PF
The groundhog was wrong. Spring was at least six weeks away, Easter even longer. It was the dark time of year Emily dreaded, the promise of better weather a taunt as one dispiriting system after another swept across the Great Lakes. Snow, sleet, rain, fog. The sun came out every few days, and the slush melted, only to refreeze overnight, triggering pileups on the Parkway and making their hill impossible. Not even the Subaru could handle black ice, and instead of risking life and limb, she stayed in, the list on the refrigerator growing a second column.
The snow crusted over so that when Rufus tried to reach his usual spots in the backyard, his legs broke through and he sank up to his tags. She was afraid he would hurt himself, and called Marcia to ask if Jim would come over after work with his snowblower and clear a path. Marcia did it herself, in sweatpants and olive barn boots. Buster refused to go out in this mess, she said, as if he were wise rather than spoiled, but Emily was grateful, offering her hot chocolate, and the two had a nice visit.
Emily thanked her, maybe too abjectly, saying she never could have done it herself.
“Please,” Marcia said, “anytime. If there’s anything else we can do, don’t hesitate.”
“Maybe, if it’s not too much trouble, could you bring in some wood for the fireplace?”
From childhood Emily was used to storms closing roads and knocking out power, and guarded against the eventuality as if 51 Grafton were a pioneer homestead. Besides a store of candles in the sideboard, each room had its flashlight. When the forecast was bad, she took them out of their drawers and tested their batteries, then set them around the house in convenient locations, as if preparing for an attack. She kept Henry’s old transistor radio handy, in case later on the authorities might be broadcasting lifesaving information. She still had a rotary phone that plugged into a wall jack so she could call without electricity, unlike Arlene, whose fancy cordless wouldn’t work in an emergency. Upstairs in the linen closet she had extra flannel sheets and blankets, and a down comforter. In the basement, consigned to a masking-tape-labeled trash can, were her old long johns and ski sweaters, her last line of defense. Thus girded, she awaited the blizzard.
The greatest indication that it was coming was how excited the weathermen suddenly became. Days before it was scheduled to hit, they grew expansive, smiling like salesmen, as if, for once, they had a sure thing. As it neared, moving across the plains in a rainbowed cubist wave, they turned serious, listing precautions she’d already taken, and still they hedged, their predictions vague, ranging from two inches to two feet, depending on the storm’s track and their different computer models. They wouldn’t risk their reputations by actually forecasting the weather, leaving Emily to imagine the worst.
When she was in the third grade, a bad storm closed down Kersey for a week, followed by a cold snap, stranding an older woman from outside of town who belonged to their church. She ran out of coal for her furnace and soon went through her woodpile. In the end she resorted to breaking up chairs for her fireplace. That was where they found her, according to the schoolyard gossip—wrapped in blankets by the hearth, sitting upright, white as a plaster saint.
Nothing like that would happen. Her fears now were more practical—pipes freezing and bursting in the walls, water pouring through the living room ceiling—though she could not stop her mind from showing her the most lurid possibilities. One recurring scene wasn’t that far-fetched: falling in the backyard as she refilled the big tree feeder and then lying there in the snow, croaking for help. She dismissed it, yet each time she ventured out with the sunflower seeds she bundled herself up as if she were crossing the Antarctic and then gingerly fit her boots into her old footprints.
Like the weathermen, she eagerly tracked the front as it swept up the Ohio River Valley. Margaret said it had passed well to the south of them, and still dropped five inches.
“Looks like we’re going to take the brunt of it,” Emily said with a strange pride, as if this privilege had been reserved for Pittsburgh, the city drawn together by the threat.
It would arrive that night, the heaviest accumulation taking place between midnight and four in the morning, which was somehow unfair. She couldn’t protect the house if she was asleep. She wanted to stay up and see the snow fall, watch it silently bury the world while she sat warm and dry inside, the furnace purring away in the basement. Instead, she arranged some logs on the grate and shoved balled newspapers under them before heading to bed, in case she woke up later and the house was cold. She thought she would have trouble sleeping, but dropped right off.
In the morning the street was a sea of white, the Millers’ hedges bent under the load, the tree limbs and telephone wires coated. The sun was out, though it was still snowing wispily. The room was chilly, but no more so than any other day. Her radio worked, and the light in the bathroom. They’d been spared, all her preparations for naught. She felt slightly silly—Chicken Little—until she noticed that the display of the microwave read PF, for power failure. The interruption must have been brief, because the clock on the stove had the right time. It was probably just a flicker, nothing sustained, and yet, though it would have made absolutely no difference, she was disappointed that she’d missed it.
“You won’t believe it, I slept right through it,” she told Kenneth, incredulous, as if telling a joke on herself, then, once she was off, wondered why. Was she hoping to show him how accustomed she was to living alone, or trying to make him feel guilty? Maybe both. She was still gnawing on the question as she went through the house, opening and closing drawers, putting away the flashlights until the next time.
BEE MINE
It was a Wednesday, so Betty was there when the oversized red envelope arrived—proof, Emily said, that at least somebody loved her. She’d sent valentines to all four of the grandchildren, yet none of them had reciprocated.
They still hadn’t. The writing was Kenneth’s.
The card was a pop-up: Winnie-the-Pooh in a striped bee costume, suspended by balloons high above the Hundred Acre Wood, floating skyward as he licked honey from one dripping paw. No salutation or message, just Love, Kenneth & Lisa. Emily thought it was wrong that after all these years she still felt a twinge of distaste at the sight of her name.
“That’s sweet,” Betty said.
“I really wasn’t expecting anything,” Emily said, because it was a surprise, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the whole fiasco of the thank-you notes. She set it on the mantel, where she passed it often, but rather than a source of joy, it quickly became a reminder of her own shortcomings, prompting pointless self-recriminations until she moved it to a less-trafficked spot, on the sideboard in the dining room.
Sunday, when she picked up Arlene for church, she noticed a similar card on her mantel. This one showed Piglet balanced precariously on Pooh’s shoulders, trying to poke a hanging beehive with a stick. Instead of Kenneth’s block letters, it was signed in Lisa’s girlish script—no accident, Emily thought. When she got home, she removed her card from the sideboard, folded it closed and slipped it into her secretary, and then, feeling entirely justified, lifted it out of the drawer again, stalked to the far end of the kitchen and shoved it in the trash.
A BAD HABIT
Rufus used to love the snow. She remembered mornings not so long ago when, like a child, he couldn’t wait to get outside and romp around the untouched yard, dashing back and forth, rolling so his snout was powdered and he stank wetly when she let him in. Now he hesitated at the open door, glancing up at her dolefully—couldn’t they skip this part and go straight to breakfast?—and then barely stepped off the porch to do his business. He no longer lifted his leg, as if that were too much trouble, just thrust his hips forward with his tail raised flaglike behind, looking around as he drained his bladder.
All he wanted to do was eat and sleep, and even at these favorites he’d noticeably slowed. When Margaret had brought Doctor Spot to Chautauqua, they had to keep an eye on Rufus or he’d poach hi
s bowl after gulping down his own. Lately he’d taken to carefully chewing each morsel, as if his teeth hurt. He still badgered her for it, especially in the afternoon, with the days so dark, but sometimes he didn’t finish his dinner, and she wondered if she should switch to canned food, though she feared that might provoke his farting problem.
The sleeping worried her—the depth and extent of it. While Emily had trouble sleeping through the night, he could circle three times and curl up anywhere and be snoring away in seconds, lost to the world. He disappeared for hours, sacked out in the children’s windowless bathroom, then padded downstairs and found her working in Henry’s office, resting his head on her thigh to be petted. He seemed listless and glum, and while she still teased him for being old or fat (“El Tubbo”), it was no longer a joke, and she did so gently.
He had trouble standing after lying down for a while. He pushed himself upright with his front legs easily enough, but raising his back end took an effort, and looked painful. It wasn’t the dysplasia common to the breed, but the same arthritis that plagued her when she sat and read too long. His hips were just stiff. The vet recommended fish oil pills so powerfulsmelling that Rufus refused them unless they were buried in his food. He’d been taking them for months and she wasn’t sure they were helping, or if anything would. She sympathized. It might have just been her imagination, and she didn’t like to think this way, but he seemed as resigned as she was.
For years he’d been the first one up, coming to her side of the bed and staring at her in hopes of getting his breakfast a few minutes early, a habit that annoyed Henry. Now he waited till she was out of the shower to leave his nest of blankets. He was still greedy, pushing past as she opened the bedroom door, clattering down the stairs and then standing there at the bottom looking up, wagging his tail. Mr. Impatient, she called him. Mr. Demanding.
Like Duchess before him, he’d gotten into the bad habit of anticipating her every move, but, unlike Duchess, he was uncertain, and so, though he preceded her into the kitchen, he had to glance back to make sure she was still right behind him. In doing so, he slowed, weaving, and to avoid tripping over him, Emily had to veer left or right. Sometimes he turned that way as well, nearly taking her out at the knees, making her stumble and stop short, or the two of them would become entangled, Emily straddling his back or falling across him, saving herself against the counter and then yelling at him to get the hell out of her way.
“Why do you do that?” she asked. “Sometimes I swear you’re trying to kill me.”
It wasn’t his fault. The kitchen was small. He couldn’t help being underfoot, especially when he was excited, and while she feared falling—how could she not, when it was all people talked about?—she was only seriously afraid of falling on the stairs. They were steep and treadless, polished hardwood. She could see herself tumbling down, somersaulting in a ball, her neck and spine vulnerable, landing awkwardly, her bones broken, and then not being found for days.
Living alone, she naturally imagined herself dying alone. She pictured Rufus lying by her side, waiting for her to wake up and feed him, saw him sniffing her face and baying. She felt bad for whoever discovered her. The odds were with Marcia, or possibly Arlene. They both had keys. What would they do with him while they were taking care of her? Rufus and Buster didn’t get along, and Arlene wasn’t a dog person. Emily could see Margaret taking him. Kenneth’s would actually be better for him, with their big backyard, but Lisa would never agree to it. Conveniently, she had allergies.
The issue was moot—or at least Emily planned on outliving him. A pricklier question was whether he would be her last dog or not. She felt disloyal weighing it, yet the idea of being totally alone was even more discomfiting. She’d preemptively ruled out a puppy. She didn’t have the energy to start all over again. Maybe an older rescue dog, they were supposed to be harder to place. A golden or a setter. She’d always liked water dogs.
For now she babied Rufus, plumping his bed and giving him kisses and softening his kibble with chicken broth. The cold lingered, so there was still snow on the ground, and in the afternoons she laid a fire and he came down, drawn by the smell, and slept by it while she read in Henry’s chair. From time to time, as the stereo played and the pendulum of the grandfather clock flashed through its prescribed arc, she glanced up from the page to find an idyll—snow falling outside, flames leaping within, the faithful hound dozing on the hearth. Lying there on his side, he looked peaceful, his profile regal, the scion of a kingly line. She never felt tenderer toward him than when he was asleep.
He was her dog, just as Duchess was Henry’s. Henry had never liked him, said he was too sneaky, and accused Emily of letting him take advantage of her. She defended him, though it was true. He could be sweet, keeping her company, and then a minute later wander into the kitchen and stick his nose in the garbage. He would eat anything—lettuce, tennis balls, wallets. Once he’d devoured an entire belt of Henry’s, leaving just the buckle on the floor. For a week they found scraps of leather in his poo. There was no denying it, of all their dogs he was by far the worst, and yet that incorrigibility lent him a roguish charm. He wasn’t dumb, like Duchess. He knew what he was doing, he just didn’t care. His defiance, like his appetite, was a force of nature, and to see him so diminished was hard.
The day after Washington’s birthday was a Saturday, and gray, almost no light penetrating the blinds, and while Emily was tempted to sleep late, she also had a long list of errands, the most important of which was buying the makings for a crumb cake she’d promised to bring for coffee hour tomorrow. As she showered, she made her grocery list, and was repeating it in her head when she opened her bedroom door. She wasn’t thinking of Rufus, right behind her, newly awake and ravenous. Her sole focus was baking powder, vanilla, light brown sugar, pie pan. She only had to make it to the pad on the refrigerator, but she’d been forgetful lately, and didn’t trust herself. She was on a mission, and strode into the hall before he could cut in front of her.
She glimpsed him peripherally as she turned at the head of the stairs. He was scurrying, trying to cut tight inside her, ducking through the gap between the newel post and her right leg. She could see he was going too fast and braced herself as he took the corner and his rear end went out from under him.
“Wait!” she commanded, too late. She was firmly planted, and he bounced off her leg, twisting, missing the first step completely, and sledded down sideways, out of control.
She froze, clutching the railing, and though it was useless, reached out her other hand, witchlike, as if she could magically stop him as he clunked and bumped from step to step, legs flailing, nails scrabbling for traction, finally rolling over on his shoulder and landing with a crash that shook the whole house.
She hurried down, gripping the railing, afraid he’d broken something.
He was limping, and seemed dazed, not looking at her, and she wondered if he had a concussion.
“You’re okay,” she said, kneeling to hold him so she could check his ribs and legs. All she felt were his lumps. “I know, that was scary. What do I always tell you: you need to be careful on the stairs. How does that feel? Okay, let’s see your other paw.”
She didn’t find anything obvious. He still limped, favoring his rear left leg. She watched him with a clinical eye until she realized he was heading for the kitchen. He wanted his breakfast.
“You are something,” she said. “I don’t know what, but something.”
She was equally amazed that in the midst of the emergency her list hadn’t evaporated. She wrote it down while he ate. Baking powder, vanilla, light brown sugar, pie pan.
Of course, the vet wasn’t open yet. If it was an emergency, she could leave a message—pointless, though she did anyway, explaining the situation. To her astonishment, they called back right at eight. If she was worried about him, by all means she should bring him in. “At his age,” Michael the nurse said, “you want to be careful,” because they knew Rufus there, and they knew her.
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She had to help him into the Subaru. He could get his front paws up onto the rear deck, but she had to bend down and cradle his butt and lift him in—a move that she realized, even as she was doing it, was probably unwise.
Emergency or no, she still had to wait twenty minutes, enduring the stale hits and insulting commercials of some mysteriously chosen soft-rock station. Rufus strained at the leash, trying to reach all the different smells, while Emily recalled taking Margaret to the emergency room when she sprained her wrist ice-skating in Panther Hollow. She and Kenneth had collided and fallen awkwardly, and to this day Margaret claimed, partly though not completely joking, that Kenneth tripped her. Third grade, so she would have been ten. 1963. Not merely Henry and her parents, but Jack Kennedy was alive. The Vietnam War hadn’t officially begun. Was it possible? Like any memory, it was a trick, tempting her to feel what was now entirely imaginary. She would not be comforted, though she could clearly see Margaret’s thumb poking from her cast, crowded with the magic-markered names of her classmates.
“You’re all set,” Michael said, opening the Dutch door to the back.
“Hang on,” Emily said, because Rufus was already pulling her out of her chair. “He thinks he’s going to get a treat.”
“Only if he’s a good boy.”
Dr. Magnuson was her favorite, she was grateful he was in today (Dr. Sharbaugh, his partner, could be distracted and curt, uninterested in Emily’s history). Like Dr. Sayid, he was younger, and possessed a quiet decisiveness that calmed her. He was also very large, taller than Henry, a burly pink Swede with steel-rimmed glasses and lank, near-white hair. His lab coat only made him more imposing, yet he was soft-spoken and open, an attentive listener. His hands were thick mitts, and as he gently probed Rufus’s back and hips and belly, he reminded her of a kindly giant in a children’s story.
Emily, Alone Page 15
