by Sonja Yoerg
So much for the retrieving part, she thought. But hardly a concern.
Then she engaged the dog in a tug-of-war using a knotted rope. She didn’t pull very hard but the dog began growling. She let go and the dog backed away with the rope in her mouth. Her tail was rigid.
“A bit possessive, are we?”
She poured some food in a bowl and placed it on the floor. The dog sniffed it and began to eat. After a minute, Geneva nudged the bowl an inch with her foot. The dog stopped midbite and moved her muzzle toward the foot.
“Mind your manners, doggie. I’ve got boots on.”
She waited a few moments, and pushed the bowl another inch. The dog flattened her ears and let out a low growl.
Geneva stepped back and shook her head. “No little kids in your future.” Without a history—and this dog had none—she couldn’t know why the dog guarded the food and was possessive of the toy. But those responses could spell trouble if a child didn’t understand the growl as a warning signal.
She completed the testing protocol and returned the dog to the kennel. After she slipped off the leash, she knelt and rubbed the dog’s chest.
“Don’t worry about a thing. Someone’s going to love you, warts and all.”
• • •
On her way to her car, Dublin called.
“Stuck in traffic?” she asked. It was a running joke between them that if it weren’t for freeway congestion, she would never hear from him.
“No, no. Actually, Jennifer Lopez wanted to have drinks, but I said I couldn’t because I had to call you.”
“I’m touched.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But speaking of touched, how’s Mom?”
“Fine. She got me up twice last night for bathroom assistance, but if that’s the worst of it, I think we’ll all survive.”
“Don’t underestimate her, Ginny. It’s probably a ploy to get you to drop your guard. Has she been drinking?”
“We hid all the alcohol, and Tom and I are abstaining while she’s here. She hasn’t mentioned it.”
“Sounds too easy.”
“I know. Tom thinks she may have turned a corner.”
“His worldview is refreshing. Rose-colored glasses for everyone!”
Torn between defending her husband and agreeing that Helen’s good behavior was unlikely to last, she changed the subject. “Dublin, when did Mom start drinking heavily?”
“I think we all know it was after Dad died.”
“I know, but it doesn’t make sense to me.”
“How come?”
“Because she won’t talk about Dad. She answers direct questions but never elaborates.”
“Maybe it’s too painful.”
“Maybe. But if Tom died, God forbid, I’d want to share my memories of him with Ella and Charlie. And I’d want them to help me remember him.”
“But you’re not Mom. She was sixteen—a kid—when they met. She never had a life that didn’t include him.”
“It still doesn’t add up. It never has.”
“What?”
“That thirty years later she’s still drinking because she lost her husband. That she never had a serious relationship since. That she doesn’t want to talk about someone who was the center of her life.”
“People don’t make sense, Ginny. That’s what makes them interesting.”
“I like to think I make sense.”
“Do you? A minute ago you were teetering on the edge of agreeing with Tom that Mom was on the road to recovery.”
Geneva sighed. “You’re right. Maybe I’m no more rational than Mom.”
“Now there’s a scary thought.”
She laughed softly, then paused. “Promise me something, Dub.”
“You got it.”
“I haven’t said what it is yet!”
“Oh, okay. Have it your way.” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Well, Geneva, that all depends.”
“Promise me that whatever Mom does or doesn’t do, you and I will always be friends. And that means no secrets.”
“Do I have to tell you if I get my back waxed?”
“Dublin . . .”
“I’ve already made that promise, and I don’t intend to break it.”
Her throat closed. “Thanks. Me, too.”
• • •
As she drove back to the rehabilitation center, she recalled Dublin’s first promise to her, made when she was eleven. Geneva sat in her closet with arms wrapped around her knees. She had pulled the accordion doors shut. Thin bars of light fell through the louvers and across her body. She dropped her forehead onto her arms. Sweat trickled down the nape of her neck and beaded above her lips. She scraped her upper lip with her teeth and bit down. The salty taste of blood and sweat. The sounds of car doors opening and closing. Argus barked, again and again. From the hall, or maybe the living room, disconnected words in unfamiliar voices floated into the closet: arrangements, so sorry, her father’s name.
Light footsteps approached, and a shadow fell across the louvers.
“Ginny. It’s me.”
If she pushed far enough into the closet, she might disappear.
“I’m coming in.”
She meant to say no, but a sob came out instead.
The door creaked when Dublin opened it. He crouched under the hanging clothes and sat cross-legged. Then he slipped two fingers between the slats and pulled the door shut.
“Paris locked herself in her room,” he said.
She pushed down on the air in her chest to stop the tears and raised her head. “Why did she get to see him and we didn’t?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’re not old enough.”
“Is he still at the hospital?”
“I think Mr. Stanton has him. I heard him tell Mama that he looks real good.”
Geneva wiped her nose on her arm. “That’s stupid.” She tried to picture her father lying in a coffin but the image wouldn’t come. Instead, she saw him walking in front of her in the woods with his rifle. When she realized she wouldn’t see him that way again, it felt like a punch in the stomach, and she moaned and dropped her forehead onto her arms.
“Ginny?”
Without lifting her head, she stretched out an arm.
He took her hand. “You still have me.”
The idea that she might not had never occurred to her, just as she never thought she’d lose her father. The pain mushroomed inside her until her skin was on fire. The hand her brother held felt as if she had dipped it in a swimming pool.
She lifted her head. “Promise?”
“Yeah, I promise.”
• • •
That night at dinner, Charlie told his parents about Aldo, Juliana’s dog.
“So, Jon throws the sausages at the dog and then practically jumps over the grill.”
Geneva stared at him, alarmed. Helen chuckled.
Charlie turned to Helen, seated next to him. “I know, Nana, right? But then he grabs this giant barbecue fork.” He picked up his fork in his fist, gritted his teeth, and pretended to fend off his grandmother, who smiled gamely.
“Charlie, that’s enough.” Geneva looked at her daughter. “What happened then? I assume if anyone was hurt we’d have heard.”
“He ate the sausages.” Ella returned her attention to her plate.
“Inhaled them, more like,” Charlie said.
Tom reached for a piece of bread. “They must be getting pretty serious if Jon brought his grill over.”
Charlie cocked an eyebrow and lowered his voice an octave. “I’ve got all four burners on high for you, baby!”
Everyone laughed.
Geneva said, “In all seriousness, Tom, there’s no point in Juliana and Jon continuing their relationship if she isn’t willing to control he
r dog.”
“Aldo isn’t that bad.”
“I’d say lunging at someone is pretty bad. Especially given the dog’s size.”
Helen said, “You worry too much. And the children are probably exaggerating.”
Perhaps she did worry too much. But when it came to potentially dangerous animals, she knew her concern was appropriate. Had her family forgotten this was her area of expertise? She didn’t believe in good dogs and bad dogs. Behavior was more complicated than that. Given the right circumstances, a harmless puppy could be shaped into a vicious killer. She had seen it happen often enough. Genetics definitely played a role in setting the boundaries of temperament. She had seen many more aggressive pit bulls, Rottweilers, and Dobermans (like Aldo) than other breeds. But ultimately the environment—the choices and behavior of the owner—controlled the outcome. Aldo wasn’t yet beyond hope, but left unchecked, Geneva knew the situation would deteriorate.
“Ella, Charlie, I’d like you to be careful around Aldo. No roughhousing and no keep-away. Don’t eat near him. Can we agree on that?”
They nodded. Their acquiescence told her Charlie’s story had been no exaggeration.
• • •
Geneva helped her mother get ready for bed, then joined Tom in the living room. He put down the sports section of the paper and patted the seat next to him.
“See?” he said. “Helen’s no trouble at all.”
She sat heavily onto the couch. “No, not today.”
“The kids seem to like her. Especially Charlie.”
“That’s true. I could overlook a lot if my mother made an effort with them.” Write off our relationship, she thought, and concentrate on the next generation. There were worse outcomes.
“Do you want me to get up with her tonight?”
“That might be awkward for her. Maybe we should dehydrate her every afternoon.”
He laughed.
“By the way,” she said, “did you approve Charlie’s new video game?”
“I didn’t know he had one.”
“When I went into the den to check on him just now, he was playing one I hadn’t seen before. He said he borrowed it from a friend.”
“I’m sure it’s fine, but I’ll look at it when he’s in school tomorrow, okay?”
“There goes your morning.”
“Ha-ha.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Geneva sat up and shuffled through the newspaper on the coffee table.
“Something on your mind—aside from your son’s innocence and your mother’s bladder?”
She straightened the newspaper and turned to him. “I’m thinking of talking to Juliana about her dog.”
“I’m not sure she’d listen. She thinks he’s great. And he is, most of the time.”
“But not when Jon is around.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, she and I could talk about it.”
“She’d see it as interfering. If she asks you, it’d be different.”
“You mean if I were a full-fledged Novak, it’d be different.”
“That’s not fair.”
“If you remember, I offered to help her select a puppy. She turned me down and went with Theo instead. I love your brother, but he doesn’t know dogs.”
“So now Aldo is Theo’s fault?”
“No. But we all know Juliana is a free spirit. Given that, I would have guided her toward a smaller dog with a very even temperament.”
“Okay, but Aldo’s her dog now.”
“Do you know if he still sleeps with her?”
“Jon?”
“Very funny. No, the dog.”
Tom leaned back and put his feet on the coffee table. “I make a habit of not asking who’s in bed with my sister. That’s thin ice. But I heard from my mother, who has no such reservations, that Juliana tried to wean Aldo off sleeping on the bed—unsuccessfully. Which is why Juliana stays at Jon’s and not the other way around.”
“I’m sure you can see that’s not healthy, Tom. That’s why I want to talk to her. And to Jon. Before things escalate.”
“We’re all hoping this relationship works out. We think Jon’s great for her.”
“Then I would assume that ‘we’ would prefer him with all his limbs?”
Tom scoffed. “We don’t even know what went on at the barbecue. For all we know Jon might have dropped the sausages, then panicked when Aldo went after them.” He rose. “Time for bed. Give that brain of yours a rest for a few hours.”
She tried, but her brain would not rest. While her husband lay beside her, heavy in sleep, her thoughts refused to unwind. Watchful as a child, watchful as an adult. Over the years, her mother, her husband, and several well-meaning others had entreated her to relax her vigil on the world. But once she noticed something, she found it impossible to look away until she understood what she observed. And now the list of things she did not understand grew longer by the day. Her mother was a lifelong source of confusion, as was her sister Paris. Ella’s behavior—of late, highly variable and generally sullen—presented another mystery. She also felt disconnected from Tom. They didn’t agree on how to handle the kids, his family, or her mother. She knew he loved her, but did he get her? Some time ago, she couldn’t say exactly when, she had been certain he did. But now doubt had emerged, like a weed pushing out of a crack in the pavement. Even Charlie, always the easiest person in the family, was making her uneasy. She couldn’t put her finger on anything, but something wasn’t right.
Such a long list. Logic told her the problem was therefore not them, but her. But even this deduction failed to withstand her scrutiny. What, exactly, was wrong with her, then? How could she rest when she understood so little?
Sporadically, Geneva watched, not to understand, but because she sensed something was about to occur. This first happened as a child in Aliceville, during her regular visits to the woods. Weekend and summer mornings, she would jump on her bike and head to the far side of town. Her mother would not have approved, not because the woods were dangerous but because well-brought-up girls shouldn’t muddy their knees. Careful to stay clean, she’d thread her way as deep into the woods as she dared. She would sit against a tree and wait for the world she had ruffled to return to itself. Once the forest ignored her, she became part of it. With the aid of her binoculars and natural patience, she studied whatever appeared: squirrels, quail, deer—even beetles. Time passed unnoticed. When the shadows knitted together and the forest floor grew dark, she ran back to her bike, holding the binoculars against her chest with one hand. Sweat clung to her like another skin.
One summer morning she had been sitting on a log for half an hour when she detected a change in her surroundings. A moment passed; then a Cooper’s hawk swooped down to snatch a warbler from the air. A month later, she was leaning against a tree and felt the forest tremble. She turned slowly to see a black bear lumber into a clearing not twenty yards away. The bear sniffed the air with sharp upward nods, then returned to become a shadow in the underbrush. At the time, she concluded that the gravity of certain events ran slightly ahead in time. If she paid close attention, she could sense the subliminal shudder preceding something dangerous, or spectacular.
Rare as the feeling had been when she was a child, it was rarer still as an adult. And her explanation for it had changed. She had given the matter a great deal of thought and concluded it was a trick of memory. The feeling of imminence seemed to precede the event but, in fact, did not. As her unconscious mind raced to make sense of the sudden fate of a warbler or the appearance of a bear, it yanked a veil across her understanding, which she experienced as an indeterminate signal to take heed. Quick as her mind was, her perception was quicker. In the grip of astonishment, the instant between seeing and knowing flooded her with portent.
On a rainy night last winter she sensed a quavering fr
om the car in front of her. An instant later, its brake lights came on. Her foot came down hard on the brake, and she averted a collision. Geneva wondered if other people shared in this feeling but never admitted to it for fear of appearing strange. It didn’t matter in the end whether she was alone. The important thing was to pay attention because warnings never came twice.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELLA
After school on Tuesday, Ella drove into town to run a bunch of errands for her mom. She didn’t mind because she’d just gotten her license; she only hoped no one saw her driving way below the speed limit. Being taught by her mom was bad enough. She reminded her about every little thing in this super calm voice, but Ella could tell from the way her feet kept pushing into the floor it was an act. But driving alone was worse. She knew if she made a mistake, she could kill someone. Herself, for instance.
Her mom told her to use a parking lot miles from the stores because the spaces were bigger. Ella grumbled about it, out of principle, but the truth was, parking really freaked her out. She would have picked that lot anyway. Or an enormous playing field. Or the moon.
She inched into the parking spot, got out, and checked to see how she’d done. It looked like a drunken moron had parked the car, so she got in and straightened it out. Twenty minutes later, she was good to go. On her way to the post office, she glanced down a side street lined with a bunch of old shops nobody ever went into, plus an ancient gas station and liquor store. A homeless guy sat in the middle of all his stuff next to a Dumpster near the liquor store. A tall, skinny kid walked up super casual and struck up a conversation with him. Ella literally did a double take. The kid was Prince Charles. He pulled something out of his pocket and kept looking over his shoulder like a secret agent. She scooted across the road and hid in the doorway of an abandoned dry cleaner.
What the hell was he doing? One thing for sure: No way was he helping the homeless. More likely he was getting the homeless to help him. Buying booze was an obvious conclusion, except there were easier ways. Every kid who wanted booze and looked older than Justin Bieber had a fake ID. And everyone else knew someone with access to their parents’ stash. So if it wasn’t booze, she figured it connected somehow to the Prince’s wad of cash.
