“I took the liberty of coming here,” Sam started. “To see how you were getting by. How’s your ankle?” He waited politely at the door, his shoulders at an angle, his eyes darting out to survey the beach every few minutes. “I am offering to drive you to the doctor.”
I was taken aback for a moment. I remembered he had offered the day before, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. I was planning to call the one cab that served our village, though the driver didn’t start until ten a.m., usually stopped for a snack at eleven, lunched from two to three, and ended the day around five.
“That is very kind,” I started, “but—” But what? I could barely move my leg without a wave of pain now traveling up to my hip. I made a quick decision to invite him in. The dog was giving me courage. What is a pit bull for, if not for courage? Even if said pit bull was lacking his own and, at the moment, quivering under my table.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked, opening the door wider.
He stepped into the room, his wide shoulders filling it, looked around quickly, took a chair, and placed it against the wall before lowering himself into it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I would love some.”
Military training. He was charmingly respectful and I girded myself against him. I was not going to be taken in by good manners and kindness. I walk alone. Okay, limp. Another shot of pain as I pivoted to get the coffeepot from the stove reminded me that I might want to scale back my independence. I poured him coffee. “Would you like a bowl of oatmeal?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I already had my breakfast.”
“I’m not old enough to be ma’amed,” I joked. “Please call me Aila.”
“Yes, ma’am. You know, before I knocked on your door, I took the liberty of checking out your car,” he said. “The red one on the side of the house? I see it’s a manual. You won’t be able to drive it with that foot.”
I looked down at my foot. It was now about the size of a cranberry-pecan loaf.
“There’s nothing wrong in letting someone help you,” he said gently.
“You’re right.”
“And,” he ended, “it would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I do appreciate it.” I did. He didn’t know me and yet he was giving up his morning to help me. He was a good person.
I was very grateful.
And—yes, despite myself—charmed.
Chapter 6
Getting a reluctant pit bull from under a table and into the backseat of a car is not an easy undertaking. He was obviously afraid of men, and one just doesn’t whisk a dog like that out of hiding and carry him like a sack of turnips through the back door. Nor does one push him, pull him, roll him, or in any way cause undue agitation. I eventually lured him out of the house with a Portuguese muffin, after which I quickly slipped an old clothesline from the back deck around his neck. He’d apparently had some training and walked next to me as though we hadn’t just had a major tussle lasting fifteen minutes. But when he saw the car door open, he planted himself like an anchor before jerking backward in terror.
“I bet he was thrown out of a car,” Sam said. “He thinks it’s going to happen again.”
Hoping that the dog might still be motivated by food, I put a fluffy green beach towel on the backseat and covered it in day-old muffins from the store. He took the bait, hopped in, and ate them at the rate of a mile a muffin while Sam drove slowly and carefully, using his normal leg to capably work the gas and brake pedals. He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed to be driving us to Urgent Care in a bright pink Eldorado touting hair follicles on each door.
“So, how do you like Fleetbourne?” I asked as he navigated us through town.
“I haven’t seen all that much of it, ma’am,” he said. “Just the beach.”
“You don’t have to ma’am me,” I corrected him. “Do you get to the beach much?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “Every day. Usually early in the morning. I don’t want to bother anybody with the way my leg looks. You know, sometimes I take it off.”
“I don’t think anyone would be bothered,” I murmured. “It’s very stylish.”
He chuckled, then asked, “When do you go? The beach, I mean.”
“I prefer to go at night,” I answered. “I like to look at the moon. It’s a personal thing we have, me and the moon.”
“The moon is very nice, ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me.”
“No, ma’am.”
* * *
“Severe sprain,” diagnosed the doctor at Urgent Care after my foot was X-rayed, rotated, and squeezed like a loaf of day-old bread before it was wrapped. “Stay off it for a while.” I was given a soft cast, an extra ACE bandage, a prescription for crutches, and a starter bottle of painkillers.
“Demodectic mange,” said Dr. Susan, the vet at the animal hospital, after examining the dog. “And a deep scratch across his eye.” The dog was about eighteen months old, she said, and a red-nosed pit bull, which made him sound festive, like a reindeer at Christmas. I was given a paper bag filled with medicated shampoo, ear mite drops, eyedrops, heartwormer, an appointment to remove his doghood when he was stronger, and a bill for $312. The dog got a warm, sudsy bath from the vet’s groomer, three shots, a new bright green leash, a leather collar, and, even though he shook violently and held his head and tail fearfully between his legs the whole time, a bag of cookies for being brave.
“What are all these weird marks?” I asked the vet, pointing to the white lines that covered the dog’s chest and muzzle.
She peered at them. “Scars,” she said. “It looks like he was used as a bait dog. They always get torn up pretty bad around the front part of their body.”
I touched his head gently and let my hand linger.
Oh, he had been brave. He had been so very brave.
* * *
“You want to go back home or to the Galley?” Sam asked me as we rounded Beach Fourteen.
“How did you know about the Galley?”
“When I mentioned your name to my aunt, she told me all about you,” he said. “She said you were a lovely person and a loyal client.”
Yep, her salon was so conveniently close I had reluctantly joined the ranks of loyal clients with bad haircuts.
“She told me what happened,” he said. “I’m sorry for your losses.”
“Thank you.”
“If you ever want to talk to someone,” he added softly, “I’m a good listener.”
“I’m not a good talker,” I replied.
Shay was tidying behind the counter when Sam opened the door, her face registering surprise as I hobbled through, Sam and the dog following, but not before Sam gave the interior a quick glance over and placed his back against an aisle of cereal.
“It’s demodectic mange,” I announced.
“On your ankle?” she asked, surprised.
“On the dog.” I pointed to him. “I have a bad sprain.”
“Oh! I was so worried.” She gave me a hug. “I was afraid you had broken it. Why don’t you go home, so you can stay off your foot? I can handle things.”
I laughed. “When is the last time I took a day off?”
“Never,” she said, making a face. “Does it hurt a lot?”
The painkillers had kicked in by now “No,” I replied. “It’s quite excellent. I’m actually enjoying it.”
“And it looks like you made a friend,” she added. “I knew you two needed each other.”
Sam flushed and looked at his shoes.
“He spent the night with me,” I said. “Crawled into my bed without my permission.” Sam turned even redder. Then I realized what he was thinking. “The dog,” I quickly added. We all nodded at one another in relief.
Shay was on top of things. “And you are?” She held her hand out to Sam.
“Sam,” I introduced him. “We met on the pier after I sprained my ankle. He was kind enough to drive me to the doctor this morning.” Sam shuffled in embarrassment.
“Shay is my best friend,” I said to him.
They shook hands solemnly. “Well, thank you for taking care of her,” Shay said. “Aila is too independent sometimes. I worry about her.”
“It was my pleasure,” he replied, and gave her a shy grin.
Shay surveyed him. I just knew she and I were going to have a meaningful conversation after he left. Something along the lines of how happy she was that I was finally reaching out and letting my guard down and that he seemed like a very nice man.
She invited him to join us for lunch. “We usually make something special for ourselves that we call the Sandwich,” she explained. “It has to be spoken with a capital S.”
“Liverwurst with Swiss cheese, tomato, anchovies, pickles, potato chips, and extra mustard and mayo,” I added. It was listed on the Galley chalkboard as the S&A Sandwich Special although there was very little call for it. The ingredients in the sandwich had evolved over several years, growing more populous with passing time. The chips were fairly recent.
“On rye,” Shay said. “The rye is crucial.”
He didn’t flinch. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’d better be going. I can see you’re going to have a busy day and I promised my aunt I’d do a few repairs around the house for her.”
“Then you have to let me give you my homemade bread,” I said, hopping behind the counter to retrieve a loaf of pecan-cranberry bread. “I really appreciate your kindness today.”
He took the bread and thanked me. I thanked him for driving me. He thanked me for offering him lunch, ma’amed me half a dozen times while I thanked him for being so polite. After finally running out of pleasantries, we both took a deep breath. He smiled at me and left.
“So,” started Shay, pouring us coffee while I made two Sandwiches. “I’m happy that you’re finally letting your guard down. He seems like a really nice guy and it’s about time you allowed yourself to reach out.”
“I knew you were going to say that,” I said, throwing the dog a thick slice of liverwurst so he would stop salivating on my soft cast.
“I knew that you knew,” Shay said, taking a bite of her sandwich, then holding it away from her mouth, as though she was reluctant to chew it.
“What?” I asked. “Not enough chips?” She shook her head, started to take a second bite, and stopped, finally putting the sandwich back on her plate. “I don’t think I’m very hungry.”
Something was up. How anyone could turn down the Galley Special was beyond me. “Toothache?” I asked. “Headache?”
“It’s nothing.” She got up and wiped off the counter, then restacked the newspapers, then took the liverwurst from the cold cut case and rewrapped it, then wiped off the counter, then started a fresh pot of coffee, then wiped off the counter—
“Okay, what’s going on?” I asked.
“Just want to get—you know—stuff done so, you know, you don’t have to hop all over the place on your foot.”
“Liar.”
She paused for a long moment before taking a quivery breath. “Okay. There is something I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” I said. “I hope it isn’t that you are happy that I’m finally letting my guard down and reaching out—”
“No,” she said, interrupting me. “We covered that already.” She stood facing me, her expression serious. I looked up into her eyes, dark and kind and full of affection. “I can’t eat the Sandwich because it’s making me sick.”
“What? How is that possible? It’s our favorite! We always—”
She put her hand on my arm and interrupted me. “Aila, I’m pregnant.”
“Shay!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. Actually, foot. “I am so happy for you!”
I was happy for her and stricken at the same time. We had always promised we would try to get pregnant together so that our children would grow up and become sisters. And now it had just become impossible. Forever impossible. She looked uncertain. I threw my arms around her and hugged her. “I am happy for you,” I said truthfully, lavishing kisses all over her face. “Thrilled and filled with joy.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes!” We hugged again. “It’s the best news! You’re going to have a beautiful baby! And I am going to be the crazy aunt, and feed it ground-up liverwurst and pickles in its morning bottle.”
She gave me a glorious smile.
We worked together for the rest of the day, trying to come up with names for the baby, although she had no idea yet what it was.
“Oceana, if it’s a girl!” I called out.
“Tug for a boy!” she called back, giggling.
“Anemone!”
“Surf Dude!” We were practically rolling on the floor by now.
That was our last name; we were stumped after that. And after preparing forty-five sandwiches, selling twenty Fleetbourne T-shirts—extra large—plus all the rest of the pecan-cranberry loaves, we were ready to close. It was four o’clock. Shay gave me and the dog a lift home. I kissed her on the cheek and watched her bright yellow Fiat whiz down Beach One until it was out of sight.
And then I burst into tears.
Chapter 7
The fading sun spread soft peach light across a pale gray sky, drizzling it through the clouds and over the beach, like warm jam. The breeze toyed with my hair but didn’t intrude as I sat in the rocking chair on the deck, my leg propped up. The dog seemed to understand that my foot hurt and was sitting a safe distance from me with a concerned expression. The seagulls weren’t so forgiving; they dove at the deck, squealing angrily at me for having forgotten their bread again.
“It’s not like it would have definitely worked out anyway,” I told the dog. “There’s no guarantee that I would have gotten pregnant. And our kids might have even hated each other.”
He looked up at me solemnly.
“I want the best for Shay,” I added. “She deserves it.” He sniffed toward the water. The beach was empty. Small powerboats zipped across the bay; a guy was water-skiing behind one of them and waved to me. I waved back, though I was certain we didn’t know each other.
“No beach today,” I said. “It’s just too hard to walk on the sand.”
The dog stretched himself across the deck and stared up at me.
“We both wanted girls, you know,” I continued. “Shay and me. I bet you it’s going to be a girl.” He crept a little closer, put his head down between his paws, his mangled half ear perking up, as though to say, Go ahead; I’m still listening.
“Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe I should never have kids,” I went on morosely. “My grandma was crazy, you know. I might have crazy genes.” The boat turned hard; the skier slid sideways and wiped out. The boat powered a circle and someone leaned overboard to pull him back in. A member of his family? Other than my mother, I had no family. Maybe I would never have family. The dog was still listening.
“My grandma Ida was the town crazy,” I began.
My grandmother Ida had long been known to the locals as Crazy Ida because she danced in the bay, fully clothed, no matter the weather, and sang, arms outstretched and her face turned full tilt to the sky. She was especially active when there was a full moon. I used to stand on the beach and watch her.
My sweetheart’s the man in the moon. I’m going to marry him soon....
Why she chose that song I’ll never know. It dated back to the 1890s or so, but I thought everyone’s grandma sang in public, with or without the water, until I hit third grade and realized she was the only one in Fleetbourne, in all of Cape Cod, possibly the entire world, or maybe the entire universe including the Milky Way and Andromeda, who did that.
During the day, my parents spent long hours running the Galley while my grandmother babysat me. Every morning she would wheel me in my stroller down to the water’s edge, park me there, and then roll up her slacks and dance in the water as the tide lapped around her legs. On brisk days she layered herself in heavy clothing, swathed me in extra blankets, and parked me out of re
ach of the tide. Snow blended into her white hair and melted into the water, the wind turned her face scarlet and her hands nearly blue, but still she danced. Her voice carried far—it was said on windy days you could hear her across the bay and all the way into Provincetown proper.
Crazy Ida.
It was because she loved the ocean. Loved the way it smelled, the way it moved, the creatures it harbored, the stars it captured at night and reflected back. Her dance was a tribute to the sea, she once told me when I got old enough to understand. She would have been a sailor. She would have lived on the ocean, swum its entirety, traveled its lanes to every country in the world, sailed to the moon, if she could. But it was the wrong time. She could only dance in it, and let the water and her helplessness and her anger and her disappointment roll off her shoulders and fall back into the sea.
As I got older, I was teased. It wasn’t easy being the granddaughter of Crazy Ida.
“Everyone has a little crazy in them, for all sorts of reasons,” she told me once when she caught me crying bitterly after I had just gotten home from school after a particularly rough session from the class bully. “It’s good to let it out.”
“Everyone says you’re crazy,” I said through sobs. “And that maybe I am, too.”
“And that’s a good thing,” she said, giving me a kiss on my head. “Because you can never be more free.”
If I stared at the bay, I could almost see her figure in the water, her arms held aloft, her pants billowing around her legs.
My sweetheart’s the man in the moon. I’m going to marry him soon....
I needed her. I grabbed my crutches and hopped down the steps to the sand. The dog sighed and followed along.
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 4
