Just Like That

by Nicola Rendell

  In my boxers, I head out into the kitchen, where Penny wrote me about six hundred notes last night, like she was preparing for me to take him for two months, not one day. Change water bowl every day and Be sure to bring extra poop bags and DON’T FORGET ABOUT THE TRASH BAG PHOBIA.

  All this fuss makes me like her more and more. I haven’t been fussed over like this ever, not even when I was a kid. I look around at the spread of notes, one even stuck to the light switch that says, Don’t touch the faucet when you’re flipping this switch, trust me! Followed by a heart.

  As the coffee pot bubbles to life, I turn on the radio, which is set to the mayor’s morning show. Right now he’s singing Simon and Garfunkel’s If I Could, including the panpipes. Hardcore. As he closes out the last few lines, he says, “And now, to local news. Adolf Richard Dickerson, golf tycoon, suspected sociopath, and man with zero regard whatsoever for anybody but himself…”

  Man. I got to hand it to him. The mayor might be eccentric, but the guy’s got balls. Balls that don’t give a shit about things like slander.

  “…Will be appearing tonight before the Port Flamingo City Council in an effort to have Glad to Be Alive Sanctuary declared blight. Which, we all know, is ridiculous. So mark your calendars, ladies and gents: The meeting begins at seven, doors open at six, and there will be free kazoos to blow when he tries to talk. Now, on to traffic.”

  Balls. Huge ones.

  I take the eggs from the fridge and a little bowl from the stack by her salad plates. Everything about this place reminds me of her. Bright, chaotic, and sweet. The home I never even knew I was wishing I could have. Just as I crack the first egg into a bowl, I hear a thundering ruckus from the bedroom, and then Guppy trots out with his ears perked up.

  “You like eggs, right?”

  Eggs or no eggs, I can see he still isn’t sold on me. He prefers the person who makes his eggs to be that nice lady with the brown hair and the pretty face, not some dude in boxers who’s been stealing all his mom’s time for the last few days.

  But I’m no stranger to negotiating with guys who aren’t too interested in seeing things from your side of the table. Trick one, know how to speak their language. Trick two, never let them see you sweat. So instead of cracking three eggs into the bowl, like I would for me, I crack five. And I go easy on the eye contact.

  I warm up the pan, and he picks up his tennis ball from its spot by the garbage can, compressing it with his shark-like jaws. The ball makes a wet, squelching noise while he watches my every move.

  I slide the eggs into the pan. They hiss and sputter. His ears slide backward, and he doubles down on the tennis ball assault.

  After four minutes, I take the eggs from the heat. I divide them up onto two plates. He sniffs the air, his huge black nose quivering. Because he’s so big, and because Penny has left a Post-it that says Everything on the counter is fair game, I put his eggs on top of the fridge to cool. I take the jar of Grandpa’s marmalade from the fridge door, along with the banana bread, and the oatmeal cookies.

  He pauses with the tennis ball half-smashed in his mouth, mid-squish, and locks onto the cookies in particular. But I’m in charge of this dog now and I’ve got to make sure I don’t mess up the routine. I can’t be feeding him oatmeal cookies, for God’s sake. There’s got to be a limit. And anyway, I plan to eat every single one of them myself.

  He looks up at the top of the fridge and sniffs the air, each inhalation making his barrel chest expand.

  “Sit.”

  He dead-eyes me. How about you go sit somewhere yourself, buddy?

  Into his huge bowl, I measure out his kibble and wet food, like I saw her do the other night. I mix it all up with a soup spoon, also like she did. Then I put the cooled eggs on top. Sunny side up, yolks still runny. With one finger, I check to make sure they’re not too hot.

  Holding his bowl in my hands, I look down at him. “Guppy. Sit.”

  Two seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just stares.

  Christ. I once played poker with a guy like this in Vegas. They called him the Wooden Indian for a reason.

  I think back to last night’s vocabulary rundown. “You want brekkie or not?”

  As soon as I say the magic word, his ears flatten, he drops his ball, and his ass hits the floor. The irritated, annoyed stare changes to something a whole lot more interested. “Sit. Stay.”

  Like I saw Penny do, I set down the bowl on the tile. He watches me and starts drooling onto the accent rug.

  Splat goes the drool, and he shuffles his feet.

  All right. It’s show time. So I say, “Free.”

  But nothing happens. He doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Free,” I repeat. “Go ahead. They’re good. Not hardboiled, but you’ll like them.”

  Shuffle-shuffle. But no takers.

  So I think back to how I saw Penny do it, thinking about how she told him he was good to go. She didn’t say free like I just did, no way. She didn’t say it like a dude. She said it like Penny. And that’s Guppy’s language. Not English. Pennyish.

  One more time, I say, “Free!” but this time, I mimic Penny’s intonation. The joy, the happiness, the up-at-the-end delight. It ends up being little bit falsetto, but fuck it. I’m down. That joy for life that spills from her is contagious, and I’ll go falsetto if that’s what it takes. Free.

  That does it. He goes for it, gobbling it up and jamming his nose into the sides of the bowl. Some kibble flies out, and a piece of egg lands on the rug. It’s like a one-shark feeding frenzy, so loud I can’t even hear the mayor singing about Mrs. Robinson anymore.

  It’s awesome.

  I drink my coffee and watch him scarf down one enormous bite after another. Halfway through, I give him a pat on the huge haunches.

  When my hand touches his back, the feeding frenzy stops cold. Vaguely, I remember seeing some dog training show on TV when I was getting my oil changed once. Never interrupt a dog when he’s eating, not unless you want to discover what a canine incisor really feels like.

  Shit. Just what I had in mind: another trip to Urgent Care.

  But to my total fucking surprise, he doesn’t growl, and he doesn’t fart. He doesn’t even raise his hackles. Instead, he gives his tail one minuscule, almost imperceptible wiggle, and dives back in.

  Progress. I’ll fucking take it.

  44

  Penny

  I hustle down the hallway of the hospital. At the coffee machine, I spot a nurse in blue scrubs and a hoodie, with a stethoscope looped around her neck.

  I’m walking so fast that I skid to a stop, my flip-flops swooshing along the polished linoleum. “I’m looking for David Gunderson. He broke his ankle. The ER said he’d been moved up here.”

  She presses a button on the machine, and a stream of hot water comes from the dispenser, filling up a cup of soup. The dry noodles crackle and shift against the Styrofoam. “Take a breath, honey,” she says as soup smell fills the air.

  At first, I want to blurt out, Are you kidding me? I’ve just driven eight hours on nothing but gas station coffee and cinnamon bears! I have to pee like a racehorse, and I couldn’t relax if I wanted to! But her presence is absolutely no-nonsense and discourages the imminent babbling. Clearly, she’s not about to let me come flip-flopping in here, hopped up on caffeine and anxiety, and upset the whole ward. On her chest is pinned a red rectangle, which says:

  Nurses Always

  Stay Calm

  and

  Carry On!

  Very sensible advice for this moment. She taps on the pin and takes a deep breath. I focus on her soup, on the dried peas and carrots bobbing at the surface. I follow her lead—innnn, and out.

  Once we’ve gone through two deep breaths, she pins the paper lid to the cup using the tines of a plastic fork. Calmly, slowly, measuredly, she says, “He’s in 314. He’s absolutely fine.” She breathes again, making a small outward circle with one hand to signal me to do the same. “It’s okay.”

/>   I take another calming breath, and she gives me an approving nod. “There you go. No panic. We’re taking good care of him. Are you family?”

  “Yes, his granddaughter. Same nose, see?” I tap on the hard ridge of cartilage.

  She peers at me and nods, like that’s really all the ID she needs.

  “Is it a bad break? I don’t know how many times I’ve told him that just because the pool is open all night doesn’t mean he should be doing laps at 3:00 a.m. I knew this would happen one day. I even tried to get him to wear those rubber swim shoes, but oh no. No, no, no.”

  She shakes her head slowly and places one hand to my forearm. “It’s an uncomplicated break. He’s in very good shape, and a real sweetheart.”

  I don’t know if it’s her overwhelming Zen, or the comforting smell of chicken stock, or the good news, but all my tiredness hits me at once. Relief, exhaustion, a whole drive spent worried sick over brittle bones suddenly fall away. I’m almost swaying with exhaustion, and steady myself on the coffee machine. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. Take a second. Have a hot chocolate.” She tips her head at the machine. “It’s watery, but the marshmallows are pretty nice.”

  I’m all for this lady’s approach to things, but generic Swiss Miss from a foam cup doesn’t take priority over Grandpa. “Maybe later. I don’t want him to be alone.”

  “But he’s not alone, honey,” she says, soup in both hands, like a chalice. “His lady friend is with him. He’s happy as a clam.”

  I stare at her, the plume of soup steam between us. She swizzles her noodles and takes a peek under the lid. She pinches a hot reconstituted pea between her fingers and pops it into her mouth.

  There’s no way I heard that right. Grandpa has canning, Grandpa has bingo, Grandpa has amateur woodworking. But one thing he’s never mentioned, ever, is… “What lady friend?”

  * * *

  Watery hot chocolate in hand, I make my way to room 314. From two doors down, I hear Grandpa chuckling and a woman’s laugh ringing out gently over his.

  Like I’m in some low-budget spy movie, I put one eye to the edge of the door frame and peek inside. Grandpa in the hospital bed, with his leg elevated, covered from toes to mid-calf with a cast. He’s wearing his old sweater, patched at the elbows, and underneath that is his hospital gown. He looks thin and frail, the liver spots on his chest a reminder he’s about to turn eighty-five. And yet, liver spots and thin gown aside, something else is absolutely evident, twinkling in his eyes and in his big smile. He’s…happy. Happy in a way I haven’t seen him since my grandma passed away. There, next to him, I see why.

  She’s plump and friendly looking, with reddish hair and a pair of bright turquoise bifocals low on her nose. She’s younger than he is, by ten years or maybe more. Underneath the hospital bed, I see her feet are pressed together neatly. She’s in capris, and a pair of turquoise flats that exactly match her glasses. Doughy, soft skin overflows just slightly from the tops of her shoes.

  I shift my face so I’m hiding again. It’s not like me to eavesdrop, especially not on Grandpa, but this is something entirely unexpected. A lady friend. I can smell a pleasant, warm perfume, which must be hers, coming up over the acrid hospital disinfectant. It’s very nice and slightly old-fashioned. Not like my grandma wore, but familiar all the same.

  “Four down. Seven letters. On Valentine’s, you might be this with your mitten,” she says. She’s got a lovely southern drawl, that beautiful Georgia lilt that Grandpa has, too.

  There’s a pause. A nurse pages a doctor behind me, startling me out of my covert listening mode. Someone gives the coffee machine a whack. But Grandpa and his lady friend, they aren’t fazed at all. Finally, Grandpa says, “Smitten!”

  And they both dissolve into teenage giggles.

  An orderly narrowly avoids ramming into me with a rolling meal cart, and I decide I better take my chance before the universe gives me away. I poke my head through the open door. “Hello?”

  “Lucky Penny!” Grandpa says, opening his arms wide.

  His lady friend slips her bifocals from her nose. I give Grandpa a big hug, and he gives me a kiss on the cheek, his short white stubble like fine-grit sandpaper.

  And then I turn to her. She’s got kind eyes and rosy cheeks and is wearing a sensible sweater set, white with tiny red hearts all over. Little pearl buttons match her earrings, and a hint of bronzer shines on her cheeks. “Penny, this is Rose. Rose, Penny.”

  “Hello, Rose.” I reach across Grandpa’s bed to shake her hand.

  She stares at my palm out in the air and makes a tsk with her tongue. Then she sets down the crossword and comes around to my side of the bed. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me into her little cloud of sweet perfume, saying, “What a joy to meet you, my dear. Finally.”

  * * *

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her!” I whisper-bark, after Rose has gone off to get us all some cheese Danishes.

  Grandpa makes a sort of potato-potahto balancing act of his hands. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about it. I know how you loved your Gram, and I loved her with all my heart. I haven’t known Rose that long, only a few months. And I didn’t want to…”

  I wait for the rest of that sentence. I pour him a glass of water from the strange hospital pitcher, with its funny spout. Grandma has been gone for only two years, but I’m not hurt. I’m delighted. “Didn’t want to what? Tell me that you have someone that you obviously adore?”

  He smiles hard and straightens his glasses as I hand him the water. “I didn’t want you to think I was dishonoring your grandma’s memory.”

  “I’d never think that.”

  He answers that with a slow nod and a sheepish smile. “And maybe I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  I take a seat in a chair next to where Rose was sitting. I see she’s brought him the latest Nicholas Sparks, his Woodworker’s Monthly, and a bag of Lemonheads. “Jinx it, please! If she says get well with presents like these, I’ll go get ordained at theuniversalchurchoflife.com myself.”

  “She really is a doll, Penny. Don’t know what I did to deserve her, and probably best if I don’t think too hard about it.”

  There are some considerations before I give my blessing though. “Does she like home canning? Is she okay with punny aprons? Does she mind that you leave your socks on the floor and that you like your bananas green?”

  “She likes me just as I am,” he chuckles. “Green bananas, pantry full of jam, and everything. Can you believe it?”

  Of course I can, because he is truly the best. I find myself so utterly bowled over with happiness for him that I suddenly tear up with the plain joy of it all. I've worried so much about him being lonely, but not anymore. I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “She seems lovely. Where did you meet her?”

  “Bingo! And she is lovely,” he says, looking off at the open door like he’s hoping and hoping she’ll come through at any moment. “A lovely lady for an old fella like me. But speaking of fellas…”

  Uh-oh. I snatch up the crossword and try my best to look very, very interested. “Let’s see. Nine across. Fine baked, better French.”

  I look at the filled in letters. R S ET. Russet. Russ. No. God. What? I slap it back down on the bed. I cannot escape him. He’s in the sound of sheets and the names of common potatoes. He’s everywhere.

  “Penny.” Grandpa taps the back of my hand, like a blackjack player asking for another card. “Come on now. Give me the scoop.”

  There’s really no point in pretending I’m not going to tell him, because my heart is bursting for him to know. But how to say it? Where to start? At Urgent Care or when I stole his bag? “He’s…” I stare at Grandpa. I have no idea how to have this conversation. With my mom, yes. With my step-dad, maybe. With the mayor, possibly. With Maisie, definitely. With Guppy, obviously. But this is uncharted territory for Grandpa and me. Never in my life has he asked me about boyfriends. Told you. The best.

  But something’s d
ifferent. It’s as if Grandpa’s old-fashioned Spidey sense has taken over. Because this relationship is different. Russ isn’t just merely dateable. He’s more exciting, funnier, smarter, more…Russssss.

  “Does he have a name? A job? Hobbies? Hobbies are very important, Penny. Hobbies say a lot about a person.” He straightens out his old cardigan, like he always does when he’s about to tell me something that falls under the category of very good advice. “Rose, for instance, is a quilter. Quilters are patient, precise, caring. Know how to use a rotary cutter without slicing off their fingers. All very good qualities.”

  All right. Here goes nothing. “His name is Russ, he’s a private investigator. He used to be in the Army, and he lives in Boston. And I don’t know about hobbies. I only met him on Thursday.”

  Grandpa squints at me. I realize that not a single one of those things seems like a match for me at all, so I make a preemptive babble to explain it. “It’s crazy, Grandpa, but I like him. A lot.” As I say the words, I know like isn’t even close. We’re falling in love with each other, Penny. “And he’s taking care of Guppy while I’m here.”

  Grandpa chortles into his cup of water. “Did you give him a gas mask or did he bring his own?”

  I level him with a fake glare. “I told you not to feed him bananas.”

  But Grandpa just smiles and jiggles the ice in his cup. “I know you pretty well, my girl. Happened to be there on your first day at this rodeo called life. And I’d say, from where I’m sitting, you’re pretty much…” He looks down at the crossword on the bed and presses his finger to the very word.

  Smitten.

  Bingo.

  45

  Russ

  Guppy and I jogged down the entire beach and back with him galloping right alongside me like a horse. Fucking awesome. And now, showered and ready to roll on this Dickerson job, I turn on the cable box to Animal Planet. A tiny deer is eating a tiny leaf, and Guppy gets himself situated on the couch, about one bowl of popcorn short of being totally fucking human. I grab a handful of dog treats and I’m about to put them in his bed when my phone dings.