Black Eyed Susan

by Elizabeth Leiknes

  It seemed strange that an animal shelter would have a hermit crab, so I whispered to Calliope, “Don’t they usually keep abused or neglected animals in places like this?”

  The man heard me, took a deep breath, and said, “All living things respond negatively to neglect, my dear.”

  Right.

  We continued down the aisle of cages. “And this here is Boo Boo Kitty—”

  Will became impatient. “No offense, sir, but it needs to be a dog.” And before the man had a chance to respond, Will ran to the last cage in the row and began petting a very cute wiener dog, the antithesis of a puppy, possibly eight hundred years old in dog years.

  “Wow, he’s old,” I said.

  “Yeah,” the man said proudly, “he’s seen a lot of action. Popular with the bitches. Quite the stud back in the day, I hear.”

  Calliope and I glanced at each other and smirked in response to the old man’s semantics. Will opened the cage and, to his surprise, the dog didn’t fight him. Will lifted him up and stroked his limp head.

  The man became uncomfortable. “Uh, but this one’s complicated.”

  Will, of course, identified with that. “No matter what his little behavior problem is, we’ll take him. We don’t discriminate. Do we, girls?”

  I gave him a restrained nod, and Calliope just screamed in baby talk, “He’s adoooorable!”

  Will, talking in a Cuban accent, said, “Say eelo to mee little friend,” and passed the dog to Calliope. “Do we pay for him?” Will said, taking out his wallet. “Or would you like a donation?”

  “Hold up, son. Um, I’m afraid this little feller’s real sick.” He paused. “He’s got ‘the Cancer.’ Vet says he’s got a month if he’s lucky.”

  Great. Just what I needed—dying competition.

  “Aw. That’s horrible!” Cal said as she exchanged slobber with him. “We can’t let him die in this cage, you guys. He should ride out his days with us, with a little love.”

  Will became somber, and I wondered if he’d abandon the dying creature in front of him, but then he asked the man a question. “What’s his name?”

  The man hesitated and looked a bit embarrassed. “Kind of an unfortunate name, really, considerin’ the circumstance.”

  We all waited.

  The man shook his head and damn near started crying. “It’s a real pisser.”

  We still waited.

  Finally, the man said, “Eternity,” but his voice cracked, so to try to recover some of his manliness, he repeated, “His name’s Eternity,” without emotion.

  The irony of it all was too much for me and I began to laugh, which didn’t go over very well with any of them. Calliope frowned at me, Will glared, and the man angrily said, “Somethin’ funny, ma’am?”

  I bit my cheek. “No, sir.”

  Will spoke with conviction. “We’ll take Eternity.”

  Yes. We would.

  green

  (adj)

  Definition:

  1. of a color in the spectrum between yellow and blue, like the color of grass

  My definition:

  1. the sensation I get when I hear Roy Orbison.

  NINETEEN

  As fate would have it, Eternity the dog favored the one person in the car who didn’t want to get attached.

  Cal drove, Will copiloted, and I sat in the backseat with my dying short-haired partner. Every time I placed him on the blanket I’d put down for him, he found his way back to my lap.

  Calliope was still upset about the bad news of Eternity’s impending death, and she fidgeted behind the wheel. “So, is there some sort of medicine we should get for him?”

  “A lead pill?” I suggested.

  Uh-oh.

  Calliope directed her museness at me, but this time, Will heard her, too.

  “We’re cavalier when pain is all we’ve found,

  When years of misery have forced us down.

  Our only chance—to break free of the chains

  Of selfishness, embracing what remains.”

  Will looked at me, startled by Calliope’s behavior, and I threw up my arms and stole a line from Bill Clinton. “This is what she does.”

  With Eternity snuggling up to me and giving me his best puppy-dog gaze, I caressed his ear and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  When I looked at Eternity, I wondered if he felt the same way about death as I did. Where was he in the famous six-stage grieving process? Was he in denial? Was he angry? Was he sad? Did he feel that he’d sniffed enough butts and caught his fair share of Frisbees? Was he the canine version of Ivan Ilyich, faced with the haunting reality of his empty life?

  Eternity knew it was coming—I could tell.

  Animals instinctively know when death is near. Sea turtles know it. Whales know it. Scientists will attribute a whale’s beaching to interferences with electromagnetic fields, or parasites messing with their ability to echolocate, but let’s face it, most of them just know when it’s time to go. And mayflies? Why do you think they flit about, not stopping to chat? They know they have just a few hours to get their affairs in order.

  I tried to feed Eternity a few doggy treats the shelter guy had given us, but he just turned his head away, so I rubbed his belly and tried to send him peaceful thoughts about his future. I thought of my favorite Emily Dickinson poem—a poem written from her futuristic grave:

  Because I could not stop for Death

  He kindly stopped for me.

  The Carriage held but just Ourselves

  And Immortality.

  Did Eternity plan on riding off into the sunset in our very own death carriage?

  “I can’t get any radio stations, so we’re back to old-fashioned games,” Will said. “Okay, best funeral song.”

  Calliope slapped him in the arm and whispered, “Don’t you think that’s a bit rude?” She pointed to Eternity with her eyes, trying to be discreet.

  “Oh, him?” Will said. “It’s not like he’s dying today, Cal. I’ll go first. I think the best funeral song would depend on the nature of your death. For example, if you died in a car accident, ‘I Can’t Drive 55’ would be perfect, but if you died while boating, ‘Drift Away’ would be better. If you died while having sex, it would depend on how far you’d gotten—‘Great Balls of Fire’ if you’d gotten your complete groove on, but ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’ if tragedy struck early.”

  I wondered if this was some rehearsed bit he did, or if he could really think that well on his toes, so I tested him.

  “Okay, what if you died in a hurricane?” I asked.

  He was confident. “Easy. ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’”

  Game on. “Earthquake,” I said.

  “‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin On,’ or ‘Good Vibrations.’”

  I fired off another. “Police shootout.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Hmmm. ‘I Shot the Sheriff,’ or maybe ‘Fuck tha Police,’” he said, smiling. “Come on, Spector, challenge me.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Broken heart.”

  He needed no wait time. “‘Desperado.’”

  “Um, assisted suicide,” I muttered.

  “‘With a Little Help from My Friends.’”

  “Disgruntled postal worker.”

  “‘Wish You Were Here.’”

  “Writer.”

  “‘The End.’”

  “Rejected lover.”

  “‘I Can’t Make You Love Me.’”

  “Masturbator.”

  “‘Beat It!’” Clearly, I’d lost it.

  “I win!” Will yelled, slamming the dashboard.

  “All right, all right. Cal, your turn,” I said.

  “I’ve always thought Diana Ross’ ‘I’m Coming Out’ would be an unexpected, fun funeral song. But it’s only funny if you have an open casket.”

  “And funnier if you’re gay,” Will said. “What about you, Susan?”

  This was like homework. “Um, how about Carole King’s ‘It’s Too Late’ for the ceremony, and maybe ‘I
Feel the Earth Move’ for the actual burial.”

  Calliope looked back at me and spoke, even though she knew I wouldn’t like it. “Come on, Suze.” She looked at Will. “She actually has a great funeral song.”

  “What is it?” Will asked.

  “It’s her favorite song. She’s like psychically connected to it.”

  I lowered my head and found an unexpected friend in Eternity.

  “‘Rainbow Connection,’” Calliope said.

  “I love that song!” Will said.

  “Jackass,” I said.

  “No, I’m not kidding. It’s a great song.”

  I still couldn’t tell if he was kidding.

  He tried to convince me. “I listen to it all the time. Ah, the age-old question: What’s on the other side of the rainbow?”

  All the talk of funerals and death got me thinking about the old dog collapsed in my lap, and Will apparently read my mind. “Girls, I think we should celebrate Eternity’s life while we still can.” We both agreed to put a positive spin on Eternity’s dismal situation, so we drove into Story City to regroup. Will convinced Cal to stop at a small grocery store. When he returned to the car carrying a brown paper bag, he handed each of us a plastic cup and filled it with cold champagne. “To the fragility of life,” he said, lifting his glass.

  We drove down Main Street and ended up in the plaza area, a quaint park in the middle of town. An old wooden sign boasted, “Story City: Home to Iowa’s Only Antique Carousel.” Plopped in the center of the park was a merry-go-round unlike any I’d ever seen. A few people bustled in and out of the nearby storefronts, but we were the only ones in the park, and with no modernity to anchor this vintage gem, it was as if we’d traveled back in time and stumbled upon our own personal fairy tale.

  On its platform were plenty of horses, but a Midwestern influence was obvious—it also included two old-fashioned pigs, two chickens, a fox, and a swan. The carousel was made from metal that had tarnished over the years, and even the music coming from the mirrored center had an ancient twang to it. When Calliope, Eternity in tow, expertly straddled one of the familiar poles jutting from floor to ceiling, she gave me a firm warning: “Not a word, Spector.”

  The sun began to shine as if on cue when the carousel began to turn. The three of us climbed on our animals of choice. Will got on the fox, Calliope on the black stallion, and I climbed on the swan.

  Over the din of the carnival music, Will yelled, “Swans mate for life, you know.”

  With my projected lifespan, that wouldn’t be a problem.

  We sipped champagne and rode, round and round, in a safe, predictable circle. I leaned my head back and stretched out my arms, letting my hands collide with the fresh September air.

  Still spinning, I was reminded that every rainbow is actually a circle. We see only part of it. It is the reflection of perfect balance in the physical world.

  And like a circle, a good story loops back around.

  Calliope, our spinning muse, rhymed her way around the moment by delivering an airy declaration. “Life is a journey, not a race, for we begin and end in the same place.”

  Will was not impressed. “People who use metaphors should shampoo my crotch.”

  “Bill Murray?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Jack Nicholson.”

  I looked at him, riding his sly fox.

  Though I felt like we were getting closer with every rotation, we were still the same distance apart.

  TWENTY

  The only way for two people to see the exact same rainbow is to capture it on film. So at high noon, as we drove away from Story City, Will aimed the camera out the rear window to record the fading story behind us, and I imagined a rainbow hanging in the Iowa sky—a silent effort to unite us.

  In front of me, the highway reached far into the distance as if it were testing the bounds of infinity, but when I looked behind me at the road I’d traveled thus far, everything looked small and lifeless, and it made me feel even more desperate to get home.

  There is something about going home that makes you feel happy and sad at the same time. Happy because it wraps you in a blanket of acceptance, but sad because the blanket is never quite as warm as you think it should be, as warm as you remember it being, and the daunting task of trying to recreate memories in a new home just makes you feel colder.

  My problem was that I had no future home. No future, period. And my present self was beginning to fade into a weaker, fainter version of what I used to be. So the past was all I had.

  My imaginary rainbow disappeared, dissolved into the sunny sky’s backdrop, and I awaited the real one I hoped would come with new rain. We were headed north toward Grand Rapids, Minnesota, but I was the only one who knew where we were going, because if I came clean about my goal, it would inevitably lead to questions I did not want to answer.

  Will was now filming the passing Iowa landscape complete with grain silos and a wide array of farm equipment.

  “Hello, little yellow deer,” Will said to the John Deere logo on a large combine sitting by the roadside. “Susan, don’t be rude. Say hi to the little yellow deer.”

  When Will said “yellow,” I heard Elvis Costello’s brooding voice sing a silent concert for me only.

  I said a nonchalant “Hi” from the passenger’s seat and waved in the direction Will was filming.

  Calliope drove and talked at the same time, spending way too little time actually looking at the road. “Susan wouldn’t know if that deer was canary yellow, maize yellow, or any yellow for that matter.”

  “Bad preschool teacher?” Will asked, pointing the camera in my direction, but I forced him to film the back of my head.

  “She’s colorblind,” Calliope added as she set the cruise control. “Isn’t that cool?”

  Will thought for a moment and said, “Not really.”

  “You’re mean,” Calliope chuckled, and the two of them continued to talk like I wasn’t in the car.

  “‘Cool’ isn’t the right word,” Will said. “It’s inaccurate. ‘Rare,’ maybe. Of the zillions of words you could use to describe colorblindness, ‘cool’ wouldn’t be my first choice. It’s a weakness, a flaw.”

  “Oh, really,” I said, folding my arms and turning into the camera, which was what he wanted. “What’s your weakness, Will? Everyone’s got one.”

  I waited for his snide answer, but instead, he put the camera down and pointed at me, keeping his finger low so Calliope wouldn’t see. Thinking I had dirt on my face, I turned back around, pulled down my passenger’s seat visor mirror, and swiped at my face indiscriminately.

  He laughed, so I looked into the mirror again, adjusting it so I could see him in the backseat. He shook his head, pointed at me again, and mouthed, “You.”

  Me … what? Was I imagining this? When I turned back around, he’d probably be ignoring me, filming yet another tractor or shouting profanity at a cow.

  After several seconds, I looked in the mirror again, and there he was, giving me an unapologetic, sexy smirk.

  It took me a moment to catch on.

  I was his weakness. All the blood in my body raced to my face and neck, and within seconds I broke out in a splotchy mess that was peeking out from my scoop-neck T-shirt, so I stared straight ahead, trying to compose myself. When had he decided this? Did Eternity’s impending death remind him that life was short, and prompt him to confess his feelings? If he felt death was an aphrodisiac, I wondered if I should tell him I was half-dead.

  We were quiet long enough for Calliope to become suspicious. She looked back at Will in the rearview mirror, then over at me. “Jesus, is that a rash, Suze?”

  I yanked at my shirt collar, trying to cover more of my flesh. “No … I’m just hot,” I said, rolling down my window, letting the fresh Midwestern air blow through my hair.

  Will, relishing the awkwardness, smiled. “So what are the hazards of being colorblind, anyway?”

  I tried not to make eye contact with him. “I, um, mix th
ings up like chocolate sauce and ketchup, and I never know if my steak is done.” The word “done” reminded me of my current race against time, and I again felt the impulse to warn Will. I turned around, facing him, and stared into his eyes. “And weather forecasts on television are particularly problematic when you can’t see colors. Is it a warm front or is it … cold?” I paused. “Just when I predict sun in my future, here come the clouds.” My stare intensified, and I blinked in slow succession like a caution light at a dangerous intersection. “And clouds seem to follow me.”

  Will stared back with unnerving resolve. “Then I guess you better invest in a good umbrella.” He winked at me. “Or get your own personal weatherman to help you dodge the rain.” After leaning toward his window, he looked up at the sky and gave it a thumbs-up.

  Damn, he was handsome. And this was a disaster.

  Time for a diversion. And Calliope seemed ready and willing to provide it. “I’m bored,” she said, giving me a mischievous look and tilting her head toward the radio.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  She placed her hand on the radio dial. “Okay, we need some direction … I’m getting sick of being in this car.”

  When the radio came on, we heard Tracy Chapman singing “Fast Car.”

  Will, in the back, scooted to the edge of his seat. “Well, this one’s easy.”

  We both waited for his interpretation.

  He sat up straight, gesturing with the exactness of a lawyer delivering his closing argument. He reached out his left hand. “Tracy Chapman’s a lesbian …” He reached out his right hand. “And you two beautiful women like each other …”

  I sighed.

  “Just for the night?” he said with pleading eyes.

  Calliope, who loved calling his bluff, leaned over, caressed the length of my hair, and planted a long, slow kiss on my lips.

  Here’s how I know I’m not a lesbian. I got kissed, really kissed, by a Greek goddess come to life, and I pretended it was Will. And Calliope seemed to know this. I thought she might run the car off the road for the duration and depth of the kiss, but when our lips parted and I opened my eyes, she gave me her muse-look, finding my bliss to be suspect.