A Home for Goddesses and Dogs

by Leslie Connor

“Who?” A smile pushed his beard out on both sides.

  “It’s Holly.”

  “You mean Mom?” He started to laugh. He picked me up, raisin box still in my hand, and trotted me to my mother. She was always exhausted by sunset, but even so, she worked at her knitting. She looked worried at first. Why was I out of bed? Was something wrong?

  Dad asked me about Miss Sun-Maid again. Again, I said it was Holly. I felt shy. Was this funny? I pushed my face into my father’s shirt and he hugged me tight. I felt him chuckling.

  “Oh, Lyddie, that is lovely!” Mom said. She reached for the box and I let her take it. She cupped it in her hands. “Look at me,” she said. “I’m forever young. I’m famous and delicious. Tah-dah!”

  My collection of Sun-Maid boxes grew. I carried them around in a straw purse. I framed the maidens in flower stickers, drew borders on them with markers and crayons. At night I stood them up on my bedside table. Mom called them tiny works of art. The Sun-Maids stayed with us for a long time. They saw some good; they saw some bad. They saw my father leave us.

  Now I heard voices below me. Aunt Brat and Eileen were down there beside the car. They must be getting my last two boxes. Oh. Why? I had said I’d get them in the morning. I was afraid they’d see me on the roof and be freaked out. I scrunched myself back against the house with the sleeping bag creeping up around my ears.

  “You all right, Brat?” Eileen asked.

  “Honestly, I’m exhausted,” Brat answered. “But hey, we made quick work of the house. We had a good trip down. And Lydia’s holding up like a champ.”

  Oh . . . yes . . . me . . . the champ. . . .

  I wasn’t sure about that.

  6

  Lacking Unpacking

  I heard Aunt Brat and Eileen coming up the stairs—greyhound first, by my guess. I hurried to straighten the old sleeping bag back over the bed.

  “Lydia? Everything okay?”

  Flash of panic. I hadn’t made a single move toward settling in, unless tucking my box of goddesses under the bed counted. Did I have time to unzip a suitcase before they came through that door? Pull the drawers open on the dresser for the appearance of progress?

  I felt a freakish burst of adrenaline. I hefted one suitcase onto the bed—accidentally slammed the thing against the wall just as my new adults and their long-legged dog walked into the room.

  There they stood with my boxes in their arms, eyes popping, an O forming on Aunt Brat’s lips while Eileen’s mouth turned up at one corner in a quizzical way.

  “Oh. That was . . . uhh . . . not as heavy as I thought,” I said.

  “Huh-haw,” said Eileen, though a little dully. I think she was eyeing the wall for damage.

  I knotted my fingers together. “I—I haven’t gotten very far.” I shrugged. “I was kind of . . . daydreaming.”

  “Absolutely fine,” said Aunt Brat. She bent her knees and set my art chest down.

  “Okay to put this one here for now?” Eileen was chinning toward a spot on the floor near that noisy sheep poster.

  “Sure,” I chirped. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” I spewed enough thank-yous to fill the narrow room from floor to ceiling. How wonderful to finally stop long enough to take a breath in through my nose. I smelled something so good—oniony, garlicky, and tomatoey. Something was baking too; something was getting a golden crust. This was going to save me. “Dinner smells great,” I sighed.

  “There’s a corn bread in the oven,” said Aunt Brat. “We’re warming up a pot of chili.”

  “Always better on the second day,” said Eileen.

  “My mom says the same thing,” I offered.

  “Holly loved to cook,” Aunt Brat said. “I remember coming home for spring break one year. I walked in the door, and something smelled so delicious. I thought I was in the wrong house.” Eileen and I laughed. My aunt went on. “There was my little sister—twelve years old—standing at the stove wearing big pot holders on the ends of her skinny arms. Her face looked rosy and warm and her hair was up in a loose bun and she was glowing like . . . I don’t know . . . like a little kitchen goddess.”

  Kitchen Goddess. My heart took a hop. It was like someone had opened a little door on my forehead and looked inside my brain. Or inside the box below my new bed.

  “Holly had made a full dinner—appetizer, salad, entrée, dessert—in honor of my visit home. I couldn’t believe it,” said Brat.

  I loved the story. I could see my mother, younger than I was now, with her funny pot-holder hands. I saw the chestnut curls and—who knows why—a patchwork of sunny colors all around her. Her cheeks were as pink as a sunset in winter in my picture. There was no oxygen tank. No hint that anything was wrong at all.

  7

  First Morning

  My first morning in the farmhouse was disorienting. For one thing, I was under the covers. Completely. I’d put myself that way the night before, believing there’d be no sleep. Sometime in the night I must have opened up a little breathing hole. Morning was coming in now—the daylight and the smell of coffee. My nose felt cold. I burrowed back under, but I trained my ear on the rest of the house. Was anyone up? Must be . . . because . . . coffee.

  I needed to get to the bathroom down the hall. But what if Aunt Brat or Eileen happened to be in there? Or just coming out of their room to go in? I tiptoed into the hallway. The smell of coffee hit me again—stronger this time. I could hear my three new adults down in the kitchen. I padded into the bathroom and closed the door as quietly as I could. I did my thing, then washed my face and brushed my teeth. I pulled back the curtain and peeked at the tub. I got myself all acquainted with the linen closet: plenty of towels, toilet paper, and a variety of feminine products. Good to know.

  The house was chilly. I patted one hand along the warm brick chimney wall on my way back to my room. I purposely did not look down off that balcony, because what if they were all below watching for me? Waiting for the new, odd creature in their house—me—the stick-skinny girl with the nest of pale hair? I dressed quickly, double tights and double socks. I stopped to warm my back on the bricks. Then I wrapped Mom’s sweater close, took a breath, and went on down the stairs.

  I wanted to be invisible. But I knew there’d be three pairs of eyes on me the second I rounded the stairs.

  There were.

  Only, it seemed like just two pairs of eyes and then Elloroy’s, which looked like a set of large, wonky insects roaming around inside a couple of ice cubes and possibly working independently. They were so amazing I had to force myself not to stare. All the lips were saying good morning and asking had I slept okay. Aunt Brat and Eileen looked ready to drop their reading materials and launch from their chairs to wait on me. But both held back, as if they had agreed not to overwhelm the Lydia with hospitality.

  Instead, the skinny dog came tapping across the floor to check me. So, now a fourth set of eyes, cloudy with age. She poked me with her damp nose as if to say, Oh, you stayed the night? I patted her head with just the tips of my fingers—and not for very long. She nudged and nodded and I didn’t know what that meant, or if it meant anything. We’d never had a dog. It’d never even come up. Grandma would not have been nice to one. Mom could not have cared for one. Pet ownership wasn’t on my radar.

  “Well,” said Elloroy. (He still sounded like he had a marble in his mouth.) “New Year’s Day. I can’t believe it.”

  “Can’t believe what?” I asked.

  “Can’t believe I’m not—”

  “Dead,” Aunt Brat and Eileen finished his sentence in unison.

  “Told you. He says that all the time,” Aunt Brat said.

  “Wait until you’re old, too,” he told her.

  Aunt Brat smiled and gave her head a shake. “What do you like to eat in the morning, Lydia?” She pushed back her chair, ready to rise. “Hot cereal, right?” (She had seen me make oatmeal in the little kitchen in Rochester.)

  “Oh, I’m set!” I said. “I’ll . . . um . . . I’ll just get my coffee.” I
made myself sound capable. I was. I was used to making the coffee—and much more—every day. Aunt Brat settled back into her chair. But she looked funny, I thought. Like she was sitting on an egg and didn’t want to break it.

  “Coffee . . .” Two voices said it. One seemed to be telling; the other seemed to be asking. Both drifted away at the ends.

  I scanned the kitchen and spotted the coffeepot (on the counter); found the mugs (on hooks below the cabinet); discovered the spoons (standing in a pottery jar right in front of me). I swung open the door to the fridge, pulled out the milk, and poured my mug half-full. Then I topped it with hot coffee. Right about then I realized that they were all watching me.

  “Ah! Honey,” I said. I reached for the jar and dipper, which sat in the center of the table right where all the watchers were. “I know,” I said, “honey in coffee is weird, huh?” I let an amber dollop drop into my mug, then let the thread drizzle in too.

  “Hmm . . . the honey . . . ,” said Aunt Brat, nodding gently.

  “Coffee . . . ,” said Eileen. Her eyebrows arched.

  “I’d love a warm-up,” said Elloroy. I brought the pot.

  The clear brown stream, the steam rising, and that smell all made me think of Mom. She wasn’t supposed to have coffee, and for a long, long time she hadn’t. But the sicker her heart had gotten, the sicker she’d become of “joy-zapping rules and regulations,” as she’d called them. She’d gone back to drinking coffee and she’d loved that. And I had loved bringing it to her.

  “That’ll do it,” said Elloroy. He raised his brown-spotted hand. I blinked and stopped pouring. I stood with the pot in my hand.

  Is this how it’s going to be? I wondered.

  I was a novice at being at an orphan. This moment surprised me—this brief check-in with my mom. Five mornings had passed.

  Five mornings since she turned blue. . . .

  Signs were there. She’d been sleeping a lot. Her speech had gone thin.

  “Soon now,” she’d said, and then on the day, “Come. Hold me, Lyddie.” And I had, until Mom and her overlarge heart had gone completely still. I’d taken the oxygen tube away from her nose before I’d made the phone calls. Weeks earlier she’d said, “Don’t let that be the last you or anyone sees of me—all croaked out with a plastic plug in my schnoz, will you, Lyddie?”

  No. I would not.

  “And then sit with me a while after. Wait until you feel ready.”

  I’d sat with her body, feeling astonished at how real the whole “turning blue” thing had been. I’d talked to her as she was leaving, and I had cried. It’d been hard. But I’d stayed calm because I’d known what to expect. Mom hadn’t gone for hospice. But I had. I’d studied their pages online. The notes had reinforced what she’d been telling me. I’d wondered if we’d been reading the same things.

  “When you see the mottling, the blue, just remember that’s science. That’s inevitable when circulation slows,” Mom had said.

  “I know, Mom. I’ll take care of you,” I had promised her again and again. And I had.

  8

  Yard Full of Dogs

  For perhaps the sixth time since I’d arrived, Eileen stood at the fridge looking at the flyer. She gave it a tap with her index finger.

  I’d looked that page over. It was an announcement about a dog adoption day at some fairgrounds. Aunt Brat and Eileen were planning to go.

  Eileen twirled, clapped her hands, and sang, “Hey, hey, hey! This Sat-ur-day! New doggie-o! Coming to this house—yo!”

  “I know.” Aunt Brat smiled. “Coming right up.”

  “Can’t wait. Ants in my pants.” Eileen wiggled her butt.

  “Well, that’s nice,” Elloroy said in his low, low voice. “The dog. Not the ants.”

  “Do you want to come with?” Eileen reached and clapped him on the shoulder.

  He looked at me and mouthed the word “Owww.” Then he grinned. “No, I’ll stay here and see what you bring home.”

  “All right, then, you and Soonie,” Aunt Brat told the old man. She turned to me. “Soonie can’t go. She gets carsick,” she explained.

  “And it’s gross,” Eileen added.

  “Well, I’ll stay here too,” I said.

  “What? No way!” Eileen said. “You’ve got to help us choose, Lydia.”

  I glanced at Aunt Brat. She gave me a nod. “Oh. Okay then. Sure!” I chirped, because that’s what I did in those first days: I chirped so they’d know I was doing fine.

  Chirp. Smile. Chirp.

  If I had been in my aunt Brat’s position—and Eileen’s too, of course—I would not have been looking to get a new dog. They had just gotten me—somewhat unexpectedly. Who could tell how that was going to go?

  But they’d made this plan before they’d known I’d be with them. So, on my third morning in Chelmsford, a Saturday (one week to the day after Mom had died), I was along for the ride.

  We hopped into Aunt Brat’s boxy car and took the trip to the fairgrounds a few towns away. The place looked abandoned for the winter, with its long white buildings boarded with dark green shutters. But the long gate stood open. We parked while more cars rolled in behind us. Dog seekers, I thought.

  “Come on! Come on!” Eileen urged both Aunt Brat and me along. If she’d had a few ants in her pants before, they were now an army. We filed into a fenced lot with the other humans.

  Soon we were watching a parade of adoptable dogs come off a trio of transport vans. I thought about that word, “adoptable.” Didn’t that rely on perspective?

  Some dogs were lifted off in crates. Some were leashed and led by red-vested volunteers. Others ran freely around the enclosure. The dogs were small, medium, and large. They were standing, sitting, tugging, barking, sniffing, and peeing.

  I stood flanked by Aunt Brat and Eileen, wishing I’d worn my hat. It wasn’t very cold. In fact, forty degrees was mild for January. However, the wind was gusting in bursts that made my hair wrap across my face. I pushed the strands behind my ears, only to have them fly loose again and sting my cheeks. Yes. The hat would’ve been nice.

  But most of my discomfort was because of all the dogs. First problem: They were dogs. Three days on the farm with one greyhound—old, sweet thing that she was—had not turned me into a dog person. Second problem: This was a lot of homeless circled up in one place. I felt for these creatures. Their ears blew inside out and they closed their eyes in the wind. All of them needed a happy twist of fate this day. But considering where they’d come from—kill shelters and other bad circumstances, according to Eileen’s flyer—maybe the wheel had already turned in their favor. It could be a good day for some for them. Some.

  I heard the call. “That’s everybody!” The vans were empty. All thirty-two dogs were on the ground. People started to stroll among them. I felt Aunt Brat and Eileen pushing me forward, though neither of them had so much as a finger on me.

  “Can you stand it?” Eileen said. “Look at these beautiful creatures. Still trying to find the way home even after a big push to clear the shelters before the holidays.”

  Oh . . . these are the leftovers. . . .

  Why hadn’t they been chosen before? Did they lack dog handsomeness? Some were pretty plain, others oddly shaped. Big heads and squat bodies, for instance. Yet a woman in tall-heeled boots and a short jacket bolted right up to the smallest, most bug-eyed dog of all, afraid, it seemed, that someone else might try to get to him first. A family with three little kids knelt noses to nose with a waggy black dog with flop-down ears. But for me the dogs were so . . . so . . . everything. They were eager and nervous, barking and not barking, wagging, whimpering, shuddering, and endlessly peeing—or worse.

  For a few seconds, I had to close my eyes to all of it.

  “Let’s divide and conquer,” Aunt Brat said in a revved-up sort of way. “We’ll each take our own look around the lot.”

  Okay. . . . Can’t do that with my eyes closed. . . .

  “And just holler if you meet that special some
one!” Eileen clapped her gloves together. The wind gusted. The two of them split away from me in different directions.

  I wanted to stop them and ask, Are you sure? Sure you don’t want to wait to see how one rescue goes before you get yourselves into another? Not to liken myself to a dog, exactly. But I had been taken in.

  While I was at it, I might have pointed out that there already was a perfectly good dog at the farm. Soonie was pretty low maintenance from what I’d seen. She ran circles inside the fenced pasture—top speed—once a day. Then she spent the remaining twenty-three hours and fifty-eight and a half minutes a day sleeping someplace soft. Or standing right smack in the way. She was like fine furniture—a long-legged sofa table that kept suddenly turning up beside you. She liked to follow, and of course, she mostly followed Aunt Brat or Eileen, and Elloroy if he was heading into his suite to nap. She ate two meals a day—dry kibble soaked in warm water. I had made a note. I’d even made the food one evening, jumping in to be my helpful self.

  What about Elloroy? I wondered. He’d seemed on board as we’d headed out this morning. But it was his house. Did he secretly mind that a second dog was coming to live there? Had he minded that a girl had?

  One thing was certain: Aunt Brat and Eileen had discussed this. They were not always together on everything, as I was learning, but they were definitely together about this. We were going home with one of these “four-leggers,” as Eileen called them. A dog could cost me a pair of shoes. And socks, wasn’t that right? Didn’t they chew all the things that people wore on their feet? I had just one pair of boots and I was fond of them. I walked into the wind to find a dog that didn’t look hungry for footwear.

  I looked at a spotted dog with a very big head and a chocolate-brown mama dog with empty-bag nipples. Then a blur of dogs ran by me—playing chase. Then—ugh—a stocky white brick of a dog ran into my legs and nearly took me down. He stood wagging at me afterward, mouth open and tongue out. I had the feeling he’d jump on me if I stuck around. So I didn’t.