Jory’s second favorite room in the house was her father’s study. She loved the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the smell of rich Corinthian leather-bound books. The shelves covered one entire wall, half devoted to a legal library, the other full of old classics and modern-day novels. She’d dusted each book, replacing it exactly where she found it, often reading a line or two.
The desk was solid mahogany with a layer of glass on top. She hadn’t thrown anything away, preferring to clean, dust, and preserve everything. It was all she had now. Things. Stuff. There was a phone, a brass lamp, and a leather cup full of pencils and pens. A twelve-inch ruler stuck out of the cup and looked out of place, but she didn’t care. The drawers were full of dozens of legal pads, memo pads, folders with partial case histories, some of her father’s personal papers, letters from friends, some from criminals. A recording machine was in the bottom drawer. She had no idea how it worked. One of the drawers had been locked. Certain there was something of importance in it, she’d pried it open with the tip of her nail file. Inside was a loaded gun. It had taken her fifteen minutes to figure out how to take the bullets out. The gun was still there, the bullets in a coffee can in the garage. She shivered the way she had the day she found the gun.
She moved on, loving the smell of the lemon wax, the faint scent of the pine cleaner she’d used on the area carpets, the even fainter scent of the vinegar she’d used to clean the windows. The cover on the Underwood typewriter was real leather, and she’d oiled that too.
Jory sat down on her father’s chair and leaned back. She had to think about what she was going to say in the note to Ross. All week she’d been playing variations back and forth in her mind. She didn’t feel comfortable with anything she’d come up with. All of them seemed to her to hold some kind of hidden meaning, a faint hope that he would change his mind about the divorce. Hope springs eternal, said the poet. She clucked her tongue at the thought.
The cover came off the typewriter with a flourish. From the second drawer of the desk she withdrew a sheet of her father’s legal stationery. She crossed out his name and added her own above the address. She dropped down six spaces, dated the letter, added Ross’s address, and then dropped down another six spaces.
Dear Ross,
As you can see by the address at the top of this letter, I have moved back to Chestnut Hill. Please send any correspondence here.
Before I left Florida I changed my name back to Ryan. I hope this doesn’t present a problem for you.
Sincerely,
Marjory Ryan
“That pretty much says it all,” Jory muttered as she typed out Ross’s address on the stiff, crackly white envelope. “Done!” She covered the typewriter, pushed the swivel chair back into place, added a stamp to the envelope, and carried it to the front hallway, where she laid it on the table that had always held mail. She’d mail it tomorrow.
Jory felt anxious, at odds with herself. She wished for a friend, a pet, someone to talk to. Maybe she should think about getting a cat or a dog. In Florida she’d had a fish tank, but she’d sold that before she left. Fish weren’t pets, they were something to look at and feed. Never a pet. She’d need to get involved in something, something besides a job. She needed to meet people, to do things. She needed to be so busy, she told herself, that she didn’t have time to think.
Jory reached for a cable-stitched sweater hanging on the hat rack next to the mail table. A walk might ease the tension building between her shoulder blades.
She walked aimlessly down Gravers Lane, nodding to other strollers, her hands jammed into the pockets of her slacks. It smelled like autumn already, her favorite time of the year. She’d missed the seasons in Florida. When she was a child, she’d played in the leaves, been breathless when the first pumpkins ripened. One year when she was thirteen she’d fashioned a scarecrow with corn stalks she purchased from the outdoor market with her allowance. She’d propped it up on the milk box by the front door. Her father threw it in the trash that same night, saying she was too big for such nonsense. He hadn’t gone into the kitchen, so he didn’t see the pumpkin. He did see it the following day, though, and hadn’t touched it. She never understood what the difference was between a scarecrow and a pumpkin. If she was too old for scarecrows, it meant she was grown-up. That weekend she’d taken all of her allowance and rushed to the nearest dime store, where she spent it all on Maybelline cosmetics. For a while, until she learned how to apply the makeup, she alternated between looking like a raccoon and a real scarecrow.
She laughed when she remembered the greasy red lipstick and Billy Stevens telling her she had kissable lips. Boys noticed her, really noticed her, juniors and seniors, because the makeup made her look older than she was. When she met Ross and his college friends, she looked like she was twenty-five instead of seventeen going on eighteen. She’d lied to them and said she was twenty-two, had just graduated from Villanova, and was going to go for her master’s in September. No one had questioned her age, not Ross, not Woo, none of his friends. Her face still burned with shame when she thought of all the things she’d done to snag Ross.
Now, she ran, her feet slapping on the pavement, until she was winded. She had to stop thinking about the past. She couldn’t undo it, couldn’t make it right. All she could do was move forward and not look back. Damn, the lace on one of her sneakers was untied. She bent down to tie it She saw him then, he was caught in the low growth of a rosebush. He was fat, and all stomach and mewling softly. Poor thing, how long had he been caught like this? She pricked herself a dozen times until she got him untangled. How fast his little heart was beating. A small pink tongue licked at her face.
“Yoo hoo,” Jory called as she walked around to the back of the house, where she could see a light. She could hear children squabbling, the sound of a radio playing and dogs yipping. Over all the din she could hear a masculine voice say, “I told you to find the dog. Do you want it to get hit by a car?”
“We looked and looked,” a chorus of voices whined. “Someone stole him.”
Jory called again as she walked up the steps of the back porch. She could see four children, a frazzled-looking man who must be the father, and what looked like a dozen dogs scampering around the kitchen floor. She saw two of them pee, the others sniffing the wet spots. One of the children stepped in the puddles while another child kicked the dog’s food dish across the floor. The puppies beelined for the spilled food. The father said, “Oh Jesus, I really need this!” Where, Jory wondered, was the mother who she knew would have the situation under control in minutes? A moment later she had her answer. “Your mother said she had things under control when she left for her canasta game.”
“She did, she did, Mickey tipped the box over,” a cherub with a high-pitched voice said. During that one moment of silence while the father debated his answer Jory knocked on the door.
“Is this puppy yours?” she asked when she saw him. “I found him stuck in the rosebush.”
“See, Dad, here he is,” the cherub said. “Now Mom won’t be mad when we tell her what happened. They’re all boy dogs,” he said to Jory.
“I can see that. What a lucky little boy you are to have so many puppies.”
“Do you want some?”
Some. Not one. Did she? She handed over the puppy to the man, whose hair was standing on end. She smiled. “I think you need a bigger box.”
“I think what we need is to get rid of these puppies. Who wants eight puppies? Four are promised. We think. Thanks for bringing this little guy back. Which one is he?” he asked the four kids.
“Clancy.” Jory giggled as the kids ran off the roll call.
“So, miss, are you interested? They go to the pound tomorrow. We can’t handle them. I’ve a mind to send these kids right along with them.”
“Aw, Dad,” the oldest said.
“Don’t ‘Aw Dad’ me. We said if you couldn’t find homes for them, they had to go. We had a family meeting, we all agreed.”
“Which ones aren
’t taken?” Jory asked. She wasn’t taking one of these dogs. Not till her life was settled.
The cherub pointed. “Clancy, Murphy, Sam, and Bernie.”
“What kind of dogs are they?” Jory asked. It didn’t hurt to ask. She’d always been a curious person.
“Part Yorkshire, part something else. Actually, the other half is a mystery. They won’t shed. At least I don’t think they will.”
“They poop a lot,” the cherub said. Jory thought she saw an evil glint in his eye.
“You have to put lots of paper down,” one of the kids said.
A three-year-old with half his supper on his T-shirt mumbled something that sounded like, “They slop when they eat and you have to wash their heinie because poop sticks on it.”
“Guess that killed this offer,” the father said, holding out his hand. “Tom Reynolds.”
“Jory Ryan, I live on Gravers Lane.”
“Are you Jake Ryan’s daughter?”
“Yes, I am. Did you know my father?”
“Only by reputation and to nod when we passed one another. I heard someone was living in the house, but didn’t know if it was sold or not. You got a lot of property out there. Might be a good idea to have a dog.”
“Yes, but which one?” She didn’t just say that, did she?
“They all have good dispositions. Why don’t you take the four of them and make your decision tomorrow? You can bring the others back when you decide. They’ve had their shots, and I’ll give you enough food for the morning. Great little guys, they love people. Come on, don’t you feel sorry for us?” Reynolds wheedled. “The kids will help you with them.”
Before she knew what she was doing, she had Clancy in her arms, the boy with the evil glint in his eye had either Murphy or Sam, and the oldest boy had Bernie and one other.
“If I decide I don’t want any of them, can I bring them all back?” Jory asked in a feeble voice.
“Absolutely,” Reynolds said.
“You’re sure you’ll be here tomorrow?”
“My wife will be here, I’ll be at work during the day. The kids are going back to school.”
The walk to Gravers Lane was an experience Jory didn’t think she’d ever forget. The fat, frisky puppies struggled until the boys, giggling happily, allowed them to trot alongside them. The kids shrieked with laughter when the fattest of the puppies squatted in the middle of the road. “Murphy has the splats,” one of the boys said, smirking. “You need lots of papers.” His business done, Murphy and the other puppies leapfrogged ahead, tumbling end over end. Jory no longer knew which one was Murphy.
Inside Jory’s kitchen the kids dumped the puppies on the tile floor and backed out the door. The oldest looked wistful when he said, “They don’t poop in their box. They don’t like the box. They like to see what’s going on. They . . .” He struggled for the right word. “. . . whimper at night. Sally doesn’t want to be bothered with them anymore, and Mom said she’s tired.” Jory deduced that Sally was the dog’s mother. The boy, seven at the most, advanced a step and said, “You’ll take care of them, woncha? My friend says when you take dogs to the pound, they make them go to sleep and they don’t wake up.” Suddenly he dropped to his knees and fondled all the pups who rushed to him. Jory felt a lump in the middle of her throat.
“I’ll take care of them. Have a nice day at school tomorrow. Do you want me to walk you home?”
The little boy looked disgusted. “I’m not afraid of the dark. I know my way. ’Sides, you can’t leave them alone. Bernie likes to chew stuff. You gotta watch them. Can I come over and see them after school?”
“Well, yeah, but listen, I didn’t say I was going to . . . your dad said . . .”
“I know what he said, he’s taking them to the pound if no one wants them. It’s not Sally’s fault. Some dog smelled her and dug a hole under the fence and Sally got puppies. It’s not Sally’s fault,” he said, running out the door, where his brothers waited for him.
They were adorable, Jory thought. They’d be company in the evenings. But how would they fare if she got a job working eight to five? They would have each other for company. Lord, she was making it sound like she was really going to keep them. No one in their right mind took on four dogs. Grown, they’d be a handful; as puppies, she’d go out of her mind. She didn’t even know which one was which. She supposed she could wait for Murphy, or was it Bernie, to have the splats, and then she’d know at least one. As if the puppies read her mind, one squatted. Brown stuff splattered all over the kitchen floor. She reached for the paper towels and then burst out laughing as the four puppies sat back on their pudgy haunches to observe the cleaning-up process.
“This is a mistake,” she said aloud. “You don’t make mistakes anymore. You don’t do impulsive things the way you used to. You think things through.” Four sets of eyes watched her every move. She looked at them. “This is temporary. Tomorrow you are going . . . I will take you . . . damn it, don’t look at me like that! I’m a nice person. I don’t know anything about dogs. You’ll drive me crazy. I don’t have time for you. You belong with children who will run and play with you. I’m old. I just know one of you is going to be a chewer. I don’t have a box for you. You need beds. You’re going to miss your mother. Just tonight. God, you smell. Listen, I had . . . have my life all planned. It does not include any of you. You’re sweet, lovable and . . . you’re going to be so much trouble, and I don’t know if the good can outweigh all the mischief I know you will . . . maybe if I had a book on dogs, knew the rules . . . but I don’t. I just know you’re going to yip all night long. I’m not going to get any sleep, and tomorrow I have to go into town and see about getting a job. How’s it going to look when I have dark circles under my eyes? I can see that you are all really worried about my well-being,” Jory said sourly. “Okay, here’s the game plan. I’m giving each of you a bath. Then I’m going to bed, and so are you.”
Ninety minutes later Jory was soaked to the skin, the floor of the laundry room a disaster. Wet dog fur smelled almost as bad as dry dog fur. She couldn’t make up her mind if Prell shampoo was worse or better than the dog smell. In spite of herself, Jory broke out in a fit of giggles when the puppies squirmed together into a ball. They looked like a giant fur muff. They looked exhausted, their eyes closing wearily. From her knitting bag in the laundry room, Jory cut lengths of colored yarn. Red was Clancy, blue was Murphy, yellow was Bernie, and green was Sam. She wrote the dogs’ names and their string colors on the notepad by the kitchen phone. It didn’t mean she was going to keep them. All it meant was she was going to return them clean and by name.
Jory bent over to fondle their ears and to say good night. They were shivering, huddling together for warmth. “Okay, okay, this doesn’t mean anything,” she said, wrapping the four shaking puppies in a fluffy pink bath towel. She thought she heard a collective sigh of relief when she carried them upstairs and placed them on the end of her bed. “Don’t move,” she warned as she stripped off her wet clothes and put on her pajamas. She looked at them again when she pulled down the bedspread and fluffed her pillows. They were sound asleep, one fat ball of fur. She found herself inching her way to the center of the bed, paying careful attention to her legs so she wouldn’t wake her roommates. She slept peacefully and dreamlessly until four o’clock, when she felt four tiny pink tongues lick at her face. She woke instantly, a smile on her face. She tussled with the dogs until she remembered what came next. She leaped from the bed, grabbed the towel and wrapped the squirming puppies together. She raced down the stairs and out to the yard. “Now, go!” she ordered. As one, the pups performed. Jory clapped her hands in approval as she praised them. “Now what do we do, it’s not even light out yet?” she demanded, padding her way back into the kitchen.
“Breakfast is good. Always start the day with a good breakfast and you can handle anything,” she muttered. In desperation, the dogs under her feet, Jory reached for the wax paper and ripped off four pieces, scrunching them into tight balls
. She tossed them on the floor. The furry streaks of movement made her dizzy as she measured out coffee and added bacon to the frying pan. She added four extra slices. While the bacon sizzled, she whipped eggs in a bright yellow bowl. “At least I’m going to give you a send-off complete with a good breakfast.” She eyed the small bowl of hard green pellets. “This,” she said, “would give anyone the splats.” She made toast for herself and two extra pieces, which she soaked in milk.
Jory forgot her own breakfast as she set the four plates side by side on the floor. It was fun, almost like having four babies, she thought, as she watched the puppies sample each other’s dishes before they settled on their own. She laughed aloud when Sam stuck one of his paws in Clancy’s dish, upending it. Eggs and bacon were all over the floor. A moment later the floor was licked clean. Before she started on her own breakfast, she set a water bowl on the floor. Four pink tongues lapped happily. Her breakfast was cold, but she didn’t care. She chewed contentedly as she watched the dogs tumble over one another as they played with the wax paper. Jory relaxed with a cigarette. As a rule she didn’t smoke except after meals or when she was under stress. Sometimes she had a cigarette before going to bed. Now, though, she smoked three, one after the other, to kill time. She also finished the coffee in the pot. She kept one eye on the puppies tumbling over one another as they played happily. She liked the idea of the colored strings. Should she take them back before she went to town or when she got back? Common sense said Mrs. Reynolds would be busy getting the children off to school, packing lunches, and perhaps shedding a tear or two. Mr. Reynolds would need his breakfast and his own send-off by the front door. The afternoon would be soon enough, she decided as she filled the sink with soapy water.
It was a simple matter to barricade the kitchen with the dining room chairs while she showered and dressed. The radio, tuned to relaxing music, would keep the dogs company. Four tails swished furiously when Jory stepped over the chairs. She dropped to her knees and wagged a playful finger under their noses. “You behave now, you hear?” Four sets of tails and ears protested these strange goings-on. The dogs yipped, scrambling and pawing the barricade, their stubby tails fanning the air. “Be good.” Jory smiled. “I’ll take you outside as soon as I come down.”
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