“But you didn’t do anything wrong, right?”
Lauren shook her head.
“Then why worry?”
Lauren shook her head again and shrugged.
Rita cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Have you heard from that young man?”
“Who?”
“You know . . .”
“You mean the one who killed Allison’s dog?”
“Well, yes.”
“He sent me a check to cover Mop’s final expenses.”
“And?”
“And what? I hope you’re not asking me what I think you’re asking me.”
Rita looked sideways.
“You are! Shame on you, Rita!”
“Hey, it wasn’t all his fault.”
“His carelessness is what made the situation possible.” Lauren could feel her face getting hot.
Rita put her hands up, palms out, in a defensive gesture. “Okay, okay. I just thought maybe . . . and he tried to make it right.”
“Money can’t make it right. Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“I understand, dear.” She sipped her coffee. “You’re invited to Thanksgiving dinner. Don’t bother bringing anything, unless you want to bring some nice spirits.”
“Why thank you, of course, I’ll come.”
“It’s been a rough year for you. I hope things will change for the better.”
“Thank you for the thoughts. Honestly, I don’t know how much more death I can handle. I hope Rosalie’s will be the last one, for a while.”
* * *
Thanksgiving was a low-key affair. Lauren was fully drained, unable to find much to converse about, despite Rita’s prompts. She tried to put a brave face on it and smile; she wanted to be a good guest.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t feel like it, my dear.” Rita tapped Lauren’s arm. “We know you’ve been through so much this year. I don’t blame you one bit. Just be comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Lauren curled up in the corner of the Williams’ sofa with Rita’s hand-made afghan, hot cocoa in hand, reading Real Simple, while Rita puttered around the kitchen, making the meal, and Bert leaned back in his easy chair, smoking cigarettes and sipping beer while he watched football, uttering an occasional exclamation.
She passed the next few weeks cocooned in silence. She went to work, came home, and watched sitcoms. She had lost the desire to do anything. She lay awake for hours at night until sleep, at last, came to claim her in the early morning hours.
A week or so before Christmas, Lauren sat on her sofa, a plastic bin of Christmas decorations on the floor at her feet. She felt numb and empty. The Christmas spirit eluded her.
Why bother? She thought. It’s only me. No kids to enjoy the magic of Christmas, or the pretty lights. No family to put gifts under a tree for. Not even a family pet to buy a bone for. What’s the point?
She re-fitted the plastic lid back onto the bin and secured it firmly.
Someone knocked on the front door. When Lauren opened it, she found only footprints in the fresh dusting of snow on her front porch and a large white box with a Christmas card envelope taped to the top. She looked up and down the street and saw the twin rear lights of a vehicle disappear into the distance.
She brought the box inside. She set it on the floor beside the bin of Christmas ornaments and pulled off the attached Christmas card. She opened envelope and pulled out the card. Inside it was a handwritten note:
“Dear Lauren Lattimer,
I know that the gift in the box can never replace your dog. I know that it can never be a substitute for the family that you lost, but maybe it can be the start of a second one for you, or at least keep you company. Remember, this is not your daughter’s dog. This one is all yours. You shouldn’t be by yourself at Christmas.
Merry Christmas,
Jack Phillips”
A faint scratching noise came from the inside of the white box, whose lid had holes punched in it at evenly spaced intervals. She tore away the packing tape that held the edges of the lid down. She gasped when she lifted the lid and looked inside.
Staring back at her were the bright blue eyes of a fluffy white Siberian husky puppy whose neck was adorned with a pink satin bow.
“Ohhhh,” Lauren said, lifting the ball of fur out of the box and holding it in front of her. The puppy licked her face with her small pink tongue and wagged her little tail.
Then Lauren felt abruptly indignant. “Of all the nerve!” She exclaimed. The puppy tilted her head and looked at her curiously. “How dare he! Doesn’t he know he should never give a gift of a pet to someone? They might not want it. And to assume it would make things all better – for him!” Lauren set the puppy on the sofa, where it fell over and wriggled around excitedly on its back. “You are awfully cute, though. I can let you stay today, but then I have to call Jack Phillips and have him pick you up and take you back.”
Then she began to worry. What if the puppy was a rescue dog. She couldn’t live with herself if she returned a dog that needed a loving home. Wait, what was she thinking? Of course this dog needed a loving home. She wouldn’t have landed on her porch, otherwise.
As she watched the puppy trying to attack her own tail, Lauren felt her heart soften and a warm feeling radiate outward from the center of her chest. She held out her hand and it bounded over to her and licked her hand. Lauren picked her up and hugged the puppy to her chest, where she wriggled to free herself. “Oh my God! Fine, I changed my mind. You can stay. Let’s do Christmas!”
She looked inside the box again and exclaimed, “Wow! He really thought about this!” The box contained a food and water dish, a couple of squeaky toys, a small dog bed, a bag of food, and a leash and collar. “You’re all set, for now!”
With her new puppy bounding around among the garlands and the old, child-proof, unbreakable Christmas ornaments, Lauren assembled and decorated her Christmas tree. She turned the tree lights on and shut the living room lights off.
A cup of hot cocoa in hand and her new puppy on her lap, Lauren settled back in the gentle red and green glow of her Christmas tree lights and turned on “It’s a Wonderful Life”.
“Joy. That’s who you are,” she told the puppy. “Aunt Rita’s going to love the crap out of you, Joy,” Lauren told the puppy.
THE END
About Shannon Rae Noble
Shannon Rae Noble was born and raised in New York State. Her published works to date include several works of poetry in print and online and over 120 nonfiction articles for local newspapers. Though she has been writing fiction for two decades, this is her debut collection.
To learn more about Shannon, her published works, and upcoming projects, please visit shannonraenoble.com.
Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease Page 16
