a treat from my hand. I backed away from the bed.
“Do you want another one?”
He strained his neck to reach for it. I backed away. He jumped off the bed. I opened the curtains and slid the door to the patio open. He stepped outside. As I closed the door behind him, he saw the ladies, and the hair on the back of his neck went up. I felt like a traitor.
“Row-rawooo! Row-rawoo-oo-oo!” His strange howl went from low to high, squeaking as it rose, like an angry prepubescent boy. He backed into the glass.
Marta covered her face with her hands, terrified.
“Oh, you have a lot to say, don’t you?” Ruth said in a fake pouty voice.
Althea gave me a look. She knew this was more than Bark being chatty. She got up from her chair, but hunched over as she walked in a careful, winding route toward Bark. “Hey, buddy,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “It’s okay.” When she got close, she crouched low, putting her hand out. He backed into the glass again, legs trembling. “It’s okay, bud, I won’t push it.” Althea stepped away.
Bark sniffed the air, like maybe he was interested in Althea now that she was retreating, but then Ruth shouted, “Does he need a biscuit? Maybe he needs a biscuit!”
“Rowoooo!” Bark shouted back at her. He turned, scratching frantically at the sliding door.
Nan’s face flushed. She was probably mortified. I remember getting an earful once when I cried at a cocktail party because I was overtired and I tripped on the carpet and got rug burn on my knee. “We have people,” Nan whispered when she escorted me to my bedroom. The lecture I got was gentle, but I remember feeling ashamed for my tears and the gasps from guests who were trying to enjoy their martoonis and finger food without eleven-year-old drama. I was too big a girl to cry in public like that.
Bark was having a similar breakdown. Everything was new, and then there were more strangers. He had feelings about it, and I didn’t want to tell him to hush. It wasn’t his fault.
“Why don’t we give him a biscuit?” Ruth said again. “Or a muffin!” She ripped off a chunk of muffin and stood up. Bark gave up scratching at the door and stared at me, panicked, like he was begging me to help, and unsure if I would.
Althea looked at Ruth and shook her head.
I slid my bedroom door open and Bark rushed back in.
“Aw,” Ruth said, like someone had let her balloon go. “Well, you come have a muffin, at least.” She waved the same piece of muffin at me.
“You know, I was going to go for a run before I ate,” I said, desperate to check on Bark.
“Oh! Go! Go!” Ruth said. “Get your move on!”
Althea shook her head again, but Ruth was oblivious.
“Be careful!” Marta said.
I slipped into my room, slid the door shut, and closed the curtains.
“Row-rawooo!” Bark stood on the bed and howled, like he was saying, How could you? He flopped over with a frustrated sigh.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, lying down, wrapping myself around him. “I shouldn’t have done that. I won’t ever do it again.” I scratched behind his ears. Kissed the smooth fur on his forehead.
Eventually, he licked my chin.
“I love you too,” I told him.
When he seemed mostly calm, I got up and changed into shorts. The ladies were still chatting on the patio. I had to at least pretend to run.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Even though I hadn’t exercised in any consistent way for the entirety of my marriage, I’d hoped my muscles had excellent memory and I’d magically get back to running without the awkward walk/jog stage. I started off strong, tearing down Southeast Dolphin Road at what felt like a respectable pace. It was only five houses’ worth of distance, but I was crushing it, even with a hangover.
I stopped to wait for a car so I could cross the street, and when I tried to pick up speed again it was agony. My body had warmed up and was telling me to fuck off. My fat hurt; thighs swooshing and crashing with every step. Muscle memory counts for jack shit when everything jiggles. I ran harder than my lungs could handle and stopped at the end of each street, holding the stitch in my side, gasping for air, until I had enough breath to take off again. The sweat made my skin itch. When I scratched my legs, welts appeared in the marks my nails left.
I saw Mo from across the street, sprinting like a gazelle in short shorts and a sports bra, unaffected by all the tequila.
“Kay!” she shouted. “Do you want to run together?”
I shook my head. She crossed the street in a few graceful strides.
“How come you stopped?” she asked.
I shook my head again.
“Are you okay?” Her abs were tan and taut. She wasn’t even breathing hard.
“I’m . . .” Gasp. “Doing . . .” Gasp. “Interval training,” I said, hoping she’d allow me some dignity by pretending to believe me.
She laughed. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Come on! Run with me.”
“Then I will pass out.”
“Hysterical!” she said, shoving my sweaty arm. She wiped her hand on her shorts and started jogging. “So fun last night,” she called over her shoulder. “We need to do that again soon!” Then she was a blur, turning the corner.
I looped back on Carnation Road, doing a slow jog that was more like a limp. By the time I’d gotten to Bitsie’s house, I was flat-out walking.
Bitsie was outside in Bunny’s floppy straw hat, watering plants. “Look what the cat hacked up!” she shouted.
“Sometimes people say nice things,” I yelled. “Like ‘Hi’ or ‘Good morning.’ ”
Bitsie laughed. “How ’bout ‘Coffee!’ ”
“Nicest thing I ever heard.”
She handed me the hose. “This one, and then that one,” she said, pointing at Bunny’s rosebushes.
I watered until the
ground was damp, but not soggy, like Bunny taught me. I used to house-sit for them when they went out of town. Bunny had a morning garden routine that took the better part of an hour. It was strange to think of Bitsie taking over. She wasn’t usually patient in that way, but the roses were still vibrant.
Bitsie came out with two mugs of coffee and handed me one. We sat on the stoop. I tried not to scratch my legs.
“I told Bun we should go with native plants,” Bitsie said. “Less work. Less water. And here I am, watering these roses by hand every morning because she swore the sprinkler flooded the roots.” She leaned over to sniff one of the orange Gypsy roses, pulling the bloom toward her. “They’re worth the work, aren’t they?” She held the stem for a moment longer, like she was holding hands with the rosebush.
“Bunny told me the work was the whole point.”
Bitsie smiled. “That sounds like Bunny.” She took a sip of coffee. “Ladies at your place?”
I nodded.
“I need one morning off, you know?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Oh, don’t look shocked,” she said. “You know you have a limit too. That’s what this is, right?” She gestured to my shorts.
It was funny to hear her admit she had the same need for retreat, although it made sense when I thought about it. Bitsie was always the one to volunteer to run to the store for a forgotten stick of butter, to mind the roux that needed stirring in the kitchen, or rock someone’s fussy grandbaby to sleep in the other room. But when she was on, she was on. The life of the party. I’d always assumed it was effortless.
“There’s a name for what we are, Kay,” Bitsie said, clinking her coffee mug against mine.
“Yeah?”
“Introverts. Such a beautiful term, isn’t it? When I was your age, they called it ‘weird.’ ”
“Have you been reading internet memes?” I asked, laughing.
“I don’t know what that is.” She shook her head. “Bunny bought me a book about introverts. It made me realize that it’s okay to take some space when you need it.”