by Laura McHugh
The garage was set back from the gravel road, a chain-link and scrap-metal fence blocking off the entrance to the salvage yard. There were no customers around and the side door was propped open with a cinder block. Raymond’s legs stuck out from under his truck, where he was changing the oil. She knelt down to say hello and then headed to the old soda machine that Raymond stocked just for her, so no matter which button you pushed, whatever flavor you chose, a Dr Pepper dropped down the chute. Raymond was the only one who didn’t have kids of his own, and he’d taken it upon himself to step in and do things for Henley that a father might have done.
An oversized map of the United States hung on the wall next to the soda machine, red pushpins stuck in all the places she dreamed of visiting. Grand Teton, the Continental Divide, Denali, Glacier National Park, the Sawtooth Range.
Henley had talked about wanting a map, and this one had appeared in the shop around the same time that an identical one was stolen from the social studies room at her school, the top edge jagged where it had been torn from the wall-mounted roller. Raymond hadn’t said a word, he’d just winked and handed her a box of pins.
Henley perched on the old wooden stool in the shop, the seat worn smooth as glass, and Junior came out of his office to join her.
“You doin’ good?”
She nodded carefully. She didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face, the lack of surprise, if she said anything about Missy, though he’d surely find out before long.
Junior popped his knuckles, working from left to right and back again, the joints making a sound like billiard balls smacking together. Black lines rimmed his nails and etched the cracked skin of his fingers. They were the hands of someone who worked hard, if not always aboveboard, and no amount of Lava soap could clean them.
“When you plannin’ to head out on your trip?”
“End of summer,” she said. “I’m saving up a bit. Helping out at the Sullivans’.”
His eyebrow went up and he stroked his graying beard but said nothing.
Shane walked in then, his work boots clomping on the concrete, the sound echoing through the open space. He was built like a lumberjack, bulked with muscle through the chest and shoulders, his T-shirt tight in the sleeves. His dark hair had thinned to the point that he’d recently given up and started shaving his head, though his ruddy cheeks and easy grin gave his face a still-boyish appearance. She’d seen an old picture of him in his high school football uniform, his jaw sharp, blue eyes focused intently on the camera, doing his best not to smile.
He’d first come out to the salvage yard years before, looking for parts for an old Trans Am he was restoring, and had struck up a friendship with Raymond and Junior over their mutual love of muscle cars, his teasing nature keeping things light when her uncles got worked up over something, which they were prone to do when whiskey was involved. Shane was respectful, always asking Henley about school and looking her in the eye, never trailing his gaze down to check out her boobs like some of the men who hung around the garage drinking and talking shit with her uncles.
He was older and bordering on dull by Crystle’s standards, but he’d fallen for her coarse mouth and Amazonian beauty—those lush Pettit hips that Henley had initially thought a curse—and patiently courted her for a good long while before she decided to marry him. Crystle’s previous beaus had mostly been freewheeling rodeo boys high on Adderall, and Henley had to wonder what Shane had done to wear her down—if Crystle had fallen in love over time or simply made a calculated decision, weighing her prospects as she neared thirty and betting on the long-term value of a loyal man with a steady job.
Shane nodded hello, but there was something off about him. He was always telling her corny riddles, the kind you’d read on a Popsicle stick, the stupider the better. Hey, Henley, what has thirteen hearts but has never been in love? Hey, Henley, what has a thousand ears but can’t hear? He’d pause dramatically before revealing the punch line (A deck of cards! A cornfield!), and then he’d make the goofiest expression, trying to get her to laugh or roll her eyes and groan. He had no jokes for her today. Instead, he mumbled something vague about the heat, his smile uneasy, and when Junior returned with two beers and gave her a look, Henley slid down from the stool and said her goodbyes without glancing back. She’d learned a lot about business from her uncles. Mind your own. Stay out of others’. Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering what was going on with Shane. She moved slowly, hoping she might overhear something, but the men were silent as they waited for her to walk out the door, the harsh sunlight momentarily blinding her, the crunch of gravel beneath her feet obliterating any words that might have followed her out of the darkness.
On Monday morning, I called Lily before she left for school, to see how her sleepover party had gone. “It was so embarrassing,” Lily whispered, and I wondered where she was in the house, maybe hiding so her stepmother wouldn’t hear. “I’m the only one who doesn’t wear a real bra. I’ve got these stupid sports bras from Justice and that baby nightgown and nobody shops at Justice here, they all have bras and pajamas from Pink.”
Did eleven-year-olds really shop at Pink? I had no idea. It wasn’t long ago that Lil had begged me to buy the “baby” nightgown, which featured a smiling cartoon sloth and cost more than a child’s pajamas should—more than anything I wore to bed. Of course no one saw what I wore, so it didn’t really matter. When I was Lily’s age, I slept in one of Becca’s old stretched-out T-shirts.
Lily had never been one of those kids who were in a hurry to grow up. She’d shown no interest in makeup and still slept with her stuffed animals. Only last year, I’d given her a stack of books on puberty with titles like Is This Normal? and What’s Happening to My Body? and she’d been horrified that these things would one day happen to her. Now she seemed upset that they hadn’t yet.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said. “I know what it’s like, wanting to wear the same things as the other girls—”
“And there’s nothing to eat here, Mom,” she interrupted. She’d only recently switched from Mommy to Mom, and it was still jarring at times. “I wanted cereal and there wasn’t any milk but the weird kind Heidi likes, and I used the last of that, and then Dad was mad.”
“What? I’m sure if they’re out of something, they’ll go to the store soon.”
“No, they’re doing this diet where they only eat, like, olives and pine needles for thirty days, and it’s making them all crabby, and Heidi won’t buy anything that has…I don’t know, sugar? Starch? Flavor? It’ll be too much of a temptation.”
“Hm. You can get school lunch today, right? I’ll talk to Dad.”
“Thanks, Mom! Love you. Gotta go. Wait! Tell him to get Pop-Tarts. Bye.”
Lily was still adjusting to her new environment, preferring to use me as a go-between rather than broaching issues directly with her dad and Heidi. It couldn’t be going too badly, though, as she hadn’t yet said anything about wanting to come home, something I secretly longed for.
I dialed Greg’s cell on my way to work. I could tell from the background noise that he was at the gym. He liked to ride the stationary bike while watching the morning news. “Hey,” I said. “Just making sure you got the check for Lily?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”
“So, she called this morning saying something about food…a diet?”
Greg groaned. “Yeah. I know, I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Things were hectic, and I was running late. And it’s not a diet, it’s a complete reset of your eating habits, and you might want to think about trying it yourself.”
“She was worried there wouldn’t be anything for her to eat for the next thirty days. She asked for Pop-Tarts.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I promise we’re not going to starve her. I’ll take her to the store tonight; she can pick out
whatever she wants.”
“Great, thanks. I know you wouldn’t let her go hungry. Listen, can I talk to you a minute about some legal stuff?”
“Regarding?”
“Shane.”
“Oh. Sure, if it’s quick.”
“How hard would it be for us to go around Shane’s wife to get his medical records?”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“There’s too much to get into over the phone. Just generally, is it even possible?”
“Well, that depends. Is there some pertinent reason to get your hands on that information? Are you worried about hereditary conditions that could affect you or Lily?”
“We just want to know the cause of death. It was ruled natural, but that was a guess. No autopsy was performed.”
Greg was silent for a moment, and I could hear his bike churning. He was ten pounds lighter now than when we were married. He’d been sedentary throughout law school, always studying, and then working long hours when he’d started his job at the firm, too busy to go to the park with Lily and me. He and Heidi liked to go for runs together in their neighborhood, the baby strapped into a sleek jogging stroller.
“You think his death wasn’t natural?”
“I don’t know that it wasn’t—it’s just that we don’t have the whole story, and his wife won’t tell us anything. She’s acting strange for someone whose husband just died.”
“Okay. Look, it’s not like that kind of thing never happens, but why kill someone when you could just get a divorce? There weren’t any kids involved, so she wouldn’t have been worried about custody, and if he was supporting her, she almost certainly would have gotten some maintenance payments.”
You know how ugly divorce can be. I didn’t say it out loud, but he probably knew I was thinking it. Divorcing a lawyer was not something I’d recommend to anyone.
“Listen, Sadie, I know you wouldn’t pursue this if you didn’t think there was something to it, but it doesn’t sound like you have a lot to go on here. The spouse is all-powerful, unless you have some compelling evidence to get around that. If you’re wanting to hire someone, it could get expensive, and no matter what you do, nothing will bring him back. Will it be worthwhile if nothing’s likely to change?”
Greg had managed to reduce the situation to a balance sheet, weighing decisions in dollar signs. I supposed that was why he was so good at his job.
“We’re talking about my brother, Greg. We can’t just forget about it. We want to know what happened.”
“I get it,” he said. “Nobody likes uncertainties. I hope you get everything straightened out.”
I knew he was right, that suspicion wasn’t much good without evidence to back it up, and our only evidence was open to interpretation: Crystle wasn’t mourning properly; she’d driven our brother into debt; she wouldn’t tell us anything. Detective Kendrick had insisted that we were lucky—however Shane had died, his body was intact, and we’d been able to bury him, to see him one last time. Whatever my family was going through, Hannah Calhoun had it so much worse. I wondered if there had been any progress in identifying the child’s skull.
Though I wasn’t sure she’d even want my sympathy—she might view me as an intruder, an unwelcome witness to her grief—I had a sudden urge to reach out to Hannah. I typed up a brief message as soon as I got to work, using the last email address I had for her and hoping it was still valid. I told her I was here for her, that if she needed anything, I’d show up in a heartbeat. I signed it “Love, Sadie” and clicked Send before I could change my mind.
* * *
—
Gravy lay on his side like a bloated corpse, not even looking in my direction. I jiggled the leash. “Come on, time to go to the vet. We’ll get you all fixed up.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but he continued to ignore me. He probably knew that I was lying, that there was only so much fixing up that could be done at his age.
I wedged my hands underneath him to pry him off the frozen grass, and he flipped over and growled, agitated. Luckily, I was prepared. I took the cold remains of a Jimmy Dean sausage biscuit from my coat pocket, unwrapped it, and held it in front of his nose. He wasn’t impressed.
“Seriously, we’re gonna be late.” I’d left work early to make his appointment on time, but I’d gotten stuck behind an enormous tractor on the way home from Blackwater and wouldn’t be terribly surprised if I got stuck behind another one on the way back. I pulled gently on the leash until he skittered to his feet and began to slide, unwillingly, across the yard. I opened the car door and he promptly flopped onto his belly.
“That’s it,” I said, tossing the biscuit onto the seat and hoisting Gravy’s wriggling body in after it. He flung his head from side to side, his teeth clacking, unable to gain purchase on my coat sleeves. I slammed the door before he could slide back out. When I got in my seat, he was morosely eating the biscuit wrapper, leaving the sausage to grease up the upholstery.
“Did you bring the urine sample?” the receptionist asked when we arrived, already five minutes late. She could tell by my face that I hadn’t, sighed, and handed me an empty Cool Whip container, directing me out to the side yard.
The potty area was heaven for Gravy, who roused at the scent of piss from a hundred different dogs. He snuffled at the grass, changing direction every two seconds. It was unbelievably difficult to collect urine from a dog whose belly was about two inches off the ground. To make it more challenging, Gravy was sprinkling a few drops here, a few there, taking forever to produce a decent sample. I started to call Becca to complain but hung up. She had texted earlier to tell me both boys were sick with a stomach bug, and I didn’t want to bother her when she was dealing with that.
“I’m sorry,” I told the vet minutes later, wiping my hands on my jeans. “I hope there’s enough to test. I’ve never done this before, Doctor…?” I glanced at his name tag. Theodore Hayward, DVM. The name conjured an elderly man wearing an ascot, perhaps leaning on one of those canes with a fancy gold handle. In reality, Dr. Hayward didn’t appear to be much older than me, early forties at most. He had sympathetic brown eyes and dark hair that was beginning to gray at the temples. There were dirty paw prints on the sleeves of his lab coat.
“I’m Theo,” he said, smiling gently. There was something calming about him, and even Gravy stopped sniffing and fidgeting and sat down, his ample rear planted squarely on my feet. Dr. Hayward set his clipboard on the counter and clasped his large hands together. They looked strong and capable, like they’d have no trouble pulling a stuck calf or hoisting an irritable overweight dog onto the exam table. “I saw the note on your file,” he said. “And I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m not actually Gravy’s vet—the doctor he used to see retired last year, and it looks like Gravy’s overdue for vaccinations, so we’ll get that taken care of today. And he’s having some trouble with incontinence?”
“Yes.”
He bent down to stroke Gravy’s back and carefully probe his underbelly. “We’ll rule out an infection before trying incontinence meds. Are there other concerns?”
“Yes. Yeah. I’m worried he might be depressed, if that’s possible.”
“It is,” he said. “It’s hard for pets to lose someone, just like it is for people. Has his behavior changed in some way?”
“I don’t know. I mean, he doesn’t seem like himself, but he’s getting older, so maybe that’s all it is. Maybe it’s nothing.”
Guilt swelled inside my rib cage and filled my throat. I hadn’t seen Shane or Gravy much in the months before he died, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked him how Gravy was doing. Or the last time I’d asked Shane how he was doing. I should have done a better job, been a better sister. We’d been so close when we were growing up, he and Becca and I. We always knew when he was in trouble back then—and he was, much of the time—because we were a team. We helped one anoth
er. If something was wrong, I should have known. Tears stung and fell, and I tried to stop them but couldn’t.
Dr. Hayward murmured sympathies and let me cry, his expression patient and understanding, even as I blubbered like he was a therapist, telling him how much Shane had loved his dog, and that having him with us was like holding on to a piece of our brother.
He handed me a box of tissues. “Take care of him, and love him, and enjoy the time you have. We’ll do what we can to make sure he’s as healthy and comfortable as possible.”
By the time the doctor was finished, Gravy had been diagnosed with an allergy-induced skin condition, a urinary tract infection, and kidney failure. The words “kidney failure” had me near tears again, but he assured me that it was still manageable; he might live another year, maybe more. He would need to eat a low-protein, low-fat diet, which ruled out his beloved Gravy Train. Dr. Hayward suggested boiling chicken in water and pouring the liquid over cooked rice. He told me to keep him posted and offered Gravy a diet dog treat, the poor dog wriggling away from it as though it were a hot coal. I told myself I would do anything to help Gravy, even if it meant putting more effort into cooking for him than I did for myself, though part of me wondered if it was worth it. Even if we were able to prolong his life, Gravy didn’t seem to be enjoying it much without Shane.
* * *
—
I tossed the assorted pill bottles and prescription shampoo into the backseat and deposited Gravy in the front with the now familiar routine of him snapping at me ineffectively, like a hobbled gator. He was even more grouchy than usual after a round of shots and a blood draw that had required Dr. Hayward to try three different legs before finding a good vein. I rolled down his window and let the frigid air rush in. As we neared the turnoff to Shane’s house, Gravy began to perk up. His ears lifted and his tail began to swish back and forth. He thought he was going home.
