One Careful Owner: Love Me, Love My Dog

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  A platoon of horrible answers marched through my mind, but certainties disappeared in a cloud of smoke and mirrors.

  I spent the night thinking about what Dan had said, and how much his picture of Alex differed from the man I knew. I prayed for sleep. I begged for a little peace, a break from this remorseless doubt.

  The next morning wasn’t much better. I’d barely closed my eyes all night, because each time I did, the relentless images of his touches, his beautiful expressive eyes, played continuously, a never-ending movie reel.

  Katie still wasn’t speaking to me. I knew from experience that she could keep this up for days. So I continued a cheerful monologue that she ignored in stony silence, all the way through breakfast and during the journey to Holly’s. I didn’t have the energy to fight with her about the attitude.

  After I dropped her off, I took the long route to work, stopping to get a latte with extra kick. It wasn’t enough caffeine to get me through the whole day, and by lunchtime I needed a break. I headed back into town to buy some groceries and try to clear my mind.

  I also had a check for $500 in my back pocket to pay for the tires Alex had bought for me. I still hadn’t decided what to do with it.

  And then, as if my imagination sprang through some portal of reality, I saw him, and my mouth dropped open with shock.

  He was coming out of Home Depot wearing the same clothes he’d worn when I’d found him sitting on my doorstep yesterday evening. But now, the crisp white shirt was torn and muddy. His jeans were filthy, coated in dirt and cement dust; he had mud smeared across his cheek, and his hands were caked with grime.

  I noticed his bloodshot eyes, and my first thought was that he’d been drinking.

  When he saw me, he clenched his fists, and I took a worried step backwards.

  I witnessed the exact moment when despair suffused his whole body, and he turned away from me.

  Guilt, regret, more guilt, worry and concern drove me forwards, despite my racing pulse and fight-or-flight adrenaline rush.

  “Alex!”

  He froze mid-step when he heard me calling his name, but he didn’t turn around.

  “Alex,” I said again, my voice uncertain. “What happened to you?”

  He stared at me over his shoulder, his eyes cloudy, his brain fogged by tiredness and incomprehension.

  “You look like you’ve been rolling in mud.”

  He glanced down at his clothes, as if seeing them for the first time.

  He gave a helpless shrug. “L-landscaping.”

  A sharp pain gripped my heart, and I realized that once again my assumptions were way off base. I suspected, I guessed, I knew that he’d been awake all night, working out his frustrations on the land. He hadn’t been drinking—he’d been digging, shoveling mud . . . landscaping, he called it . . . wearing the new white button-down shirt that he’d worn to see me yesterday.

  I wanted to apologize, but I also wondered if I should give him a chance—give myself a chance. But now I was doubting myself again. He looked terrible this morning, and he clearly hadn’t slept or even stopped to change his clothes. But that was beside the point—it wasn’t normal to do landscaping in the middle of the night.

  Unstable.

  But a small voice reminded me that at least he didn’t turn to a bottle for company.

  I did this to him, I know I did.

  My harsh dismissal . . . I’d nearly broken him.

  And in that split second, seeing how much this . . . us . . . meant to him, my heart told me not to give up, not to listen to Dan’s edited truths.

  Silly old heart. Thoughtless, careless, reckless heart.

  I paused, wondering what to say, how to begin, how to find our way forward . . .

  “Alex, I . . .”

  His eyes were sad and distant, their honey-colored depths clouded with despair.

  “Can I talk to you, Alex?”

  He nodded wearily, hopelessly.

  “I want to apologize for the way I behaved yesterday. I . . . You were honest with me—which is what I’d asked for—and then I told you to leave. I’m sorry.”

  He stared at me with confusion in his eyes, as if he didn’t understand what I was saying to him. I hardly knew myself. But this was gut instinct, emotion, call it what you want. I was giving him . . . me . . . us . . . another chance.

  “So, I was wondering if we could start again?”

  He shook his head, and disappointment ripped through me.

  “N-no! I w-want . . .” He hesitated, trying to enunciate clearly. “W-want . . . can . . . c-coffee?”

  The oppressive weight of doubt lifted and relief made me feather-light. I laughed because I was filled with hope and that made me happy. Alex offered a tentative smile in return.

  “Yes, I’d love a coffee. But I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to get back to work and, um, maybe you should go home and clean up. You look awful, Alex. No offense.”

  He stared down at his mud-covered body, and shrugged like he didn’t care. We found an unoccupied bench opposite the playground and sat down, ignoring the curious stares of people driving by.

  I gazed into my steaming coffee as if it contained the meaning of the universe.

  “I meant what I said, Alex,” I said softly. “I am sorry for how I was yesterday afternoon.”

  “It’s o-k-kay.”

  I shook my head, upset that he accepted my horrible treatment of him so easily, as if he expected it, was used to it, deserved it.

  “I don’t want Katie to get hurt, but I know that I use her as a defense, as well, to keep people—men—from getting too close. Yes, the whole drinking thing bothers me, but you say you’ve stopped . . . and I believe you.”

  He wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he was staring at his hands clasped in front of him, but I could tell that he was listening.

  “Maybe we could . . . take it slowly. Maybe . . . go on a date, like you said. If you want. Just the two of us?”

  He nodded, a sweet smile spreading across his face.

  “Okay, that’s great,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “So . . . I need to get going now. I just came to do a little shopping and grab a coffee. I guess . . . I’ll call you.”

  We both stood up

  “D-dawn . . . ?”

  I turned quickly, half wary, a lot hopeful.

  “Yes?”

  His eyes squeezed shut and his face contorted as he tried to force out words. Only a few strangled sounds made their way out, and his face reddened with frustration and embarrassment.

  “It’s okay,” I said as my eyes began to water. “I’ll text you. Bye.”

  He nodded again and shoved his hands in his pockets as I walked back to my car.

  He was still watching me as I drove away.

  I hoped I wasn’t being naïve by giving him, me, us a second chance.

  The day passed slowly after that. I picked up my phone a dozen times to text him, but I couldn’t think of what to say. In the end, I decided to wait until my brain was less fried, after two sleep-deprived nights.

  I picked up Katie and we stopped at the bakery to buy freshly-baked donuts and go eat them in the park. A peace offering, and something we did when we needed cheering up.

  The woman in front of us seemed to resent the slow speed of the line. She huffed and muttered to herself, glancing at her heavy gold wristwatch several times.

  I smiled to myself. Those tactics wouldn’t work—I knew because I’d tried them once, long ago. The bakery owner, Mavis, was in the habit of chatting with everyone who came in—it was how she picked up so much gossip about the whole town. I don’t think anyone would willingly put up with the glacial speed she served people, but she made the best cakes and pastries in town, and her coffee was to die for.

  I watched the woman’s narrow shoulders stiffen as Mavis addressed her as ‘honey’, the designer suit jacket, tightening across her narrow back.

  She was blonde, petite, with a tiny waist and large boobs. She looke
d like a miniature Jessica Rabbit with her huge eyes and perfect mane of long, glossy hair—the polar opposite of me.

  Katie’s eyes took on a glaze of admiration as she surveyed the woman’s expensive clothes and five inch heels. My eight year-old daughter had put a subscription to Vogue on her Christmas list. Not even Teen Vogue. What was wrong with American Girl? Where had I gone wrong?

  “I wonder if you can help me?” the woman said, her accent hinting at New York.

  “I can help you with coffee, hon, and we do awesome donuts.”

  The woman grit her teeth.

  “Fine. Black to go.”

  Mavis calmly poured coffee into a take-out cup, and put the woman’s change in the tip jar. I could tell that she was making the most of this.

  “I’m looking for a property called Tanglewood,” the woman clipped out. “Do you know it?” And she gave an affected laugh. “It’s not like finding your way around a city, that’s for sure. So many unmarked . . . roads . . . that aren’t shown on GPS.”

  Mavis’s eyes glittered with interest.

  “You want Old Joe’s place, down by the lake.”

  “Old Joe? Is the property you mentioned named Tanglewood?” she asked impatiently.

  “Why, yes it is. Do you have business with Old Joe? Because you know he passed on . . . quite a few months ago now.”

  “If you could give me directions . . .”

  “The new owner isn’t fond of strangers,” Mavis said, her smile telling me that she was being deliberately evasive. “Isn’t that right, Dawn? She’s met the new owner quite a few times.” And she smiled at me. “How are you doing, honey? And how are you, Katie?”

  The woman turned to examine me, her hard eyes skating over my jeans and t-shirt, her gaze critical. She glanced coldly at Katie, obviously dismissing her, and my hackles rose.

  “You know Alex Winters?” she asked, her voice flat with affected boredom.

  “Yes, I do,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’ve treated his dog, Stan.”

  “Oh God, he doesn’t still have that smelly mongrel, does he?”

  Katie gasped.

  “Stan’s my friend and he’s not smelly!”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “Alex is a friend of ours . . . me and my daughter,” I said, tugging Katie closer to me as she scowled up at the woman.

  The woman gave me a superior smile.

  “Then you’ve met my husband,” she said.

  Alex

  SHE’S GOING TO give me another chance.

  The words thrummed through my mind in a tangle of half hope and half despair. After the way this day had started, slipping tiredly from night to day, I would have bet my left nut that it wasn’t going to improve. Her subtle scent seemed to be everywhere in the cabin. It drove me to distraction.

  Being with Dawn, spending the day with her, spending the night—it felt easy and incredible all at the same time. Getting to know her as a woman and as a mother, I’d started to imagine a future again. It felt right. It was right.

  What was happening to me, to my life? I was cracking open, and Dawn was the light, blasting through to all my darkest places. It was terrifying.

  Touching her, tasting her, being with her, inside her, it was a different dimension. It was lust and need and want and heat. It was fucking in the dark, it was loving in the light. It was warmth in the morning when we’d woken up together. It was exploring her body, trusting her to explore mine, to let her into my shadowy world.

  That had nearly ruined everything. Nearly.

  I had few possessions and, arguably, dignity wasn’t one of them. She’d walk away at some point. I always knew that.

  Running into Dawn today, I’d anticipated the disgust in her eyes, been afraid to see her repelled by what I’d said, the little I’d told her about myself. Instead I saw compassion mixed with wariness, and every emotion played out on her face was reflected in mine. I hated feeling like this—as if I was made of glass, and all my thoughts and hopes, dreams and fears were visible, but just out of reach.

  She’d been sitting close enough today that I could smell the fresh, floral scent of her shampoo. Her dark hair looked thick and glossy, and I longed to touch it again. But when she looked up, her eyes were hesitant, guarded. There was some new knowledge behind her expression that I didn’t understand.

  I’d wanted to tell her that we could take it as slowly as she liked—whatever she needed from me to feel safe. I hadn’t wanted to let her go without explaining that being with her made me feel alive, that I’d felt the soft swell of contentment, the excitement of possibilities. I wanted her to know how much Katie meant to me, too, that I’d protect them both with every breath in my body. I wanted to tell her everything.

  But the words wouldn’t come. They never did when I needed them. Not anymore.

  I could have sent her a text, but that didn’t feel right. Maybe I should write a letter. But the truth was I wanted to be able to say the words, to explain what I felt, to speak like a normal human being.

  Unwilling memories spilled into my thoughts. Most of my childhood was spent hiding. It’s amazing how you can hide in plain sight. If you don’t speak, eventually you fade into the background, you become invisible. I thought I’d put all that behind me, but life has a way of kicking you in the balls when you’re already on your hands and knees.

  I hate my stutter, hate that it minimizes me, but the angrier I get, the worse it is. I try to speak, but nothing happens, no sound. I see the confusion and pity on their faces, and people try to finish my sentences, assuming they know what I want to say, what I’m thinking. I see it in their eyes—what’s wrong with him? He’s not normal.

  I’m not. It feels like I’m missing a limb, except no one knows but me. For a hundred-thousand years, humans have communicated with their voices. But not me, not anymore.

  And it gets worse.

  The frustration, the rage. The despair.

  But with Dawn, I touched normality, humanity . . . and she’d promised to call me . . .

  Stan licked my hand, then leaned against my knee, gazing up with concern in his eyes.

  My brain spun in loops, hopeful and hopeless, resigned and defiant. I wanted to fight, but the war was inside my head.

  What the hell had I expected yesterday? Did I really think that she’d be okay having a fucked up alcoholic around her daughter? And that was only half the story. I must have rocks in my head. I wouldn’t want me. I’d been so blind playing happy family for the day. Why would an attractive, intelligent woman like Dawn bother to go anywhere near damaged goods? I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t blame her.

  I’d just felt some ridiculous, pathetic need to tell her the truth—or some partial, edited version of it. Because she’d asked. Because I’d felt that elusive connection with her. Why hadn’t I kept my damn mouth shut? Why hadn’t I been more careful with my truths?

  She was half-scared of me now.

  So, what was the alternative? A relationship built on lies—more lies? No sane woman would want me.

  It wasn’t enough, and being with Dawn and Katie, I’d thought of other possibilities.

  After she’d kicked me out yesterday, sleep was the furthest thing from my mind when I’d walked into the cabin. Knowing what was coming, Stan had taken himself off to one of the spare rooms. He sighed and gave me a look, almost shaking his head. Boss, women ain’t worth it.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him with his paws over his ears and his head stuck under a pillow.

  I’d slammed through the house, looking for something I could hit with a hammer, but the damn place sneered at me in pristine condition.

  Then I remembered I had some logs out the back that needed splitting into kindling for the log burner that I’d installed in the kitchen, ready for the winter.

  I snatched up the axe and smashed the fuck out of pieces of wood until sweat made my eyes sting.

  At 2am, I’d decided that I was going to build a path down to the lake.
I’d been thinking about making a mini quay so I didn’t have to wade through mud every time I went for a swim. The middle of the night had seemed like a good time to start it.

  Grabbing a hurricane lamp, a shovel and pickaxe from the shed, I’d made my way through the trees down to the lake.

  I worked furiously, not caring how much my muscles ached, or how filthy I became. Gradually, exhaustion began to work its way into the edges of my brain, giving me some relief from those poisonous, destructive thoughts. It was the best way of coping that I’d found—safer than booze or drugs. Safer than women.

  Everything bad that happened in my life was because of a woman.

  If God made a good woman, I haven’t met her yet.

  Dad used to say that after Mom walked out on us. What kind of woman walks out on her kids without a word? No birthday cards, not even a Christmas card. She wanted to ‘find’ herself. I guess she didn’t want to find she was a wife and mother.

  That’s when I started to stutter—after Mom left.

  I’d gone from being popular and happy to miserable and withdrawn. It only took a couple of times of being called ‘A-a-a-alex’ to make me almost mute.

  My school arranged for me to see a speech therapist. I think I a few hours a month. It didn’t help. I only started to gain confidence when I was 13 and began training at the gym with Carl. I’ve been working out ever since, and by the time I was a sophomore in high school I stopped stuttering. Until Charlotte and Warren.

  And after what happened with Dawn, I thought I’d be lucky ever to string two words together again.

  By first light, I’d fashioned the bank down to the lake into a series of broad steps. I just needed to mortar in some paving slabs, and I’d have a pretty good landing platform. It would be the perfect place for a bench, too.

  A bench for your sad, lonely, loser ass to sit on all alone.

  I didn’t even bother to change my clothes before I headed out to Home Depot to place an order for paving slabs. Better still, the delivery driver wasn’t busy, so two tons of sandstone was on its way to my house.