CHAPTER SEVEN
I’ve been called crazy, and if you knit as much as I do, you will be too. I like to nod my head seriously, as if considering the accusation, then cross my eyes and say loudly, ‘the right double-left-leaning decrease will save the world.’ They run away quickly, and I can knit in peace again. – E.C.
Thursday morning, Mac stood on the sidewalk, staring at the sign. Cypress Hollow Animal Shelter. Maybe if he stayed in place long enough, he’d be able to talk himself out of pushing open the door. He should walk down the street, over to the farmers market. See if he could find Cora, maybe. Just to see what she was up to.
What he shouldn’t do was to open the door of the animal shelter. Not if he knew what was good for him.
“Dammit.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and jingled the change he found. “Nope. No way, Jose.”
He pulled out a penny. Heads he went inside. Tails he went to find Cora. He flipped it into the air as high as he could, but he missed catching it as it fell, and it rolled into the gutter and through the drain grate. “Oh. That’s just great.” Then he laughed at his own pun.
A passing woman approximately the age of the sun gave him a wary look. She walked carefully past, putting the city trashcan between him and herself. Mac couldn’t help himself – he laughed harder, and the old woman scuttled even faster. He was immediately ashamed of himself for scaring her.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya,” he called out by way of apology in his worst fake Irish brogue, the accent he usually only affected after several pints of beer while watching soccer with Royal in the racetrack’s main bar.
Royal. The whole reason he was here. This was all Royal’s idea, and if anyone knew how crazy Royal’s ideas were, it was Mac.
And if Royal were here, he’d say, “No way in hell you’re going through that door. You’ve got things to do.”
And Mac would undoubtedly say, “Screw you – try stopping me.” Mac could almost hear Royal’s bellow of laughter.
So he should back away. He did have things to do. He should walk the two blocks to Tillie’s and see if Shirley still worked there like she had when he was in high school. He’d eat scrambled eggs and watch the waves break across the street.
Hell, it wasn’t like Mac needed a dog. He needed a dog like a horse needed an oil change. He was nowhere near getting over losing his last two dogs who had committed the unforgivable sin of dying last year. Spartacus, his tiny black teacup poodle, had thought he ruled the universe with his mighty yap, and sometimes he even convinced Mac that it was true. Mac had found him as a three-pound puppy on the sidewalk in Oakland, covered in mangy sores. The owners who’d left him without shelter in the front yard didn’t answer when he knocked on their door, just peeked at Mac from behind a bed sheet hung over the window. The third time he passed the house and saw the puppy lying shivering on his side, eyes dull, Mac had simply reached over the fence and picked the puppy up, holding its trembling, dirty body against his shirt. He knocked one last time. The eyes peeked. Mac had held the dog up so they could see exactly what he was doing. The sheet dropped into place and the light inside went out. So he’d stolen Spartacus, and hadn’t felt badly about it for one hot second.
His other dog, Petaluma, had been the sweetest, dumbest creature in the world. A huge brindled Great Dane, she’d weighed a hundred and fifty pounds and had reminded Mac of a fur-covered container ship. She’d believed she belonged nowhere but in Mac’s lap and had no apparent concept of her enormity. Rescued from a shelter he’d “accidentally” visited while on a work trip to LA, he’d had to exchange his rental car for a full-sized cargo van in order to bring her home. That whole trip, six hours up the I5 through the Central Valley, Petaluma had kept her gigantic head on his thigh, as if trying to express her gratefulness for escaping the stress of the shelter. She’d drooled the whole way, too, until his pant leg was soaked past his knee. He’d just turned the heater on and kept one hand on her ears.
Both had died of osteosarcoma only two weeks apart, a bitter coincidence. So, no. No new dog for him.
The door of the shelter opened, and a woman with thinning blonde hair and a grey, shapeless dress stepped out. “Help you with something?”
“Sorry?” Mac was caught off-guard.
“You’ve been staring at the door for ten minutes. Are you a terrorist? You don’t look like one.”
He scratched his head. “A terrorist?”
“We got a bomb threat three years ago.”
“You’re an animal shelter.”
“I’m aware of that, sir. We’re a kill shelter, though, and that don’t rest well with the PETA-types coming in from the city.”
A kill shelter. Great. Mac could resist a no-kill place, a shelter he could leave with confidence that all the animals would eventually be placed, but a shelter where they killed those who weren’t adopted after a certain amount of time?
It was sort of his obligation to go inside. Yeah. That penny had probably landed heads up in the sewer.
The woman introduced herself as Cindi and said she had a lot of things to do, and to holler if he needed help. He could use the leashes on the walls to take any of the dogs out to run if he wanted to see what they were like. “Mind what the cards on the cages say, though. The volunteers know their personalities better than anyone else. If the card says the animal’s a biter, you’ll get bit.”
People were stupid. Insensitive to the point of cruelty. The majority of dogs left at shelters were around a year old, right at the age where they started chewing chairs and destroying sofas. What did people think? That they were going to bring home these precious little cuties, and that they’d learn (somehow, magically) how to sit and stay and look adorable on command? Hell, no. They were animals. They took cues from their owners, and if the owners were idiots, you got unmanageable animals that ended up in places like this, behind bars, barking themselves hoarse, alone and miserable.
Mac went through the door, cursing himself as he did so.
Just looking. That’s all he was doing. A bossy-looking Jack Russell yapped up at him, spinning and jumping in place. A volunteer’s card, handwritten by someone named Jonas, said, “This guy will give you a workout even after he’s had his run on the beach. Lively house recommended.” A shaggy dog with dreadlocks looked up mournfully and then rested his head back onto his paws. A note said, “This one’s person died a few months ago. He needs nothing but kibble and a new love.” It was signed Cora. Mac looked closer at the handwriting. Was it… ? Sure looked like it. But how could someone with no pets volunteer at a shelter? Huh. For a moment he put his fingers through the wire fence separating him from the old dog.
But no, a creature that sad-looking would get adopted for sure.
Keep walking, he told himself. You’re just looking. The room smelled of wet concrete and antiseptic and the sharp tang of urine. No matter how clean a shelter was, no matter how well it was run, you couldn’t get rid of that acrid scent. It was pushed into the walls and stained the floors, the smell of desperation and frantic hope.
He kept his eye out for other cards written by Cora. One hung on the cage of a chocolate lab. “Ideal family dog, wants to copilot your minivan and act as extra couch cushions for your kids.” Another was on the front of a cage holding a mournful basset hound. “This guy is heavier and faster than he looks. If you lost a tennis ball last year in the bushes, he’ll find it for you today. He has a job to do, and he’d love to do it with you.”
Cora, if it was the Cora he knew, did a good job with the cards. If he were looking for a dog, which he wasn’t, she’d get him with these. Maybe.
And then he came across the bedraggled mutt at the end of the hall.
“Hiya, girl.”
The orange and white mix looked like a beagle shoved into a pit bull costume. Her jaw was wide and when she raised it, her bite looked off-center, as if her jaw had been broken at some point. Her ears had been cropped. On her front leg was something that appeared suspiciously like
a cigarette burn, and a part of her back was marred by another hot item – a motorcycle’s tailpipe, maybe? The hair would never grow back there, he knew. Mac’s blood sped in his veins. He’d like to take a heated lighter to the person who would treat an animal this way.
The card was also by Cora. “This little love needs someone to watch over her before her timidity takes over her sweetness. She is a scared little darling. Confession: I’d keep this one if I could. Caution: Aggressiveness not fully tested. Please ask at desk for help in handling.”
The front desk woman, Cindi, squeezed past him carrying a length of hose. “Don’t bother with that one. You’d be taking too big a chance on her. I wouldn’t risk it.”
Well, now. Nothing Mac liked better than a challenge.
“Look, I’m a vet. You can shoot straight with me. Do you mean she hasn’t been tested for disease? Or that she hasn’t had her shots? Or do you actually mean she’s going to rip my face off if I open the cage?”
Cindi’s lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. “I think your face will be safe. It’s your arms, legs, hands, and feet I might be concerned about.”
“I’m pretty good at dodging teeth.”
“She lunged at me when she got brought in here.”
“Well, you were the one putting her in the cage, right? I wouldn’t like that, either. How did she come in?”
Cindi said, “A guy found her in the street. He carried her eight blocks in his arms because he didn’t have a leash.”
“Didn’t lunge at him?”
“I guess not.” Cindi shifted the hose, draping it over her shoulder, and didn’t say anything else. She watched him as if he were the one who might need shots.
The silence lengthened. He wasn’t going to break it. She would have to.
“So,” Cindi said, finally. “You want to take her for a walk?”
Mac nodded.
Cindi flapped a hand. “Fine. Leashes in the hallway. Put a cage muzzle on her.”
“Where can I take her?”
She looked at him. “Might be her last walk, right? Take her wherever you want to take her. Just leave your driver’s license on the counter so I know you’re not some sicko. Although if you’re really a vet you might want to think twice about coming back here – our vet is on vacation and he barely has time to come in when he’s in town. I might just make you stay.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
It wasn’t hard to get the dog ready to go. In fact, she seemed grateful for anything that Mac did to her. He snapped a prong collar on and she didn’t seem to notice. As he sat on the bench, she leaned against his legs. As he slipped the muzzle over her nose, she rubbed the top of her head against his arm.
“Come on,” said Mac. “Let’s get out of here.”
Once outside, they could cross the road and go up and over the dunes, coming down to the hard-packed sand. She was pulling that way, in fact, and when she saw two seagulls squabbling over someone’s dropped muffin, she pulled harder, dropping low into her stance, making a chirping noise in the back of her throat.
“Nope. None of that.” The beach would be difficult. Too much open space, too many birds. A dog like this wanted to run – he could feel the desire straining through her compact musculature. “What about just a walk, then? A regular old sidewalk walk.”
She looked up at him as if he were God. Her tail wagged and thwapped against the mailbox so hard he worried she might break it, and then she leaned on his legs again, as if she were helping to prop him up.
Cora could use a dog like this, an animal that had no purpose but to give and receive love. Would encouraging her that way be too heavy-handed? Sure. Mac would be taking a chance, telling her what she might want to do.
But he’d always liked the long shot.
CHAPTER EIGHT
By letting a teenager abscond with your best needles, you’re guaranteeing the future of our race. – E.C.
After Cora had arranged her booth at the farmers market, spreading out her wares to make it look like she had more than just the three bins of product she’d had in her car, a young woman wearing a camouflage T-shirt and cargo pants entered the booth with a scowl as dark as her dyed black hair. She looked familiar, but Cora couldn’t place her. Someone’s kid, going through a rough patch. Poor kid. Cora remembered well what that felt like. The girl skulked toward the batts of fiber, and then looked at the skeins of yarn. She poked a soap bar with one finger and picked up a lemon candle, frowning as she held it to her nose.
If Cora hadn’t miscarried Logan’s child, that little girl would have been about this girl’s age.
It was unimaginable.
“Let me know if I can help you with anything,” said Cora, keeping her eyes carefully on the lace panel of the sweater she was knitting.
The girl shrugged and turned as if to leave. But at the front of the stall, she turned back and said, “What is this stuff?” She pointed to the unspun roving and batts. “It’s not, like, yarn. Every other place in this whole town sells yarn. But that’s different.”
Cora smiled and stayed still, not wanting to scare the girl off. “It’s pre-yarn. Fiber from my sheep.”
“You have sheep?” The girl didn’t meet her eyes.
Olivia Fletcher – that’s who she was. Trixie Fletcher’s daughter.
Well, crap. But it looked like the apple did fall far from this particular tree. Trixie was tall and thin, with beautiful long, straight, red hair. Her daughter, on the other hand, was much shorter, with black messy curls. It looked as if she’d cut her own hair with a pair of blunt scissors – the edges were ragged and asymmetrical. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, rough and reddened as if she chewed the skin, too. Something about the girl reminded Cora, strangely, of herself. Had she looked this bad when she’d first come to Cypress Hollow? How had Logan seen past that? Why had Mac befriended her?
Cora struggled to remember what they’d been talking about. “Sheep. Yeah. I have four of them.”
“Do you just cut it off them?” Olivia poked at another pale gray batt.
Cora wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want Olivia to think she’d said anything wrong. “No, the wool that comes off them is pretty gross, actually. Full of VM.”
“Huh?”
“Vegetable matter. It’s all the stuff they walk through and lie in while they’re in the fields, hay, and dead bugs, and stickers, and poop.”
“It’s shit?” Olivia pulled her finger back.
“Oh, yeah, lots of it. To get all that junk out, you have to wash the fiber carefully so you don’t felt it. Otherwise you get dreadlocks, all matted up. Then you have to comb it so it looks pretty and perfect like that.”
Olivia sighed and touched the batt again. “It’s so soft I can barely feel it.”
“I love that about it. Here,” Cora reached forward and pulled out a few staple-lengths. “Hold this in the palm of your hand.”
Olivia looked skeptical but held out her hand.
“Just let it sit there. Close your eyes. Yes, like that. Now, wait.” Cora gave it a second, then said, “Do you feel your hand heating up underneath it?”
Olivia’s eyes flew open. “Yes!”
“Isn’t that neat? It feels like the wool is generating heat, doesn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“It’s just using the heat of your hand, trapping it, and then returning it to you.”
“Wow.” Olivia stared into her palm, and then at the batt. “How much does it cost?”
“Sixteen dollars for that much.”
“Oh, fuck.” The word fell naturally from the girl’s mouth, and her shoulders hunched forward. “Okay.” She took a step away.
“Wait,” said Cora. “You should have it.” Quickly, she put the batt in a clear plastic bag and shut it with a twist-tie. She placed it in Olivia’s hands.
Olivia frowned harder and shook her head. “I don’t need this. I don’t even know what to fucking do with it. What are you supposed to do with
fluff?”
Cora perched herself on the edge of her stool. She chose her words carefully. “You’re Trixie Fletcher’s daughter?”
A curt nod was her only answer.
“Olivia, right?”
Another nod.
“I’m Cora. I’ve known your mom since high school.” No love lost. Hopefully Olivia wouldn’t ask her mother about her. “I’ve seen her spinning a couple of times with the yarn store crowd, so I know she has a drop spindle somewhere in the house.”
“So…”
“So go find it. Figure out what to do with it. Google it, or if you can’t figure it out, come back here.”
“I’m not into yarn like all the other damn crazies in this dumb town,” said Olivia, but she already had the bag open and was stroking the fiber inside again.
“What are you into, then?”
“Horses.” The word came quickly, but a second after Olivia spoke, she looked furious, as if she’d just overheard someone else telling a secret about her.
“Horses, huh?”
Instead of answering, Olivia touched the edge of one of the votive candle holders that Cora had made out of old china. “Are these tea cups?”
“Yep,” said Cora.
“They don’t match.”
“That’s what I like about them.” Cora thought for a moment. ‘Did you know Eliza Carpenter?”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “No.”
“But you know who she is?”
“How could I live here and not know who she is? She wrote all those knitting books my mom loves. I swear she sleeps with one under her pillow sometimes.”
Cora laughed. “Patron saint of the purl stitch, they call her. She was a friend of mine. We had tea together as often as we could. She bought me my first tea set. I guess I make those to honor her, in my own way.”
Cora's Heart: A Cypress Hollow Yarn Page 5
