Lucy Unstrung

by Carole Lazar

  “Maybe you can convince Gina to give you that dog for good,” the manager says. “She’d be a fit.”

  “Thank you,” I say, holding out my hand. She’s still holding on to the key. I’m lucky. She takes the hint and hands it to me. I head for the elevator.

  I have a little trouble with the lock, and that stupid dog standing on the other side of the door, barking her head off, doesn’t help. I’m such a wreck worrying about the noise that it’s not until I get the door open and the dog is jumping all over my legs that I realize she might have turned vicious having a stranger come into her apartment. But she doesn’t bite me. Mostly she’s just way too excited. She runs across the room to this little basket of dog toys and brings one of them to me. She drops it at my feet and then lowering her chest on the floor, keeping her bum in the air, she starts barking again. I pick up the toy. It’s a yellow chicken, the kind kids get in their Easter baskets. The dog is going crazy, barking and running around me in circles. I throw the chicken. The whole apartment’s not much bigger than my mom’s bedroom at home, so it only takes the dog about two seconds to get the chicken and bring it back to me. She barks. I’m supposed to throw it again. We do this about ten times. If I don’t throw the chicken fast enough, she barks at me. How long am I supposed to keep this up? My mom’s not going to be home for another half hour.

  I decide to try and ignore her. I find a note from my mom on the table. It says if the dog is driving me crazy, I can take her for a walk, that it will calm her down. The chicken’s at my feet and the dog’s barking again. She could definitely drive me crazy. Mom’s left the leash on the table by the note. I pick it up. The dog sees it and forgets all about her chicken. She runs to the door. She stands there, and when I don’t follow her right away, she starts barking again. I can see why Ian’s apartment doesn’t allow dogs. I wouldn’t be surprised if the real reason Gina’s moved is because she’s been kicked out of this place.

  I snap the leash onto the dog’s collar. Mom’s left two plastic bags on the table and I know why they’re there. I leave them. If we just walk for a few minutes, maybe the dog won’t do anything. If she does, I’ll just pretend not to notice. I can’t be watching her every second, can I?

  I don’t know why they say that having a dog is good exercise. Mostly this one just runs around in circles. She sniffs here, she pees there, then she goes back and has another sniff – and all this time I’ve walked maybe five steps. At least she isn’t barking. Gina’s apartment building takes up most of the block. Next to it, there’s one of those monster houses that people are always complaining about. It’s white stucco with an orange tiled roof. There are also a few old-fashioned bungalows, but most of the houses on this block are big ones like this. We’re halfway past it when the dog stops to sniff a spot on the lawn. She spreads her feet, lowers her bum down, and raises her tail. She’s going to go.

  I pretend to look at the traffic. The “traffic” is just one green SUV. I watch it drive all the way down the block. I sneak a peek at the dog. She’s still going. Does she have to take forever? I admire the blossoms on a flowering cherry tree in the yard next door. Finally, she’s done. Now we just have to get out of here.

  We aren’t fast enough. We only get about ten feet when this old woman in a silver-gray sari comes out the front door of the house. She’s talking in some foreign language so I don’t know what she’s saying, but it’s pretty clear that she’s mad at me. She’s pointing back to the place where the dog pooped and then at the house.

  Two younger women come out. One of them is carrying a little kid. The three women are yelling at me but not in English, and they come right up to me. The dog’s barking, but she’s not much protection. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand.”

  They all keep talking. Some people from the house next door have come out onto their balcony to watch. Across the street, other neighbors are pulling their curtains back to see what’s happening.

  I just stand there with these three women crowded around me. I can hardly breathe. I want to walk away, but they’re blocking my way. The dog’s quit barking. Even though this is all her fault, she’s wandering from one person to the next, wagging her tail and trying to look innocent. The women must realize I don’t understand because they start talking more to each other than to me. Finally, a boy who’s just a bit older than me comes out of the house. He says something to the women. One of them answers him, and then they all go quiet.

  He turns to me. “They’re angry because you didn’t pick up after your dog.”

  “She’s not mine,” I tell him.

  “Well, you’re walking her. You brought her here to poop on our lawn. You’re responsible.”

  I can feel my cheeks heating up. “I didn’t bring her to poop on your lawn. She decided to do that on her own.”

  The woman with the little kid on her hip starts talking again. She points to the child and then to the dog.

  “She says that there are small children living here,” says the boy. “With people like you around, she says, we can’t let the kids play in their own yards. They’ll get covered in dog poop.”

  I look at the dog. “She’s a very small dog,” I say. “It’s not like she’s left poop all over the yard.”

  “Since it’s such a little bit, you shouldn’t mind picking it up.”

  That isn’t what I meant at all. “I forgot to bring a bag.”

  The boy yells to a couple of younger kids who have been watching us from the front door of the house. A few seconds later, one of them comes out, walks toward us, and hands the boy a plastic bag.

  I give my bravest smile. “Thank you so much.”

  I think he’s going to clean it up for me. I’m wrong. He hands me the bag.

  I go back to the dog’s little pile of poop. How am I supposed to get it in the bag? I look around the yard and sidewalk.

  “What are you looking for?” the boy asks.

  “A stick or something to scoop it in with.”

  He throws his arms out and says something in the foreign language to the women. They all laugh. He takes the bag from me and puts his hand in it. He shows me how you’re supposed to pick the stuff up and then turn the bag inside out so the poop is inside. It would have been better if he’d demonstrated on the real thing, but no. Instead, he just does it in the air and gives the bag back to me. Everyone is watching: not just all the people in this family but a lot of the neighbors too. I pick up the poop the way he showed me, and I knot the bag. Everyone cheers.

  “Bravo!” the boy says. He’s laughing. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  I disagree, but I guess he’s trying to be nice, so I just shrug.

  “My name’s Rob,” he says.

  The old woman shakes her finger at him. “Ravindra,” she says. She looks at me but points at him, “Ravindra.”

  “Okay, okay,” he says. “My real name is Ravindra, but my friends call me Rob.”

  “What do your enemies call you?” I ask.

  He just laughs. “You’re not going to hold a grudge, are you? What’s your name?”

  The rest of the family is going back to the house, so there’s just the two of us now. “Lucy.”

  He looks at the bag of dog doo-doo in my hand. “I think I’ll pass on shaking hands.” Then he starts to laugh again.

  I see my mom’s car coming down the street. She waves and stops in front of us. We’ll only be driving the half-block back to the apartment entrance, but I pick up the dog and climb in. I hand her the bag of poop.

  Rob waves good-bye.

  “It’s so easy to meet new people when you have a dog,” Mom says.

  She doesn’t know the half of it.

  six

  We actually have a pretty good evening. At dinnertime, I eat so much that Mom says I really must have missed her. She’s rented a chick flick and she makes popcorn. It’s way better than watching Dad working on people’s tax returns.

>   After the movie, I’m feeling ready for bed. “Where are we sleeping?” I ask.

  There’s only one bed and it’s in a bit of an alcove, not a proper bedroom.

  “You can have the bed,” Mom says. “I’ll take the couch.”

  “I can’t believe you actually expected me to move in here with you. It’s so tiny!”

  “Yeah, it’s beginning to get to me,” says Mom. “There’s no room for anything, and of course I have to keep the place super neat because I never know when the realtor will be showing it. I’ve been looking for something more permanent.”

  “Permanent? Like you’re never coming home?”

  I don’t do it on purpose, but I just can’t help myself and I start bawling. After such a nice evening, I’d been sure she’d be thinking it was time for her to come back to Dad and me. Mom puts her arm around my shoulder, but as soon as I get my tears under control, I push her away and try to talk some sense into her.

  “You’re supposed to work at a marriage. That’s what Grandma …”

  I stop. I remember what Dad said about it bugging Mom when I tell her what Grandma says. I try again.

  “I’m sure now that Dad knows how important it is to you, he’d give you a special allowance so you can go to Starbucks after all your pilates classes. And if he knows you’re going out for coffee with Gina, he’ll probably be fine with you not getting home till nine.”

  “Oh, Lucy, it’s not about going to Starbucks. You don’t think I’d break up your home for something as silly as that, do you?”

  That’s exactly what I think. “Maybe you could talk to Father Mac about it, get some marriage counseling,” I say.

  Mom makes a rude face. “As if he’d understand any of it. I’ve already got your dad and grandma running my life. I’m not looking for someone else to tell me what to do.”

  We’d probably keep arguing, except just then the phone rings. Mom gets it. It’s almost ten o’clock. Nobody ever calls us that late. I’m wondering who it is, but I don’t wonder long because the second thing Mom says is, “Oh, hi, Dad. This is a surprise.” Granddad never phones.

  I nudge Mom and mouth, “Is something wrong with Grandma?” I’m worried she’s hurt herself or had a heart attack or something.

  Mom shakes her head. “No.” She’s not saying anything, just listening. I’m listening too. Granddad’s so loud I can hear a lot of what he’s saying, and I wish I couldn’t.

  It’s something about him having had enough of Mom’s bloody nonsense and about him being tired of seeing Grandma always having to pick up the slack for her.

  I can tell that Mom is getting mad, but she’s having a hard time getting a word in. Yelling won’t help her. Granddad is just naturally loud, and he never stops to listen. If Mom tries to talk, even if she yells, he’ll raise his voice and talk over her. Instead, she tries to fit in a word here and there when he’s taking a breath.

  “I didn’t know … I see your point. No … no. Okay. Well, I’m sorry … I’ll look into it.”

  She doesn’t say good-bye. I don’t know if she’s hung up on Granddad or Granddad has hung up on her.

  She stands there for a minute, taking deep breaths. I bet she’s counting to ten. There are tears in her eyes. She wipes away one that is about to run down her cheek, gives a sniff, and goes over to the sink to get herself a glass of water.

  “That was Granddad,” she says.

  “I know. What was he on about?” I say this like I don’t already know. Like he said, he’s mad at Mom because she’s left Dad and Grandma is having to pick up the slack for her. I’m not stupid. Grandma is not cleaning our house or doing our laundry or grocery shopping. The only thing that’s been different for her this last week is that I’ve been there longer than usual each day. I’m “the slack” she’s been picking up. He makes it sound like I’m a piece of garbage.

  “He says you’ve been there with Grandma till seven-thirty or eight o’clock every night this week,” Mom says.

  I nod. “Well, you know what it’s like. Dad doesn’t get home from work till six-thirty even on his good days, and this week he’s had to put in some overtime hours.” What I don’t say is that it might get worse. It’s tax time. All accountants work crazy hours in April. Mom knows this as well as I do.

  “Granddad says it’s too much for Grandma. She went to the doctor this afternoon and her blood pressure is way too high.”

  “Well, I’m not the one who made it high.”

  It’s not like I’m a little kid and Grandma has to look after me. We just visit. She’d be making dinner anyway. An extra pork chop in the pan and another potato in the pot isn’t any more work. I help load the dishwasher after we eat.

  “If Grandma’s blood pressure is high, it’s because she’s worried sick about you and Dad. And Granddad doesn’t help. How does he think she feels when he’s so crabby all the time?”

  Mom ignores what I say about her upsetting Grandma. “Well, Granddad says he’s worried about her being tired out, but you might have a point. I think partly he’s mad because Grandma spends so much time with you that she’s never free to go places or do things with him.”

  “She can go places with him. Where does he want to go? I could probably go with them …”

  Mom rolls her eyes. I hate it when she does that. “We have to think of some different arrangements for next week.”

  I can’t really argue with that. I don’t believe for a minute that Grandma doesn’t want me at her house so much. Still, if Granddad’s going to get all twisted out of shape just because I don’t get picked up at my usual time, he’ll upset Grandma and her blood pressure will get even worse.

  It’s almost midnight, but now I can’t get to sleep, even though I was really tired before Granddad called. My mind is just going at warp speed. What Granddad said about me just keeps going around and around in my head. He really hurt my feelings. I’m trying to think of something mean I could say to him, to let him know how it feels to be insulted and made to feel like garbage.

  Gina’s bed is way lower than my bed at home. The stupid dog can jump up onto it, and she does. She plops down close to me. If she thinks she’s sleeping here, she can think again. I push her onto the floor.

  Granddad’s words are still in my ears. I remember now what he said first about being tired of Mom’s nonsense. That is one part he got right. I’m tired of her nonsense too. And he’s got a point: she’s the one who should be home making my dinner and keeping me company. Suddenly I’m feeling better about the whole thing. I’m glad he gave Mom an earful. It will give her something to think about. She hasn’t listened to me, but maybe Granddad will have more influence.

  The dog jumps up on my bed again. I go to push her off with my foot. Who wants her?

  Sometimes when I’m having a mean thought, I think God just sort of rewinds a scene in my head and plays it back for me so I hear the words I’ve been thinking – as if they were said out loud by another person. It’s like that now.

  “Who wants her?” What an awful thing to think about a poor dog. I’m going to start crying again. The dog is just like me. Gina’s walked off and left her behind. Now I’m shoving her off the bed and thinking mean thoughts about her.

  I don’t give her a push after all. I just turn over on my side and wait to see what she’ll do. She curls up in a ball, right in the crook of my knees. I suppose I’ll have to stay in this position all night. What if I roll over in my sleep? Will she have enough sense to move so I don’t squash her? I guess she does, because when I wake up next morning, she’s curled up against my stomach.

  *

  Sunday morning, Mom says she’ll make Belgian waffles if I walk the dog. If I knew how to make waffles, I’d tell her to walk the dog herself. But I don’t, so instead, I get the privilege of taking the dog for her first walk of the day. She hasn’t been out since nine-thirty last night. What are the chances she’ll hold off on the pooping for a couple of hours until the next time Mom walks her? Not good. I take one
of the plastic bags that Mom has left by the leash on the table.

  “There’s a dumpster by the side entrance,” Mom says. “Throw the poopy bag in that when you get back.”

  I wonder how long it will be before I start talking about dog doo-doo and “poopy bags.” I’d like to think it couldn’t happen to me. Gina better claim her dog soon. Still, since the dog goes and I do clean up after her, I think I deserve some credit for dealing with it, so I tell Mom later while we’re eating our waffles. I can’t believe I can talk about poop and eat at the same time.

  Later in the day, Mom calls Dad and they arrange to meet after mass tomorrow morning and go for coffee. I’m so happy that I don’t even get upset when, a few minutes later, she calls Grandma to ask if I can go stay with her and Granddad. Mom says she and Dad need to talk in private. I just hope Granddad will be able to manage having to “pick up the slack” one more time if it means maybe Mom and Dad might work things out.

  After mass the next day, I stay at Grandma and Granddad’s until almost five o’clock. When Dad comes to pick me up, I’m kind of disappointed. As soon as we’re alone, I tell him that.

  “I feel kind of let down,” I say. “I was hoping you and Mom would be together when you picked me up.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Well, you see, Friday night Granddad gave Mom a real talking to. He said he and Grandma were tired of her nonsense, so I thought that’s why she wanted to talk to you. She said you needed to work things out.”

  “She just meant we needed to work out our schedule with you.”

  I digest this information for awhile, but later, after we get home, I get thinking about it some more.

  “If Mom just wanted to talk about my schedule, why couldn’t I be there?” I ask. “That makes no sense.”

  “We talked about selling the house too.”

  My heart stops beating for a full minute. I sit down; otherwise I’ll probably fall down. They can’t sell this house; it’s my home!