“Miss, please,” a deep voice rang out, “call off your dog.” The blankets rolled and sat up and I quickly realized there was a person wrapped inside. One of the blankets fell away, revealing a man—jeans, plaid shirt, thick beard and mustache, his head covered in an unkempt pile of dark brown curls. It took me another minute to realize that the dock was isolated and I was disadvantaged by my ankle.
I backed away and started to call the dog. After all, what is a pit bull for, if not a deterrent? The first problem was that the dog didn’t have a name, at least not one mutually agreed upon yet, and the second problem was that he wasn’t particularly inclined to run to my side.
I mustered some authority and gave the dog a stern look. “You! Come!” I ordered. “You! Come here!” I pointed to my feet. He barked at them.
I was on my own. I lurched away, my ankle sending up waves of pain. The man unrolled a silver cane from the blankets and hoisted himself up in a most unusual manner, one leg stretched out, before staggering to his feet and steadying himself with the cane. The dog trotted over to sniff him.
“Please, ma’am,” the man called to me, “I don’t want him to bite me!”
Not being able to vouch for the dog’s spirit of hospitality, I called him for the second time. “Dog!” He still ignored me. “Come on!” I started hopping away, hoping the dog would follow.
“You don’t have to leave, ma’am.” The man’s face fell into disappointment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to complain about your dog. I like dogs. Please stay.”
Right.
I didn’t answer, just hopped off on my good foot, trying to spare my useless ankle. The dog could stay and make a new best friend and follow him to the moon, as far as I was concerned. Pit bull or not, he was doing me no good. The man rolled the blankets into a soft bundle and tucked them under his arm, then started after me, leaning on his cane in a slow, careful, side-to-side swinging walk. “Don’t go, ma’am. You don’t have to go!” he called after me. “I live around here.”
Ma’am? Ha! He couldn’t possibly be local. No one around here was that polite.
“I’m a good guy.”
That would be for me to decide, I thought. But the dog apparently believed him and was now trailing him closely.
It looked like a turtle race. A woman, slowly limping away from a man who was slowly lurching after her, the metallic click of his cane against the wooden pier coming closer, and a pit bull bringing up the rear in a leisurely stroll.
But where to go? It struck me that I was only leading the man back to my empty house on an empty beach with an empty street on the other side.
“I live on Beach Six Street and Neptune!” the man called after me, as though to reassure me. “Honestly. I just come here to nap. I bet you even know my aunt.”
I kept hopping but mentally rummaged through all the people I knew on Neptune Road. One. I knew one.
“I’m Phyllis Reyes’s nephew. My mother is her sister!” he called out again.
Bingo.
“I just moved in with her this week,” he added. “Me and my mother.”
Miss Phyllis. Well, his hair could have used her help.
He stopped. “Please?” he said softly.
Against my better judgment, I stopped, too.
We were facing each other now. He was taller than me, maybe six three or something, an oak tree kind of guy, large and solid. His face—what wasn’t obscured by the thick beard—and his neck, though he had an olive complexion, were burned red from the sun and he had dark brown eyes. His plaid shirt and rumpled jeans looked clean; I was the one who looked like she spent the morning rolling in seagull droppings. My tee was covered in wet sand and gull poop. I had seaweed dangling down from one shoulder like an epaulet, shells and barnacles still tangled in my hair. And I was moving like I had a wooden wheel.
“I’m Sam Ahmadi.” He gave me a rueful smile and ran his hand through his hair as if to tame it. “I’m really not what I look like.” He offered his hand and we shook.
“Aila.” He didn’t need to know my last name.
“What’s wrong with your foot?” he asked, peering down at it. “Let me see it.” He leaned awkwardly on his cane and bent over to inspect it closely. “I don’t think it’s fractured but maybe a bad sprain. What happened?”
“I tripped,” I said. “On seaweed.”
He straightened up. “Need help getting somewhere?”
“You’re limping yourself,” I pointed out.
“I’m used to limping,” he said, and pulled up his pants leg. Instead of a left leg, there was a silver and blue prosthesis, a space age replacement that started from inside his sneaker. I gasped even before I realized it. “How did that happen?”
“IED,” he said softly. “Afghanistan. I was a Navy SEAL.”
I dimly recalled almost two years back when I received, simultaneously, my usual bad haircut and a long family history from his aunt. Nephew blown up serving in Afghanistan. This man had obviously been the subject of her story.
“So, am I okay?” he said. There was a teasing note in his voice. “Enough to help you home?”
Well, yes.
He dropped his blankets. “I’ll get these later,” he mumbled, and moved next to me, holding his arm for me to lean on. “May I help you?”
“Thank you.”
We lurched a few steps together—I was the destabilizing force—then paused for a moment before taking a few steps more. We were in sight of the small parking lot just off the beach and I could see that it contained a single car. I recognized it. It was his aunt’s car, a 1970 iridescent pink Cadillac Eldorado, with Follicles written in gold script on the doors. He gave the parking lot a quick glance. “Well, that’s my aunt’s car, but I don’t see yours.”
“I don’t need a car to get home; I live right there.” I pointed to my house ahead, standing on its stilty legs, like a flamingo. His face launched into a goofy smile. I’ve always loved that reaction when people find out where I live.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “That’s a great house. The water’s practically in your back door.”
“Yeah.” I gave an ironic chuckle. “And sometimes that is exactly the problem.” He held me close, allowing me to lean a bit. It felt awkward, but his arm was strong around my waist and supported me easily. The dog followed us, politely staying back a few feet.
“I can get up from here,” I told Sam at the bottom of the steps, hoping to make it less complicated for him. “Thank you for your help.”
“I didn’t mind at all.” He stepped onto his good right leg, then swung his left leg out to the side and set it down carefully on the step before putting his weight on it. “See? I can do steps,” he said as he slowly climbed to the deck. The way he said it, the wonder and triumph and pride in his voice, caught me. He sounded like a child tying their shoes for the first time all by himself. “But I can’t help you, sorry. Just hop up on your good foot and hold the railings.”
I followed him up.
When we finished, he looked around, carefully studying the landscape before pulling the rocking chair against the house and plunking himself down. Now I would have to make polite conversation, I thought with some regret. I hate small talk.
A breeze blew in from the bay, twisting his curls into strands that stood up from his head like he was being electrocuted. I smiled at the sight. He patted them down, but the wind blew them right back up.
“Can’t tame the wind,” he said apologetically, “or my hair. Both very independent.” The dog climbed the steps and sat himself in a corner. Sam put his hand down to summon the dog, who gave him the squint-eye and remained where he was.
“He’s not very friendly,” Sam commented.
“He does what he needs to do,” I said, hoping I made the dog sound vaguely protective, just in case.
Sam leaned back in the chair. “Aila,” he said, then repeated it. “Well, Miss Aila. This is a great location.”
“Belonged to my folks,” I said, then regre
tted saying even that. It would only lead to more conversation.
“So, you grew up around here.”
I nodded. “What about you?” He didn’t look like a local—the ones who grew up here tend to look alike, with crooked teeth, sandy hair, and a hooty-snarky laugh. Shay says it’s because the whole town is inbred and that’s why we had to find husbands in out-of-state colleges.
“I was born here, but we moved to Jordan when I was six. I came back to the States for my last year of high school. Lived with my aunt on the east end of Long Island,” he explained. “Wading River. I never could stay away from the water.”
“Is that why you were sleeping on the pier?”
He pointed to his leg, or rather where his leg should have been. “Can’t get sand between my stump and the leg, and it’s not good to get the leg wet with seawater, it gets corroded, so I nap on the pier, except the wood is full of splinters, so I roll up in blankets. Besides, I have lung problems and the air is good here.”
It made sense.
“You need a lift to the doctor or something?” He nodded toward my foot. “I can drive you.”
“Thanks, I can take myself.”
“Maybe you should call someone—your husband?” he said, glancing at the wedding band I still wore.
“He’s dead,” I said. The pain returned. Boats and searchlights and bad news under a full moon. Suddenly I couldn’t, didn’t want to talk to him, or anyone, anymore. “I have to go,” I said, and hopped to the back door. I rattled the doorknob, hoping he would think I was fiddling with a key, though, in truth, the door had been unlocked the whole time.
He stood up, too. “Listen, put some ice on that,” he said firmly. “I’m pretty sure it’s a bad sprain, but you never know.” He reached into his pants pocket and fished around, pulling out a Swiss Army knife, then a gold Cross pen and a few scraps of paper. He scribbled on the paper and handed it to me. “Here’s my cell. Call me if you need a ride to the hospital or whatever. I don’t mind.” He took a breath. “I mean if you want to. I don’t want to push myself on you.” He sounded apologetic.
“Hey, thank you. It’s very kind of you.” I didn’t want him to think I was ungrateful, but I felt a wave of relief when he finally lowered himself down each step to the beach. He quickly scanned the shoreline, then looked up at me.
“I’ll check in with you tomorrow to see how you are.” Our eyes met only for a moment; he looked away immediately. “If that’s okay,” he added softly. “I tend to take over.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“It’s no problem,” he said. “Honestly.”
“No, really,” I said.
“No, really,” he said, walking away. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow. You need to get that looked at.”
He stopped and pointed to the dog. “That’s not your dog, is it? You don’t look like the type of person that would have a dog in that condition.”
“No,” I admitted. “I just found him.”
“I figured,” he replied. “He needs a vet—he looks like shit. Medically speaking.” He gave me a quick wave and in his slightly stiff gait walked across the beach, back to the pier, to pick up his blankets, then made his way, slowly and carefully, across the sand and the broken shells, to the parking lot.
I watched him for a moment. I didn’t want to make new friends. I didn’t want to talk to anyone; I didn’t want to start anything. I opened my door, then ducked inside to the kitchen and shut it behind me, turning both locks, leaving him and the dog outside.
Chapter 5
I don’t sleep well anymore. I see ghosts along the wall that are made of moonlight. Sometimes the bay calls me through my bedroom window to come outside. When the moon is shining, my bedroom lights up silver; the little statues from my childhood glow on the bookshelf as though they are coming to life. There is a picture hanging over my old bureau, of Dan and me on our wedding day, and the lace on my dress shimmers. I am wearing a tiny, delicate necklace that Dan had given me when we were dating. It’s a shell, a wentletrap, with a fine silver chain threaded through. The shell is unique, a porcelain spiral of tan and cream swirling upward, like a tiny staircase. Even in the picture, the delicate ribbing caught the tiny shred of moonlight. “A staircase to the stars,” Dan had told me as he put it around my neck. “And I’ll always be waiting for you at the top.” If I stare at the two of us long enough, I can hear wedding music and Dan whispering into my ear, telling me he loves me. I fight sleep. It can be my friend or my enemy and I never know which one the night will bring.
* * *
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night still stuck in a dream: I am talking to Dan while we are eating dinner and he reaches across the table to take my hand. I feel his fingers close around mine; their warmth and strength, the texture of his skin, make my heart beat so fast it could lift me off my chair. And then I awake to nothing. Sometimes Dan and my father are getting into the boat, the wind is up, and the clouds on the horizon are just starting to look moody. I yell at Dan, Stop, don’t go out, stop! And he listens! He and my father get out of the boat and we all go home and everything is back to normal and I wake up pulling long, noisy breaths of relief thinking that I did it, I saved them! For a moment, the dream hangs there, like a cloud draped on the air before dissipating, and then I sit up and realize, again, I am left with nothing.
* * *
That night there was a new moon, a sliver of itself, selfishly hoarding its light, letting dark shadows devour the bedroom.
Wanting the day to be done with, I had eaten a bowl of leftover chicken stew, showered, and limped off to bed. Maybe it was the way I had been bracing against the pain in my foot, but I fell asleep almost at once.
Something woke me.
It was very low, very soft, a cross between a moan and a whine, and I knew right away it was the sound of a lonely dog. I got out of bed and opened the door. He quickly ducked into the kitchen and disappeared. I started to go after him, but the bay called and I couldn’t help but slip outside to stand on the deck.
* * *
The new moon was barely visible within the clouds. I used to think that new moons ushered new beginnings, the promise of another month, the promise of more time, of four more weeks for you to change things, find answers, make yourself better. Now I see that new moons assure nothing. They are too narrow, too stingy; they keep their light to themselves, leaving us in the shadows. I looked away.
The air was moist from a northern breeze, but even in the dark I could see thin white foam floating on black water. It was high tide; the waves rose up and fell like horses rearing, then dropping back into the water. The rocking chair sat immobile in a corner, waiting for me, but there would be no boats coming home tonight. No point in sitting there. “You took them!” I yelled across the sand, hoping my words would sink below the foam and penetrate the water. “How could you? How could you?”
* * *
I returned inside, locked the door, and looked around. The dog had seemingly vanished, but I knew right away where he had gone.
He was stretched across my bed, his eyes closed tight, his breath deep and relaxed, like he had been waiting for this forever. I stared at him for a minute.
“Hey,” I said. “You can’t sleep there.”
He squeezed his eyes tighter, as if that would lock out my voice.
“You’re dirty and it’s my bed, and I don’t want a dog,” I said. There wasn’t even a break in the rhythm of his breathing. “I would like to go to sleep now, in my bed. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
He didn’t move. If a dog could have a look of imperturbability—and ownership of his surroundings—this one did. How could I wake him? How could I take this away from him? He had nothing. I decided to let him sleep there, just for the night, because how do you get a strange pit bull out of your bed? I would launder my sheets and blankets in the morning.
And find him a home.
I sat down on the bed. My bed. His body looked like the plastic do
g skeleton I used for the comparative anatomy classes I taught. His prominent ribs rhythmically rose and fell under his scruffy skin, but his face looked peaceful. Okay, he seemed to be a gentle dog. A good and gentle dog who had come to terrible harm. He deserved one night of total rest; I could give him that. Careful not to disturb him, I grabbed my pillow and my robe and curled up on the floor, next to my bed, staying there for the night, immobile, staring up at the ceiling.
“Good night,” I murmured, wrapped in my robe. I left him alone. The night passed; I listened to his breaths and let the darkness escort me into sleep.
* * *
Five o’clock the next morning we both awoke. I let out a yelp when my foot hit the floor. The ankle was nearly unbearable. I opened the back door to let the dog out, since walking him was out of the question. I have a small fenced yard on the side of my house and I keep the gate open, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get to it. I was hoping he would use it and certain he would return, since I didn’t think dogs ran away before eating breakfast.
I had to see the doctor. And I knew the dog needed a vet. I also knew that the vet would ask his name and I was not going to name him because naming implied I had an emotional investment in him and I couldn’t give him that. Well, the vet could just call him John Doe Dog.
It was getting late. My first priority was the Galley. I called Shay. Dear Shay. She answered sleepily and promised to open the store and get things going. What would I do without her?
Not having the foresight to bring dog food home, I made the dog a bowl of oatmeal. And a bowl for myself, with the addition of my usual big cup of light cream–coffee for me. I dressed quickly as I waited for the dog to return from his morning business. After a few minutes, he scratched at the back door to come in. I turned around to find the shadow of a man across the glass.
There was a polite knock, and the voice from yesterday. “Miss Aila?”
I hobbled to the door and cracked it open to a new and improved Sam. He’d apparently had an intervention by Miss Phyllis. His hair had a fresh buzz cut; the beard was gone, the mustache tamed, revealing a handsome, strong-featured face with high cheekbones and a commanding nose. Gone, too, were the rumpled jeans and plaid shirt, replaced by fresh khakis and a new, clean tee with Fleetbourne across the front—damn those shirts, they were everywhere and I was mostly responsible. The dog bolted in and ran straight for the oatmeal, then, when he was finished, hid in a corner under the kitchen table.
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 3
