* * *
Two people behind me were holding a distracting conversation. An older woman with a red sweater and a younger one in a blue jacket.
“Right in Wellfall,” the red sweater was saying. “Got attacked in the showroom.”
“Arab,” replied the blue jacket. “Someone said he was an Arab.”
“You know what they are,” the red sweater added.
“Muslim,” the blue jacket agreed. “Came in and ordered a couple of trucks to ship to ISIS.”
My heart stopped beating and I half-turned to hear better. I knew right away who they were discussing.
“The salesman refused—” Red Sweater started.
“Smart guy,” Blue Jacket interrupted. “He sure caught on fast—”
“I heard he threw the guy out and then the guy’s pit bull attacked him!” Red Sweater finished with a flourish.
My heart was pounding. There was no question it was about Sam, and it was all wrong, all horribly wrong. I turned to face them.
“No, no,” I said, “I was there. The guy was an American—a vet, a soldier who just wanted to buy a car. The salesman didn’t want to sell to him because he was Muslim. The dog just barked. It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Your order is ready.” The girl behind the counter held my food out to me.
“I heard it was one of those homegrown terrorists,” said the red sweater adamantly.
“I heard it, too,” agreed the blue jacket. “And we come from Wellfall, so we would know.”
They stepped up to the counter to order. I stared at their backs. How did you fix that? Heartsick, I took my bag and left.
* * *
Two words kept repeating in my mind as I drove home. Dune fire. This story was going to spread like a dune fire. Nothing moves faster. It races along the shore, ravaging everything it touches, decimating the tall, dry beach grasses with their delicate pink plumes, nesting birds, turtles, taking it all, taking everything; everything in its path is consumed without mercy until nothing is left but ashes.
I wanted to call Sam immediately, drive to the dealership and pound the big glass show windows until they shattered. I wanted to summon the gods and the newspapers and straighten it all out with the truth. But I had to think things through.
First of all, I wasn’t sure Sam was up to handling such news; he seemed so troubled during dinner the night before. I needed to have some kind of solution in place before I spoke to him. And I needed to protect the dog.
There had to be witnesses; we hadn’t been the only ones in the showroom, though I doubted that the other salesmen would back us up. Maybe there were video cameras in place, but getting access to them before they were tampered with would be a major problem. What could I do? I wished I had family. I wished I had my father, who was so pragmatic, or Dan, who was always calm and sensible. Even my mother, when she was my mother, was full of good advice and common sense.
* * *
I opened my kitchen door and slipped inside. The dog came to me with an air of apology. There was trash on the kitchen floor again, but I didn’t care. I dropped to my knees and threw my arms around his neck.
“Life is so tricky,” I said, burying my face against him. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know what to do.” I burst into tears; my stomach was in knots. He just sat patiently, wrapped in my arms, sniffing hopefully at the hamburgers, his eyes on the bag. He knew I would never let him come to harm, even if I didn’t know how to manage it right now. I promised I would keep him safe, poor orphan that he was, and asked him to keep me safe. He licked my face. He loved me, I knew that. And he was trying so hard to be my family.
“What a good boy,” I murmured. Then I opened the bag of burgers and fed both of them to him. He gulped them down and gave me a pickle-scented kiss. Maybe I wasn’t an orphan as long as I had him.
I guess that’s what pit bulls are really for.
* * *
There were already three messages on my answering machine.
The first two were from Shay. “Exactly what went on when you and Sam were shopping for a car?” she asked calmly from the phone before her voice rose. “I think maybe you left out the best part of the story. A big part. You better call me.”
The second one was from Sam. “I know you’re with your mother tonight, but my aunt Phyllis just told me the craziest thing. We got to talk. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get your dog in trouble.”
The third call was also from Shay. “Okay, okay. Terrell knows a lawyer. His name is Lawrence LaSalle, LLD. He plays the banjo and he sings a little flat, but he said he would help you. I know you’re with your mom, so if you can’t call me back tonight I’ll talk to you at the Galley tomorrow.”
* * *
“Calm down,” Shay said to me first thing as we opened the Galley the next morning. “Calm down.” I hadn’t said anything yet, but she was bristling with nerves. “It’s going to be business as usual. We’re not going to let on that anything is wrong.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Just stay calm. It’s a stupid rumor,” she went on. “We’re not going to say anything, and if anyone mentions it we’ll just laugh it off.”
“Okay.”
“And maybe we should keep the dog—damn, why don’t you give him a name already?—keep him under wraps.”
“Okay.” Of course I had brought the dog with me; he was now behind the counter eating his breakfast. “How do I do that?”
“One idea he might like a lot,” she mused.
“Which is?”
“Lock him in the back kitchen with a box of snacks.”
* * *
Mrs. Skipper was, as usual, the first customer of the day. She took a shopping basket from the stack and headed for the back of the store.
“Go make bread,” Shay whispered to me, shooing me out from behind the front counter. “I’ll take care of Mrs. Skipper.” I headed for the little kitchen, joining the dog. I would keep myself busy and not worry. Okay, maybe I stood in the kitchen door with my eye pressed to the crack, peering out, staring at the back of Mrs. Skipper’s blue sweater.
She seemed to take an inordinately long amount of time to select her groceries. She pondered over a small box of spaghetti as though purchasing it would affect the future of Italy. Then she picked up a box of cornflakes and shook it hard to determine whether it was full. Next came a can of tomato soup; yes, she seemed to decide, it would go great on the spaghetti with butter and cheese, a recipe she had once shared with me. She selected a few more items before finally standing at the front counter. I switched from my eye to my ear.
“Two cherry Danishes,” she ordered. “You know, the fresh ones.”
“Everything is fresh here,” Shay replied politely, taking a piece of white bakery tissue and picking up the Danishes.
Mrs. Skipper watched her carefully, then sighed loudly. “I don’t know if I’ll be coming here anymore,” she said. “I heard about that dog and I’m not surprised. Attacking that poor car salesman. Who would ever want to bite a car salesman? You know, he growled at me last time I was in. And then he tried to jump over the counter, if you remember. He’s very dangerous.”
“Car salesmen can get very aggressive,” Shay replied coolly.
“The dog,” said Mrs. Skipper. “I told you the last time I was in that he was dangerous. He almost bit me when I started to pay for my groceries.”
I was next to her in a flash. “What day was that, Mrs. Skipper?” I asked with faux concern.
“Last time I was in,” she repeated, whirling around to face me. “He was growling viciously. I even complained about it.”
“It never happened,” Shay said firmly.
Mrs. Skipper looked from Shay to me. “Did so,” she said.
“Maybe you can tell us what specific day it was, since I only just got him last week,” I said.
“Tuesday,” she answered firmly. “I remember because I picked up my mail and got a letter from my niece. Her granddaughter j
ust graduated college and wanted to—”
I interrupted her. “He was at the vet on Tuesday,” I said. “Went for his shots.”
“Then it was Thursday,” Mrs. Skipper said.
“That’s the day I took him to the town clerk to get his license,” I replied calmly.
“I’m sure it was last week,” she said.
“We have video cameras set up, Mrs. Skipper,” I said. “Just for our customers’ protection. All over the store.” I paused to let it sink in. “Outside, too.”
Shay was right on it. “We’ll take some time tonight, after we close, and go over all the videos,” she said. “Since he was here only three days last week and you don’t come on the weekends, the video should be easy to find.”
“I’ll have to think on this,” Mrs. Skipper murmured, taking out her little gold beaded purse to pay for her groceries. “Maybe it was Mr. Castro’s big dog at the gas station. He can be mean.”
“That dog is fifteen years old and blind in one eye,” I reminded her.
“Could be Miss Phyllis’s pink poodle,” she reflected. “Had my hair done on Friday.”
“He doesn’t have teeth,” I said. “Just an old toothless pink poodle.”
“Gums can do a lot of damage,” she said, “but now that I think, I’m certain it was your dog.” She left without a glance back at us, slamming the door behind her hard enough that the hanging bell hit the glass and rang loudly.
Shay turned to me “Video cameras?” she asked, a half smile playing on her lips. “Inside and out?”
“Not a one,” I admitted, “but guess what I’m buying this afternoon.”
“Am I going to have to start wearing makeup again?” She sighed. “I’m pregnant. I don’t have the energy to even look in the mirror.”
* * *
At the end of the day, I bought two video cameras and dropped them off at the Galley. Even in the dark, I knew where everything was, the store was so comfortingly familiar. I stood by the front counter and peered through the darkness, seeing more from memory than anything. My store. There were ghosts here. My father stirring a big pile of home fries on the flattop. My mother making change at the register. My grandmother sneaking a pack of rolling papers into her pocket. Customers. Friends. Recollections. I didn’t want things to change, I loved the old white marble counters worn from years of being wiped down, the food cases, the whiteboard with Marine Conditions hanging on the wall with the day’s forecast in Shay’s handwriting. My heart was here. The Galley was a member of my family.
But I had a prickling feeling that things were going to change and that I wasn’t going to like it.
Chapter 18
It was the usual morning. Fleeties and tourists piling in, orders coming fast, good-natured conversation swirling around us, discussions about the weather and the prospect of seeing a great white in local waters, which they had been frequenting. When we had a break, Shay wrote the Marine Conditions for the day.
Small waves, south-southeast 4 sec, high tide 1:18 p.m. low tide 7:06 a.m. calm winds
“I love doing this!” she called over her shoulder. “I feel like I’m influencing the weather.”
“We need a place to sit!” yelled one man waving his egg sandwich in the air. He was in a lime green Welcome to Fleetbourne shirt, size triple X, which I remembered selling to him the day before.
“Would be nice if there was a breakfast place in town,” a second man, tall and slim, agreed. I listened in while juggling a dozen ham and egg sandwiches.
“Somebody should open a little café in this town!” called out a woman in a pink seagull Fleetbourne tee.
I caught Shay raising her eyebrows at me and flashing me the look that said, “I’ve been telling you the same thing.”
“Hear that? A place to sit,” she murmured to me as we crossed paths in front of the Portuguese muffins.
I was about to reply with something snarky when the store suddenly grew quiet for just an instant before the chatter started up again. I turned around, curious, and saw that a woman had made her way to the counter. She was wearing slacks, a pale blue blouse, her head covered with a pale blue hijab.
“Hi.” I smiled at her. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I’d like a muffin with butter and jam, and a coffee, light and sweet.”
I knew right away she was related to Sam, most likely his mother. They shared the same round eyes—though her eyes were lighter—and had the same pleasantly generous mouth.
“Toasted muffin?” I asked. She nodded. I knew she was watching me. I could feel her studying my back when I turned away to slice the muffin and slip it into the toaster, and my face as I buttered it and fixed her coffee. She was closely scrutinizing my every move.
“Light and sweet, please,” she repeated, revealing there was a definite sweet tooth in the family genes as well. I added two more sugars.
“I remember your father, Aila,” she said, and it surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. After all, she was Miss Phyllis’s sister and a Reyes daughter, from one of the original settler families, who had lived here since forever. I could see her resemblance to her sister right away. “He was such a nice man,” she added.
My dad was a nice man, I thought with an ache.
“I’ve been living in Jordan,” she said. “So I didn’t know that he passed until my sister told me. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yes,” I answered breathily, holding back sudden tears. “Thank you.” She paid me and left.
I turned to Shay. “I just met Sam’s mother.”
She gave me a good-natured poke. “Well, things must be getting serious, meeting the parent.”
But the mood was different among our customers. “Now we got them in town?” Tall and Slim muttered to no one.
“They’re everywhere,” agreed Triple X. “Like roaches. All over Boston—with the rags on their heads.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Shay and I had had many discussions about how to handle bigoted remarks that occasionally came across the counter. What to say? We both wanted to respect our customers and not jeopardize business, but not to say something was to give the idea that we might condone it. It was like walking along the edge of a cliff. The solution, we decided, was to remain neutral and educational, to hold ourselves above our anger but be firm in our rebuttal.
“Excuse me,” I said to Triple X. “I won’t have you talk like that in my store. That woman grew up right here in Fleetbourne, not that it matters.”
“Dressed like that?” Triple X asked sharply.
“I thought we were free to dress any way we want in this country,” I replied, trying not to eye his lime green triple X Fleetbourne shirt with the whale swimming across his stomach, for which I do take responsibility. I added in a regretful but kindly tone, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you continue.”
“Sure, honey.” He pushed close to the counter and leaned in. “Let’s see how your little business does when you start losing your American customers.” He paid for his sandwich and left. A few people silently made their purchases and followed.
“I don’t like what I’m hearing,” I said to Shay when we had a moment.
She made a face. “Times are changing,” she agreed. “The loonies have been given permission to crawl out of the woodwork. We are regressing from bigotry to officially condoned hatred.”
* * *
The phone rang almost as soon as the dog and I got home from work. It was Mrs. Hummings, the town clerk.
“Aila,” she said, “I got an inquiry about your dog.”
“What kind of inquiry?” I asked. “He’s not up for adoption. Yet.”
“The lawyer for a car salesman over in Wellfall called me and asked how many pit bulls were in the dog license registry,” she said. “I told him we have only two. Yours and Bill Castro’s, who owns the gas station.”
“I never said that my dog was a pit bull!” I exclaimed. “I said he was a mixed breed. We�
�re not sure at all what he is. He could be a boxer mix or Great Dane—they all have the same kind of head.”
“Well, no matter what he is, the lawyer says he has a video from the store of your dog biting his client.”
It was a struggle to remain calm. A video of it was impossible, I knew, but I feared that something might have been tampered with. “It’s just not true,” I said.
“Aila, I don’t know who is right, but I suggest you get a lawyer,” Mrs. Hummings replied sympathetically. “You don’t want Animal Control to impound your dog.”
The words shocked me. “I didn’t even know we have Animal Control.”
“Well, actually we don’t,” she said. “It’s the police. They take on the job if there are any complaints.”
“Thank you for the warning, Mrs. Hummings,” I said. “The whole thing is a terrible lie, but I will get to the bottom of it.”
“And one more thing,” she said. “The deadline for getting his dangles removed was a few days ago, but I will give you extra time. I know how busy you get at the Galley in the summer.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hummings.”
“Good luck, dear.”
I hung up the phone and sat down on a kitchen chair. The dog immediately sat next to me and stared up questioningly into my eyes. He looked healthy now since he had put on a little weight and his coat had grown in, filling the gaps across his skin like a jigsaw puzzle getting solved. His face had lost its haunted look, replaced now with an expression of tranquility, and typical of his breed, he seemed to happily anticipate my every move so that he could leap to his feet and be of service, even though most of the time he wound up either tripping me or body slamming me into the nearest wall.
He was still staring up at me, and I thought I saw the smallest glimmer of a smile.
“Good boy,” I said, rubbing his head. “I’m going to make an appointment to get your dangles off.”
He licked my hand and blinked his eyes a few times, full of affection and pure trust backed up by the purest of dog hearts. I leaned over to kiss him on his head, blinking back tears. Why was I getting so emotional over a routine neuter surgery? It doesn’t take long, and he’d be home for dinner.
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 11
