Stepdog

by Nicole Galland

  “Hi, love,” she said, with the gentle encouragement of a nurse to a patient coming out of a coma. “How are you now?”

  A replay! We were going to get to do it all over again!

  Only in this version, when I went to throw my arms around her, they got tangled in the sheets. And I was not instantly revived. I was pretty cotton-brained, actually. Also, she was clothed. That was not how the dream was supposed to go.

  “Are you all right, Rory?” she asked, moving her hand to my forehead. “Rory? I was calling and texting, I had the lobby call up here on the phone. I had to show them the credit card I booked the room with to convince them to give me a key.”

  This was awfully mundane shite for a dream. I liked the first version a lot more.

  “Wait a minute,” I said in a single slurred syllable. “Is this . . . is this still the dream? Or are you really here?”

  Her smile lit up her face and she giggled, the light dancing in her eyes in a way that a dream never could have conveyed. “You’re adorable,” she said, laughing. “I’m here. I caught a cheap flight on standby and took a shuttle to the hotel.”

  “You’re here!” I pushed myself up to sitting and managed finally to throw my arms around her. Fuck me, that felt good—the cool smoothness of her skin, the smell of her hair, her curves pressing against me, the reality of her. “Sara, you’re here! I’m so glad you’re here! Get your clothes off this instant!”

  She threw her arms around me and squeezed hard, leaning over me until I was underneath her on the bed. We kissed wildly for a moment or two.

  “Something wrong here,” I said. “Your clothes are still on. Let’s fix that.”

  She rolled off me, took my hands away from her body, and held them in her own, giving me a regretful smile that implied we were not about to immediately have sex. “I have to give Cody a bath.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” I said loudly, with a huff, and sat up, propelled by my own incredulity.

  She sat up, too. “She’s filthy, she’s got about a pound of dust on her. She’s scratching and chewing—”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “It will take ten minutes,” she said. “And then I can focus more on being with you.”

  “I just drove that fucking dog across the entire continent, nearly,” I said. “I don’t even get a thank-you bonk?”

  “Of course you do,” she said, “As soon as I’ve washed her.”

  “Thanks for making it clear who comes first,” I said.

  “She’s in an awful state,” Sara said. “It looks like she’s been gnawing herself. I thought the Benadryl would have prevented that.”

  She wasn’t trying to trap me but I felt trapped. If I owned up to not drugging Cody, then she’d point out how if I’d just done what I was supposed to do, the dog would be fine right now. If I pretended I had given the dog the Benadryl, I’d feel a cheat. I was grumpy, and attached to my grumpiness—it was, after all, the first time in a week that it was safe to luxuriate in grumpiness rather than focus on the road ahead—so I decided to silently stay grumpy.

  Turned out Sara had tried to wake me, found me not responsive, and so turned her attention to Cody. So I’d slept through their initial reunion, and I was glad to have been spared. She’d been about to wash the dog when I made a noise and she’d come back to the bed. Now Cody—not knowing Sara’s cruel, watery intentions—was all over her. I don’t anthropomorphize, but, Jesus, it really was like a little lost kid being reunited with its mother. Just ridiculous.

  So off they went to the bathroom. I heard the shower and a bit of splashing around, and Sara’s voice in an unusually firm tone. I was glad at least that Cody was the one being scolded for a change. It took more than ten minutes, too, for the record. I’d say twenty at least. Long enough for me to cycle through irritation back to gratitude that she was here, in the same room with me. And hopefully soon to be in my arms. At last.

  The door to the bathroom finally opened. Cody came leaping out in triumph, spry as a gazelle, hair going every which way, tail wagging madly. She leapt on me, her eyes wide and bright and manic. Chuffed with herself.

  A moment later, Sara came out, her clothes motley from being soaked. Her hair was as skewed as her dog’s and she was not nearly as effervescent. “I hate doing that,” she said, wearily. “And now look at her, she’s so happy she survived the torture, she just wants to play.”

  “You look like you need to take your clothes off,” I said helpfully.

  She gave me a sly look. “Always looking out for me, aren’t you?” she said.

  “It’s mutual,” I said sincerely, and threw her a kiss.

  “Well, all right, then,” she said, and began to disrobe. She had already cast off a sweater, and now was pulling off a long-sleeved shirt. Cody, distracted from leaping on me by the squiggly movements of the Best Person on Earth, flew away from me and jumped up on Sara as Sara was engaged in her shirt removal.

  “Cody!” she said through the shirt, and stumbled sideways. “Down!”

  But Cody was not going down. Cody was flying. Cody could not have been higher if she’d just snorted crystal meth. Despite the fact her owner’s face could not be seen, Cody bowed to her, asking to play; when Sara didn’t respond to this, Cody leapt into the air without changing her position, as if she were on a trampoline, and asked the same of me. “Cody,” I said, meaning to calm her, but I s’pose I was smiling too much because off she went around the room: onto the bed, from there to one chair then sailed right over the table to the other chair, then the floor, then she tore across the room to the door, where she did a double anticlockwise circle to turn around, raced back up to the bed, leapt onto the chair, over the table . . . right past Sara, who had finally pulled her shirt off and stood there in a very removable-looking lace bra. That mad dog circled the room half a dozen times, eyes wild like a Chinese dragon’s, ignoring even Sara. I egged her on when she lagged: “Go on, Cody! Go on!” She paused on the bed and looked at me, uncertain.

  “Go on,” I encouraged. “Go on—jump! Jump, Cody!” To Sara: “I didn’t know she could jump like that!”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Sara. “We did agility training when she was little but I stopped it, it seemed so controlling—Jonathan was metaphorically making me jump through hoops and then I was literally making her—”

  “Okay, I get it,” I said briskly. “She likes to jump.”

  “And she’s had a pretty confined lifestyle the last six months,” said Sara. “You think you’re the only one who’s had to accommodate?”

  “Great, let’s get into this now,” I said, “You’re telling me that your dog, whom I took out on a long walk every single fucking day, was being deprived of a quality doggie lifestyle?”

  There was the briefest pause. Then Sara reached for the zipper to her jeans. “How about I keep undressing?” she offered.

  “That works,” I said quickly.

  But—surprise—it was hard to be intimate with a wet dog in the room with us. Our plans of snogging all afternoon were dampened. I found myself thinking of Jay, and how much easier life would be without the dog. We tried shutting her in the bathroom but she pawed and cried piteously, so determined to see her owner. That put a damper on Sara’s ardor as much as mine.

  The whole situation was crap.

  “She won’t come into our room in the new apartment, at least,” I said.

  “Of course not,” said Sara, but seemed grudging about it. That actually irritated me more. Cody came over and rested her chin on the bed, looking adoringly at Sara. What if I had given you to Jay? I wondered in silence, appalled with myself.

  ALTHOUGH I’D SEEN him burn rubber right past me, Sara called down to reception to see if Jay had checked in. When she was told no, she immediately corrected herself, apologetically: “I meant to ask for Leonard Cohen,” she said. Leonard Cohen wasn’t staying in the hotel either. “That doesn’t mean he’s given up.” She sighed after hanging up. “I’m sure he hasn’t given up.”
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  We spent the rest of the afternoon, and the evening, and all night in the room, the three of us. I am a very good and loving man but you have no clue how frustrating it was that Sara was clearly more concerned about Cody’s well-being than mine. She was affectionate to me—of course she was. But Cody was not under the slightest psychological stress, she had no clue that all of the past week had been about a bunch of crazed humans obsessed with her whereabouts and well-being. She wasn’t the one who’d had to drive through the night, who’d had to live on Snickers bars, who’d been getting guilt-tripped by both Jonathan and Sara. And Cody, come to mention it. I was the one who needed the TLC—and I’m not saying Sara didn’t have any for me, but trust me on this, she couldn’t keep her hands off the dog.

  On the plus side, she was able to get the dog to lie down and sleep on the floor overnight, which I’d thought was not going to be an option. I thought she’d be all over the bed and Sara would let her be all over the bed. But no, she lay down obediently when told to, and fell contentedly asleep.

  Sara smiled at me.

  “This is the closest we’re going to have to privacy until we’re in L.A.,” she said, and reached for the buttons of my shirt.

  And it was heavenly to be with her, pure pure heaven, really it was . . . but the dog being in the room like that . . . I could not relax into it the way I wished to. It was a frustrating attempt at amour.

  And although we didn’t mention Jay again for the rest of the night, it’s not as if he went away. He was literally and figuratively lurking nearby, and we were probably going to have to deal with him again soon. Bastard.

  Chapter 32

  We decided to get up before dawn to see sunrise at the Canyon. We weren’t the only ones doing this, although the hordes of tourists one imagines on a bright sunny afternoon were not yet up and about.

  Under a tarmac-tinted sky, we entered the park, and it was still dark when we found a parking area that looped around a lit-up open spot, covered in pine needles from a few, but monumental, pines. We sensed the canyon the way you sense the beach, but we could not see it from where we were. We’d agreed not to leave the dog in the hotel so that Sara wouldn’t fuss about how long we’d been gone. Now, as the air lightened from black to slate, we tossed a tennis ball between us for Cody to chase for about twenty minutes, then got back in the car, parked in Lot D near Grand Canyon Village, put Cody on the leash, and walked to the rim.

  What can you say about the Grand Canyon? I hope you weren’t expecting me to try to describe it. Words are wasted—you’d have to make up words, like Mary Poppins does—and every moment brings the next chance for World’s Most Amazing Grand Canyon Photo. It’s so gorgeous and mind-bending that your mind loses its memory as soon as it has created one, so the Canyon is constantly making a new impression on you, taking your breath away continually. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about; if you haven’t, you just have to take my word on this: imagine the most dazzling, luminous, awe-inspiring photo you have ever seen of the Grand Canyon. Whatever feeling that evokes in you, make it a hundred times as strong.

  That’s about halfway to what it’s like to be there. It may be the only thing on Planet Earth that can’t be overhyped. The place was seductive, like the Sirens in The Odyssey, instantly beckoning us to come closer, closer, stay longer, longer. I knew in my bones the Siren call would be just as strong an hour from now, a day from now, a year from now.

  “Wow,” said Sara softly, after we had stared in silence for a few seconds or just as possibly a few hours.

  “Should be nice when it’s finished,” I said. “Looks like it’s still a work in progress—hey!” for she had slapped me. Then she laughed. No sound on earth as lovely as the sound of Sara’s laughter.

  Cody, cretin that she was, had absolutely no awe of the place. She thought some of the smells were promising, but there weren’t enough people around yet for her to suck up to, and Sara kept her on a short leash, which Cody was being uncharacteristically obnoxious about. “Can’t we put her back in the car?” I suggested. “You’ll have a nicer climb down if you’re not concerned about her.”

  “It’s going to get blazing hot in the car as soon as the sun is fully up,” said Sara, with the long-suffering good humor of someone married to a moron. “Don’t worry, I’m responsible for her now. You’re off the hook.” She put her arm around me, which was always delightful, and gave me a kiss. “Thank you for taking good care of her. Did I say that? I don’t know if I said that, Rory, and I’m sorry if I didn’t. You’ve been fantastic.” She kissed me again. God, that felt good. Better than it had in weeks.

  There’s a kind of quiet in the Canyon, at least there was that morning. The space was so vast, sound got sucked up into it, or was carried away by subtle layers of the breeze, or something. It was indifferent to us puny humans, and after the week that had been in it, its indifference was a big relief.

  We waited for the early-morning shuttle that would take us to the South Kaibab trailhead. Guess who had marked down what time the bus was coming, and then calculated backward to make sure we’d have time to exercise the dog before the hike? That’s right, it wasn’t me. God, it was great to have her back.

  But when we disembarked near the trailhead, left behind in a big billow of diesel fumes from the bus as our sundry fellow hikers headed straight for the trail . . . guess what the one thing was that she had overlooked in all her planning?

  Dogs aren’t allowed on the South Kaibab Trail! Ha!

  To which news Sara—the most upstanding person I have ever known—said resolutely, “Screw that. We’ve earned the right to bring her with us.”

  “I have earned the right to do something without her, actually,” I said before I could stop myself. I tried to make it sound humorous. But it was such a loaded topic between us, with so much baggage. Whatever cheerful sound track was playing in the background of this little moment, the record player suddenly lost power and the music melted to a stop, in that drably comic way you can’t re-create with digital. She gave me a look.

  “There’s no place to leave her, Rory,” she chastised me. “She’s got to come with us or we can’t go.”

  “It’s always about the fucking dog,” I said under my breath.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked. “Make a suggestion. I’m open to suggestions.”

  “The fact that I’d even have to make a suggestion further demonstrates that it’s all about the dog,” I said. Cody, sensing she was the center of attention, started to wag her tail, her eyes darting about from Sara’s face to hand to other hand to face, briefly to my face, then Sara’s hand again. She was looking for the cue that meant either “time to pull a tarty dog” or “look, a treat!”

  Sara held her arms out and shrugged. “What do you want me to do?” she said.

  “I want you to admit that it’s always about the dog!” I said.

  “It’s not like I do that on purpose,” she said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, it has to be about the dog because when people aren’t paying attention, the dog gets kidnapped.”

  I exploded. “Would you fucking get over that already?” I snapped. “I redeemed myself. I drove all the fucking way to North Carolina, I started at four in the morning, I was up for twenty-two hours straight with the worst hangover of my life when I didn’t even want to be drinking, I got the dog back, I brought her safely—”

  “Rory, let’s not—”

  “No, you listen to me! Do you know what my fucking week has been like? All because you won’t put the dog in cargo like a normal pet! I drove from North Carolina all the fucking way to the Grand Canyon with one night’s rest and that psycho Jay on my tail—”

  There was a relenting, almost apologetic look on her face. “Yes, I—”

  “No, you don’t know. If you knew you wouldn’t have insisted on getting up in the middle of the night to come someplace, with the dog, that’s a totally stupid place to be coming with the dog.” Angry at myself for ruining
what had been a really lovely morning, I shut my mouth and bit my upper lip to keep from continuing.

  “You’re right,” Sara said, after a pause. “You are right, and I’m sorry.” Pause. “Do you want some time alone? You have had no time alone all week. Maybe you just need a little solitude.”

  “Yeah, so you can go off with your dog,” I said bitterly. “And leave your husband behind.” Hating myself even more. And knowing she was right: a moment of absolute solitude, with no responsibility or obligation, would be such a gift. But accepting that gift from someone you’ve just snapped at . . . that’s uncomfortable. So I did not respond right away, just stood there sulking and hating myself for sulking and resenting the dog for being the reason I was sulking.

  There were few hikers here, and the handful who’d exited the bus with us had thankfully started off down the trailhead before I’d begun my rant. There would be no further ones for twenty minutes. So at least we were alone for this ugly moment.

  Cody had stopped studying Sara and was now making a nuisance of herself wanting to smell everything, especially the mules that were corralled between the bus stop and the trailhead. Even I could smell the mules. I slipped off my backpack, which had all the water, and handed it to Sara. “Go on,” I said gruffly. “Go have some time with your dog.” It was barely after dawn, and yet the sun already felt thirsty-making. Sara kissed me until pulled away by Cody, who was straining at the leash to go find mules. They disappeared down a curving path to the trailhead, and my attention went back to the Canyon.

  It was an amazing moment to feel free as a bird and light as one of its tail feathers.

  The initial peek here was even more gobsmacking. I’m not generally one to wax in manner mystical, but that place makes you so aware of how vast creation is. I could easily have taken every mile of road I’d driven to get here, draped all of it across the bottom of the Canyon, and not even noticed it. The general palette of the Canyon is red-orange-pink, but there’s hues from white to purple-brown throughout it, and it being only the second of May (or thereabouts), the vegetation was all still bright green and leafy, and the contrast against warm earth was gorgeous. Too bad the Impressionists never got so far west, they’d have wet their pants with the excitement. And here we were, ruining the moment, because of the dog.