by Gail Mencini
“Shhh, Bangor. I’m almost done.”
As quickly as he had started his protective assault on the unseen person next door, Bangor stopped barking.
His head tilted toward Sophie, and he looked at her with his big, sorrowful brown eyes.
The lock clicked. Sophie squatted to lift Bangor.
The only problem was that he squatted first. The smelly remnants of his bratwurst plopped on the hallway floor.
“Can’t you control your mongrel?” Will Mills said in his gravelly voice.
Mr. Mills, Sophie’s elderly neighbor, was wide awake. He wore what Sophie assumed to be his nighttime attire of boxer shorts and a crew-neck T-shirt, which at one time had been white.
His narrow face, squeezed between his two large ears, bore signs of two things Sophie understood well: lack of sleep and eyes that had cried until no more tears could be found.
“You know what tomorrow brings. Tonight of all nights your dog decides to dump by my doorstep,” Mr. Mills said.
Mr. Mills’s silver and gray hair, usually styled with a conservative side part, was tousled and stretched his height, yet he stood a full inch shorter than Sophie.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said.
She bent over the dropping and scooped it up with her hand inside one of the plastic bags she carried when walking Bangor. She cleaned the floor with a disinfectant wipe she brought for emergencies such as this, dropped it into the bag, and knotted the top. The sealed bag, however, didn’t muffle the odor.
“I’ll disinfect the floor a second time when I return, but I better take him outside first.”
“Outside?” He gave a disgusted grunt. “It looks to me like you’re a little late.”
What a crotchety old man.
Sophie sighed. “I said I was sorry.”
“There oughtta be a law against people having pets in apartment buildings, damn it.”
“Dogs are allowed in the covenants, and you know it. Bangor is old for his breed. Just because a dog, or a person, is old,” she said, glaring at the man who had to be north of eighty, “you don’t give up on them. Do you, Mr. Mills?”
He lowered his eyes.
Sophie gently picked up Bangor and held the plastic bag with her other hand. When she stood, he stared at her.
“Is that how your parents taught you to speak to elders?”
Sophie’s breath caught. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of her parents. She shook her head and choked out the word. “No.”
Mr. Mills retreated into his apartment and closed the door behind him.
Sophie threw the bag into the trash barrel and led Bangor to the grassy slope next to the building. She let him wander over the grass, still damp from the sprinklers. He squatted and attempted to relieve himself twice. He whined with pain on each attempt.
Sophie cried. Please, don’t let him die. I can’t bear to lose him, too.
She returned to her apartment and offered Bangor some water, but he was too exhausted to drink. He fell asleep in her bed with loud, shaking snores, a prelude to his record-setting drool.
The snores made him sound OK, but Sophie suspected that something more than greasy bratwurst caused Bangor’s GI distress.
She wiped the hallway floor with a mixture of bleach and water, dried it, and then locked the door behind her for the third time that night—the third trip outside for Bangor. She flopped on the bed next to Bangor and, with her head buried in her arms, let her silent tears flow.
Sophie’s crying slowed and she got up, rinsed her face, and took a sip of water. She chided herself. She had to be strong. No more tears.
Notes to self:
Don’t ever buy bratwurst.
Be kind to the grouchy old man next door. His problems are worse than mine.
11
Russ, Sophie’s ex-boyfriend, loved German food, especially bratwurst, and copious volumes of beer to wash it down.
The day before, she pretended Russ had placed every sketchy-looking leftover in her refrigerator, even though they broke up months ago. This approach helped her clean her refrigerator with gusto. She slam-dunked the leftovers into her waste can with appropriate fist-pumps and celebration.
One stray package of frozen bratwurst left from her days with Russ had escaped her frenzied cleaning and ended up as dinner for her and Bangor.
Russ Grant, age 36, her boyfriend of two years—now her ex—was a V.I.P. at work and the boss’s son. Mr. Grant, Russ’s father, owned Grand Properties, one of the leading real estate companies in the United States.
Her former boyfriend’s status and potential wealth weren’t why she fell in love with him, though.
Russ, handsome in a not over-the-top way, oozed confidence. Women stared at him, with his mischievous brown eyes, wavy brown hair, and close-fitting custom suits.
Sophie fell in love with him because he—the sought-after bachelor—wanted her.
Their chemistry in the bedroom? Well, maybe not as great as she expected, but at least good. Some things took practice, right?
Russ was perfect for her.
Perfect, that is, until he broke her heart and said he met someone else.
Sophie walked around the tiny one-bedroom apartment. The white walls that looked fresh and clean when she moved in now seemed cold and lonely.
Her gaze wandered to the photo of herself on top of Torreys Peak, one of Colorado’s fourteen-thousand-foot mountains, attached to the refrigerator door. Sophie’s lips curled up in a smile.
She and Russ hiked two 14ers that day, Grays and then its sister peak, Torreys. The photo showed her flushed and beaming, with a panoramic view of mountains and valleys behind her.
When Russ had told her he planned to “bag” all the 14ers, she quipped that she could climb any 14er anytime she wanted.
That was a tiny fault of Sophie’s. Something in her made her shoot off her mouth and claim skills and capabilities she didn’t possess. He made her prove her boast by taking her up to Grays and Torreys peaks the following weekend, which resulted in this photo.
She proved her ability to scale a mountain. Sophie climbed to the top of both peaks without complaining once, though her new hiking boots caused blisters on both heels and she got light-headed from the altitude.
Sophie loved this picture. She stood with pride on top of Torreys Peak. No Russ anywhere to be seen. When he broke up with her, she tore the photo in half and threw away the piece with him.
Sophie got more than her pretty face, quick mouth, and spunky nature from her maternal Italian grandmother.
Nonna, her grandmother, had displayed a similar picture in a frame on the sideboard in her dining room. Dressed in a pretty white dress with floor-length cascades of lace on the skirt, Nonna smiled, all alone, at the camera.
Nonna caught her first husband sleeping with another woman and chased the two out of her house.
Her grandmother got that marriage annulled in short order and divorced him. Nonna, considered quite a catch at the time, married Sophie’s grandfather one year after the divorce was final.
Sophie’s feisty grandmother had torn her ex-husband out of her wedding picture. She placed the jagged-edged half-picture in a gold frame and displayed it with pride. “I’m not ashamed of my past,” Nonna said.
Sophie wasn’t ashamed of her past, either. She refused to give up her job even though staying meant she had to see that snake, Russ, in the hallways.
Sophie yawned. She sank, exhausted, onto the bed next to Bangor.
Flopping side to side, sleep eluded her.
Visions from her past danced around her.
The next day she would do the right thing. She’d made a commitment and intended to honor it.
Her throat constricted and her mouth filled with stale air, the telltale signs she was about to be sick.
Sophie ran to the bathroom.
After rinsing her face and mouth, Sophie brushed her teeth. She looked in the mirror.
Can I really do this?
12
Sophie’s exhaustion eventually won over her anxiety, and she fell asleep, only to be soon awakened by her ringing cellphone. Light spilled into the room through the pale green cotton curtains.
Sophie glanced at her phone and groaned. Russ. Not only did she not want to talk to him about travel arrangements for his latest out-of-town buyer, but she saw the time.
She was late.
Sophie rolled out of her bed into a stand. “Can’t talk. I’m running late.” Her curiosity got to her. “Why are you calling me?”
Russ chuckled. “Good morning to you, too.”
Sophie gritted her teeth and made a face at the phone.
Russ spoke again in that smooth voice of his. “I’m calling for my father. He didn’t have your number and wants to meet you in his office this afternoon at three.”
Sophie hated Russ, but she respected Mr. Grant. A meeting with the CEO wasn’t optional.
She spoke without thinking about what effect the morning’s events would have on her. “I’ll be there at three.”
“What are you late for other than work? Do you have to take Bang somewhere?”
How dare he assume my only social engagements involve my pet?
And it’s Bangor. My dog’s name is Bangor, not Bang.
Sophie swallowed the sharp words she wanted to fling at him. “Gotta go.” She tossed her phone on the bed.
She was seriously late now.
Sophie checked her purse for the essentials: wallet, lip gloss, comb, and tissues. The sight of a blue passport inside her bag made her think of something else for a moment—her road trip to Niagara Falls next month.
In a few weeks, she and Bangor would head east in her Mazda MX-5 Miata. A few months ago, Sophie splurged on the convertible when she decided to take the cross-country trip.
Her quick mouth got her into trouble then, too. Of course she drove a manual shift, she told the salesman.
The truth? Sophie had no clue how it all worked.
She went home and watched an online video multiple times that night.
The next day, when Sophie sat behind the wheel of the Mazda, she got nervous. The salesman stood next to her, beaming with the joy of a new-car commission. He didn’t help her confidence.
She recited the video instructions to herself. The night before, Sophie performed each step in her apartment until she could do them without thinking.
Her hands caressed the steering wheel and she imagined her road trip. You can do this.
Press in the clutch with the left foot. Compress the brake with the right foot.
Put the car in first gear. Release the hand brake. Ease her right foot from the brake to the accelerator and press slowly, watching the tachometer.
The engine purred to life. This is easy.
The tach needle went from 1,000 to 1,500 to 2,000. The engine revved louder.
The tachometer kept rising.
Sophie tightened her grip on the steering wheel and snapped her foot off the clutch.
The car shuddered and the engine died.
The red heat of shame flushed over her face. Sophie forgot one thing: she should have released the clutch slowly while she pressed on the accelerator.
The salesman coughed, his hand shielding his laugh. He approached the car to offer his suggestions, but Sophie declined his help.
It took three more attempts before the car moved forward in first gear. She drove to the parking lot of a discount store half a block away, never shifting out of first.
In the parking lot, she had practiced starts, stops, and shifting until she was ready for the streets.
She glanced at the old Minnie Mouse alarm clock on her nightstand. Time to shower. Now.
Sophie rushed to the closet and pulled out her conservative black dress, the only black dress she owned. She laid it on the bed next to Bangor, her purse, and her phone. She dashed into the shower.
The warm water doused Sophie, but it did no good.
The black dress brought back the memories that haunted her last night.
Putting on the black dress that some adult bought.
Sitting in the church.
The freezing rain at the cemetery.
The double caskets.
The chills from the night before returned and marched with staccato feet over her face, down her arms, and across her spine.
Sophie leaned her head against the hard, cold tile of the shower. She closed her eyes.
13
Mr. Mills had intercepted her four days ago. His arms crossed his chest and a scowl darkened his face.
The night before, Bangor had barked nonstop for two hours.
Mr. Mills vowed to report Bangor to the apartment management company.
He informed her this would be Bangor’s third warning, which carried a steep fine and potential eviction.
Mr. Mills gave her an out. He offered her a deal. She could drive him Friday morning, he said, and he wouldn’t report Bangor.
Today was Friday. Her day to chauffeur Mr. Mills.
Her neighbor stood in the hall by his apartment, proud and erect in a crisp military uniform. Four brass buttons closed the jacket over his chest, with another fastening each pocket.
“I didn’t know you were a veteran.”
He nodded. “World War II. Tenth Mountain Division.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. The legendary Tenth Mountain Division ski troop’s grueling training took place in the frigid, high peaks of Colorado.
She’d seen a statue of a soldier with skis over his shoulder when Russ drove her up to Vail on the one weekend they went away together.
“The ski troops?”
“Yes. Now are you ready or not? We’re late.”
She put her hand on his arm. “How are you doing?”
“How do you think I’m doing?” He clamped his jaw shut and glowered at her. “Your dog’s barking kept me awake last night.” He blinked his red, puffy eyes. “And today I have to bury my wife.”
Sophie suspected crying over his wife’s death and mourning her loss kept him awake rather than Bangor, but she didn’t argue.
“We can go in my car.” She held out her hand to him. “Do you need help going down the stairs?”
“Hell, no, I don’t need help. You go on ahead and fetch the car from the lot. You can pull it up to the front.”
Sophie nodded. She stepped across the landing and walked to the staircase.
“If he barks tonight, I’m reporting that damn dog tomorrow!”
Would the man ever quit?
The funeral service for Marie was in a Presbyterian church not far from their apartment building.
Sophie had been raised Catholic by her Italian mother but drifted away from church attendance when she went to boarding school.
Churches—like funerals—brought back memories best left buried in the dank, dark earth.
A handful of elderly women dotted the pews. A dozen men with weather-aged faces—in their seventies, Sophie guessed—sat together behind Sophie and Mr. Mills. Only these few senior citizens, the pallbearers provided by the church, Mr. Mills, and Sophie attended the service.
Sophie had never visited a Presbyterian church but found the short service a gentle ushering of Marie into the next life.
Her neighbor stared at the casket, with his back straight and shoulders squared. He didn’t sing the hymns or bow his head in prayer. He exhibited as much emotion as the hard wooden pew they sat on.
A group of women from the church hosted a punch and cookie reception after the service in the community hall. Mr. Mills stood at the entrance to the room and greeted each of the funeral attendees. He introduced everyone to Sophie with a strained, quiet voice.
The men, to Sophie’s surprise, were members of the “Over the Hill Gang,” a group of senior downhill skiers.
Will was a member of the group, one of the men explained, but her neighbor had stopped skiing the black diamond runs with the other elite skiers when he turned eighty-eight.
; Eighty-eight. Sophie had no clue Mr. Mills was pushing ninety. He delivered his harsh criticisms of Bangor with the caustic wit and enthusiasm of someone younger.
“Thank you for coming today,” Sophie said to the elderly men of the ski club. “Your presence means a great deal to Mr. Mills. It’s hard for him to express his emotions today.”
Her neighbor scowled at her. “Speak for yourself, Missy,” he said in a gruff voice.
Sophie’s face reddened, in both embarrassment and anger.
“We’re sorry about Marie, Will,” one of the skiers said. “She was a peach to put up with you. Even though that damned disease stole her away years ago, you’re sure gonna miss her.”
Will gave a terse nod in response.
Sophie studied her neighbor’s face. Tears brought a glaze to his eyes. He turned his head away from his skier friends and wiped his eyes with a white, folded cotton handkerchief.
Another man cuffed Will on his shoulder. “We’ll expect you on the slopes with us again this year. Nothing is holding you back now.”
Mr. Mills stepped back, in retreat. “We’ll see. I won’t promise anything.”
The skier shook Will’s hand. “That’s good enough for today. Just think about it. It’s three months until the slopes open.” The group moved on to the reception. Sophie saw them stacking their plates high with homemade goodies.
Mr. Mills stared at his friends.
He muttered in a quiet voice. “I may not be here when the snow flies.”
14
Following the reception, the minister, pallbearers, Mr. Mills, and Sophie accompanied the body of Marie Mills to Fort Logan National Cemetery.
Sophie had attended only one funeral before. She dreaded the graveside service, but at least it wasn’t raining. She swallowed hard and followed the hearse.
Will had refused to pay for a limousine. It was a waste of money, he told Sophie, which was why he bribed her to drive him.
At Fort Logan Cemetery, Sophie drove past rows of engraved white headstones, perfectly aligned front to back and at crisscross angles. Row after row, the simple, curved-top markers lined the cemetery.
