by Ellie Hall
I belatedly realize those jerks who got off the train ahead of her had something to do with the stain on her sweater. My fists clench.
“You don’t have to go beat them up on my account.”
A smile breaks the line of my lips. She is such an adorable oddball.
Her eyebrows curl. “It’s not funny.”
There isn’t a stethoscope around my neck. My identification badge isn’t clipped to my white coat, and I don’t have a patient file in hand. I’m off the clock. Dr. Koenig has left the building. But who is Russell? Rusty? I don’t know anymore. But I do know that she’s sweetly amusing.
“No, you’re right. It’s not funny. But you are, Cupcake. Coming all this way to bring me one of these,” the flirtatious words drop out of my mouth before I stop them. Maybe I should try biting my lip too.
Better to keep your fat mouth closed, buddy. At the reminder, I abruptly stuff the cupcake, frosting first, into my mouth so I don’t say anything else stupid.
“That is not how you eat a cupcake,” she says, aghast. “First, you peel off the wrapper, then you separate the base from the top, eating that part first, taking delicate bites. As for the frosting, you save the best for last.” She thrusts her shoulders back like this is an important matter for the cupcake police.
“Sounds very technical. I’m not really a dainty or delicate kind of guy,” I mumble. “But it was delicious. Thanks.”
“Thanks for saving me from peril the other day.” She does that adorably awkward little curtsy thing she did in the hospital. This time, out of range of my professional life, I let the way it stirs something inside lift the corners of my lips.
She looks around and over my shoulder as if wondering why I smiled. The train has long since departed, coasting away from the little hook of land at the top of Massachusetts and onto its next stop. “I guess my ride is late. The only mode of transportation is a bicycle chained to a No Parking sign. I don’t know how to ride one, anyway.” She pulls out her phone.
“Who are you waiting for?” I flick my keys in my hand.
She scrolls on her phone. “I should’ve read the brief on the ride north but got sucked into a new book. You know, the whole one-more chapter syndrome.”
“I’m familiar with the disorder. It’s in the DSM.” I’m not sure if my doctor joke will land.
She laughs through her nose. “I heard there’s no cure. I’m definitely a hopeless case. I also have a disease called I can’t say no to my parents. I think the official, medical term is pushover. Symptoms include giving in to ultimatums, wanting to please them, and having a tendency toward perfectionism. Between you and me, I don’t really want to be here.”
“Speaking of disorders, I have one too. Cupcakus Addictus.”
“Already craving another one?”
She could be addicting. Don’t speak it. Don’t think it.
I clear my throat. “But I don’t mean to make light of actual disorders.”
She inclines her head and says, “Of course not.” Then she adds, “Ah, here it is. I’m waiting for someone named Russell.” Again, she looks around like her ride will materialize.
I’m like a video, paused, my hand with the keys suspended in midair. I clear my throat. “I’m Russell.”
A look of surprise splashes across her face. “In that case, this is Magnolia—my mother went through a flower naming phase. And you know me, Unlucky Lottie.” She mumbles the last part.
I belatedly spot the large crate behind Lottie containing the companion and protection animal I got for my grandmother.
Life grinds back into motion and I wonder if I’m the unlucky one. How am I going to resist her?
Meet and not-Greet
Lottie
After dabbing the soda off my sweater, I should’ve known to stop, drop, and roll when those rowdy boys were poking holes and then shot-gunning the cans of cola on the train ride.
I eye Russell and the dog’s crate. “Call me Captain Obvious, but I don’t think that will fit in there.” I point to his Maserati. “By the way, nice wheels, doc.”
“Call me Captain Confused, but I didn’t know you were the dog trainer.”
“I’m not. Wasn’t. Not until yesterday.”
“And correct me if I misunderstood, but you mentioned, between you and me, that you didn’t want to be here.” Concern flits in his eyes. His melt-me-on-the-spot eyes.
I press my lips together. “Long story. Typically, it’s preferred that the canine first exits her crate at her new home, but likely, she has to relieve herself after her long trip.” Me too, Magnolia. I stop myself from doing the potty dance and gaze at my shoes, recalling my oh-so-recent encounter with dog doo...and Russell. “Trust me, I’m well qualified for the position. My parents wouldn’t have sent me otherwise. I grew up learning the ropes.” And paying the price.
“Are you a veterinarian?”
“A dog doctor? No. A trainer. Well, as you know, I work in medical billing. However, I have a degree in lab science, but the job market is tough and I wasn’t willing to practice animal testing so...” I’m rambling again, practically telling him my life story. I hardly know the guy.
The man who got his grandmother a dog. The heart throb from the hospital. “Hmm. Russell Koenig?”
“Yes?”
My face drops. “What did I just say out loud?” I press my hand to my eyes.
“My name.” Concern traces the words.
Relief floods me. Phew. He didn’t hear anything about how he makes my pulse race. Then again, he’s a doctor. Maybe he can see it? Is that a a thing?
I press my shoulders back and try to refocus. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long trip that I didn’t expect to take with a dog in a crate. And as you know, I quit my job instead of asking for time off. Let’s just say I’m a bit kerfuffled.” Big, fat, neon flashing understatement. If I wasn’t responsible for Magnolia, I’d probably have darted behind the nearby dumpster and hid until the doctor forgot about my blabbing.
“Kerfuffled?” he repeats. A hint of amusement twinkles in his otherwise carefully guarded eyes.
Get. It. Together. Lottie. I can hear my mother’s voice in my ears. Only, she’d say it more like Dear, remember the Home-Hund promise. We’re professional, positive, and purebred.
I start over. “Dr. Koenig. On behalf of Home-Hunds, please forgive the unprofessional nature of our meeting here.” I swallow. “I’d like you to introduce you to Magnolia. The dog you arranged to be a companion for your grandmother.” I open the yellow Labrador Retriever’s crate.
She’s well trained and waits for my signal as I keep my distance. The Schweinswald Method returns to me like riding a bicycle, even though I’ve never done that before. With the leash in hand and a healthy amount of space between the dog and myself, I lead Magnolia to go to the bathroom by a tree that’s not quite wide enough for me to squat behind.
When the train pulled into town, I noticed how the streets bore the potholed scars of snowplows. I passed a dozen houses with weather-worn siding, flags blowing in the breeze, and seagulls wheeling and diving in the sky.
There’s something quiet and lonely about this place. Reminds me of Russell. He trails us, apparently as surprised as I am to meet again, here, now. Like this.
Right away, I use a baggie to pick up Magnolia’s poo like a respectable dog owner. I’m pointing at you Mr. Fedora with the chicken legs! I turn and glance up into a pair of icy blue eyes, watching me carefully. My breath hitches.
Then I remember the knotted plastic bag dangling in my hand. Nothing as attractive as a woman picking up dog poop.
Russell steps back, jerking his cast out of the way.
“Don’t worry, I won’t get it on you. You turn it inside out, like a medical glove, to prevent contamination,” I say, using an example he’d understand. I toss the bag in the dumpster and make a show of cleaning my hands with sanitizer.
“We should get going, Cupcake.” His voice is low, scratchy.
I flinch. I’m
not into nicknames, especially not after soft boiled egg and company’s litany of mean ones, insinuating that I’m a loser. But I quit that job. Stood up for myself. Kind of. This is the new and improved Lottie—soda on my sweater and pooper scooper duty notwithstanding.
Just then, the screech of tires on pavement startles me. I blink and am thrust against the shiny black car as a red one slides toward us, missing us by mere feet. If I’d been at the dumpster like I was moments ago, I’d have practically been a cupcake sandwich.
Now, I’m a Maserati and doctor sandwich as I lean against the car and he leans against me protectively.
“You okay?” Russell asks.
“Yeah. I didn’t see that car coming.”
“Me neither. But I heard it.” The concern on his face turns stormy as he races after the guys in the car who throw a can out the window. A few unfriendly words follow in their wake.
“This town,” he mutters. “Brings out the worst in me.”
“More like it brings out the worst in them, but thanks for coming to my rescue...again. I owe you.”
After the doctor cools off and arranges a towel on the buttery leather seat in the back of the sports car, Magnolia hops in on my command. He flinches when her paw flips the corner of the towel over. Oh, he’s fussy. In a cute way. But also capable and breaks down the crate in less than a minute, stowing it in the trunk. To his credit, it folds up, but still.
We drive in silence, passing a mailbox with the cutout of a mallard duck in front of a working class home. The driveway of the next house hosts a sedan, a minivan, and an RV all in the same shade of taupe. The license plates read His, Hers, Ours.
I’ve mostly given up on the notion of a life with a him and an our. I’m not a fan of dogs so maybe a cat and I will live our days in quiet companionship. I sigh.
Russel’s head turns subtly in my direction, but his eyes remain fixed on the road.
The houses crowd together in the old fishermen neighborhoods and then scatter, giving way to broad lawns and picket fences and flowers lining walkways. A widow’s walk looms at the top of one house, hinting at the old days when fishing was a bigger part of life here, though I imagine for some it still is. With the salty air, breathing comes easier and I inhale.
Again, Russell turns slightly to me. Maybe he’s concerned my oxygen levels are low—being a doctor and all.
“I’ve never been here. Seems nice.”
“Not if you grew up here.”
“Seems better than the middle of nowhere Wisconsin.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Born in Germany. Raised here. Just like Magnolia—she’s a Lab, golden retriever, shepherd mix, but primarily Lab. My parents got a little nutty about making the perfect blend of traits for their Home-Hunds.”
The yellow lab with bright eyes makes a little sound at the use of her name. My heart tugs a little like it used to when I was a kid. Growing up surrounded by puppies was heaven...until it wasn’t.
The car’s turn signal punctuates the silence that follows.
I don’t mind being so far out of my element. It’s sort of like being lost, wandering when there’s so much to see, providing a detour to my thoughts.
My thoughts about the doctor seated next to me.
The one with the strong hands as he shifts gears.
The muscular forearms.
The broad shoulders.
But his jaw is tight and his lips flat. His eyes discretely stray in my direction, landing on my lips as though curious...about what ridiculousness will come out of my mouth next, obviously.
We turn onto Starboard Street. A simple house stands humbly at the end, one slim green shutter askew. A maple tree sits in the small front yard. The leaves are young and bright.
Russell turns off the car and sits there for a long moment while I get Magnolia out, being extra cautious. Thankfully, she’s well trained so I don’t have to touch her. I lead her down the front path where a folded newspaper lies across the slate, a little finish line after our long trip. A starting line for what’s to come. A geranium droops in a pot on the front stoop.
Russell’s shoulders lift and lower on what must be a sigh and then he exits the vehicle. As he breezes past, he mumbles, “Be warned.”
At least I think that’s what he says. Or maybe it was be warmed. Be armed? Be harmed? Horned? With my luck, all of the above. I try to figure it out as he opens the front door, and calls, “Oma.”
No answer.
“She’s expecting you, right?”
“As far as I know she doesn’t have a car, so the vacant driveway doesn’t tell me whether or not she’s here.”
“Maybe she’s taking an afternoon nap.” The last thing I want to do is startle the poor woman.
He grunts. What’s with the sudden caginess?
I follow slowly behind Russell with Magnolia’s leash in hand. The kitchen smells like caraway and butter with the hint of cabbage. I leave the door open behind me, letting in the fresh air.
“Oma,” he tries one more time as his heavy footfalls creak on the stairs.
The dog and I remain in the kitchen.
Moments later, the low sound of someone muttering breezes in with the salt air—must be a family trait. I turn to the sound of a rustle of a plastic bag and five slow and heavy steps on the wooden stairs before Oma appears in the doorway.
A growl rises in Magnolia’s chest. The hair on the back of my neck lifts. I repeat my mantra in my head. I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
I signal to her that it’s safe. Magnolia’s big brown eyes hold mine. In sync, we both relax.
A combination of irritation and confusion flashes across the older woman’s face.
I test out a smile. “Hi, Oma?” I say, using Russell’s word for his grandmother. I really should’ve read the brief. Stubbornly, I didn’t want to get more involved in this ordeal than necessary. Shame on me.
Instead of a reply, I get a cold glare. Magnolia too.
So far, this isn’t going to plan. There is a strict procedure for how to introduce one of Home-Hund’s dogs to their new family. This isn’t it. Then again, I have the strange feeling Oma wasn’t expecting company.
She mutters something harsh and unintelligible in another language, sets her bags down, and unties a thread-worn scarf from her hair.
I bite my lip. “Hi. I’m Lottie and this is Magnolia.” I set the remaining cupcake on the table to show that I come in peace.
The harsh glare, sizing me up persists.
My stomach knots and I get a case of flop sweats.
Where is Oma’s grandson?
She lifts her hands as though using invisible strings to force her lips into a version of recognition. “Lottie—?” Her gaze travels to my left hand. The one not holding the leash.
“Oma,” Russell says, appearing with a wash of relief in his expression.
Nice of you to show up, buddy.
Oma scolds him in the other language.
Russell’s face tightens, turns to stone. He mutters something in reply. Being fluent in German, I’ve heard people call it a guttural language, but it’s got nothing to the harsh exchange between Oma and the doctor. Unless they hate each other’s guts. Wouldn’t be surprised.
“This is probably a bad time.” In other words, it’s my cue to exit. I scrunch my nose. “Home-Hunds will be happy to refund your money minus travel expenses.”
“No, she’s making us tea.” Russell’s tone is akin to a surgeon saying, “Scalpel,” as if demanding an assistant pass him the tool and just as clinical.
“I don’t want to intrude.”
The stooped woman sets the kettle on the stove and Russell pulls out a chair for me.
“Obekaybee.” I signal Magnolia that she can rest at ease. With every second that passes, this poor animal must be getting very confused about her purpose here. That makes the two of us, pup.
Russell goes to the refrigerator and returns with milk. He and his grandmother are distinct op
posites: tall, short, strong, frail, but there’s something shared too. Loneliness? Because if nothing else, I’d know.
Using English, Russell introduces me to Valda, his grandmother. “This is Lottie.”
Her head tilts, much in the same way as a dog does when it’s curious or confused.
“It’s nice to meet you.” In fits and starts, I describe the long train ride, the changing landscapes, and the soda shower welcoming me at the depot.
Her face slowly morphs into something dense. “Not Latvian?”
“No, Oma. Lottie is—”
“German. And American. My parents moved here when I was little.” I follow up with a meek, “Guten tag.”
She shakes her head then says something in what I now know is Latvian. But rather than stone, her eyes are brighter, softer.
Russell’s eyes widen and he blurts, “When are we getting married?”
“When? What?” I squeak.
She’d glanced at my hand earlier, looking for a ring. I slide it under Russell’s palm, lying flat on the table. Like when I was at the donation station, blood rushes in, warming my skin. I laugh like we’re all in on the joke. “Yes, when are we getting married, Dr. Koenig?”
His grandmother mumbles something that sounds like disappointment before meeting my eyes. Then in English, she says, “Lottie, in case no one told you, life isn’t always easy. Or fair. I’m telling you that now. Don’t forget it, especially if you’re marrying my grandson. He’s selfish and neglectful. Be prepared for disappointment. Don’t expect anything more than that.” Her voice is sharp before she switches back to Latvian and grumbles again, busying herself with the tea.
Russell draws a breath and the muscles in his jaw tighten as though preparing a flurry of words to spring forth. I recall my silly fantasy in the office.
