Walk the Dog

by Isabel Jolie

  “Have you heard from Mason lately?”

  “Yeah.” We email and text. I haven’t been able to FaceTime with Kara as much, because her mom has been around on the weekends. I’m happy for her. That’s a good thing. I ignore the twisting in my stomach and the odd nausea. No. Come on, Delilah, her mom should be in her life. I’m here. Studying clouds.

  “He going to come down here for a visit anytime soon? I’d like to meet this fellow.”

  “Dad.”

  “What?”

  I smash a mosquito on my wrist. One wing sticks out from the gooey black spot. No blood seeps through the black goo.

  “Delilah.”

  “What?”

  “Is Mason going to come visit?”

  I don’t have the energy to wipe the smashed mosquito off. I extend my arm, resting it on the flat wooden arm of the chair, watching the black smoosh spot, half expecting it to regroup and fly away.

  “He’s super busy. He’s adding a new location to his veterinary practice. They’re working with some finance guys on a friends and family investment round, and they may open a third location.”

  “Has he asked you to invest?”

  “No.”

  “Well, when he does, be sure to run it by our financial planner.”

  Noises fluctuate in concert from his chair, the grating of wood against brick as he shifts, exhales, and curses. I don’t watch him, but I hear him extinguish the joint, but that doesn’t make sense because I can’t hear that. There’s no noise involved in extinguishing a joint. A crash sounds, and I resume studying the smashed mosquito remains. Dad’s cane rolls on the ruddy red brick pavers.

  “Okay. That’s enough ganja for the day. I’m going to get us some water and food.” His palm covers the base of his cane, and he maneuvers it off the ground. When he returns, Maria is with him, and he takes a glass of water from her tray and pushes it my way.

  “Drink this.” He strains and, in slow motion, sits back down in the Adirondack chair while Maria sets down a small tray on the side table between us. The tray includes a tower of small sandwiches that reminds me of the little sandwiches they serve at fancy tea. Pimento cheese sandwiches. One entire sandwich fits in my mouth. All sandwiches should be cut to this size. Maria is brilliant.

  “Delilah.”

  “What?”

  “You aren’t happy here, baby girl.”

  Dad’s probing gaze studies me. I swallow my third sandwich then swipe the black smudge off my wrist. The mosquito never flew away.

  “I’m fine, Dad.”

  “No. I don’t think you are. I’ve been enjoying our afternoons, but if you’re ready, I think it’s time for you to find your place in the partnership. You’ll be happier once you’ve got something to fill your days.”

  Ugh. “I’m having lunch with Frank and Todd tomorrow.” Yes, I’ve rescheduled it a few times. There’s a certain finality to joining the firm I’ve been putting off. Dodging my whole life, really.

  These last two weeks the slow days have flown by and blurred together. I email Mason. Sometimes. I go to lunch with Mom and whatever friend she has scheduled for that day. I fend off her requests to get more involved in her gardening club. I don’t have an issue with gardening, per se. But, by my guestimate, the median age of the club is seventy-five, and my attention span when discussing rose bush varietals is remarkably limited.

  I do read. I’ve been on a book a day diet since arriving in my hometown, but I didn’t move here for an endless vacation. I thought I’d be helping my parents, but my help’s not needed.

  No, instead, this is it. I promised my dad I’d join his company. One day. And that day is here. “I’ll find out from Frank and Todd when they want me to start.” Having a place to go, being around people with a purpose, that’s what I’m missing. I’m missing the energy. Real estate won’t be as vibrant as life in an advertising agency, but it won’t be all bad.

  “Yes. I like that they’re having lunch with you, without me there. They’re treating you like a partner. Don’t forget, you are an equal partner.”

  Mom’s voice sounds across the back yard. “What are you saying, Hoffman?”

  I can’t see her because she’s standing behind my chair, but she sounds close by. Her hand falls on top of my head, and she pats me like a dog. Yep, close by.

  “I have some properties on the computer to show you, dear. Not that we mind you staying with us, but you’ll feel more settled once you find your own place.” Her firm grasp on my shoulder pushes me forward and propels me to the house. She rambles on about some committee and random things she needs me to do as I survey the well-groomed grass below my feet.

  I climb the porch stairs. The dark paint is chipped in places on the edges. The wood below the dark brown paint has a hint of texture, as if a mildew fairy flew by during the night and swiped her mildew brush over that singular streak of exposed wood.

  “Delilah, how are you, dear? Come give me a hug.” Aunt Josie stands at the top of the stairs, arms wide. She pushes me back and tugs my chin and twists my head left and right, as if she’s examining my make-up.

  “Have you been sharing your dad’s medical marijuana?”

  I laugh, a full-on belly laugh. Maybe the first time I’ve laughed since I arrived.

  “Delilah, come and check these listings on my computer. If you like any of them, I’ll set up some time for us to go see them.” I obediently sit in the chair behind Mom’s laptop. As I flick through the properties, nausea rises, forcing its way up the back of my throat. I jump up and rush to the bathroom.

  When I return, Mom and Aunt Josie crowd the computer, discussing the listings in low, discreet tones. I sidestep them and make my way to the porch, where I pick up my phone. I left it on the coffee table out here some time earlier today. I thumb through and re-read my email from Mason.

  December 10

  To: Delilah Daniels

  From: Mason Herriot

  Hey there, Delilah,

  Are you planning on staying in New Orleans? Why don’t you answer when I call? Long distance relationships require communication. Have you decided we shouldn’t try? Would you prefer we’re just friends?

  I love you and miss you.

  Mason

  I press the wide, flat phone to my heart and fall onto my side on the sofa, half lying, hanging my legs over the side in a contorted position. My head’s woozy, and the room spins and shifts. Voices from the kitchen carry onto the porch through the screen door.

  “Oh, I like this one.”

  “I don’t know, Josie. Do you think she needs a house? I’m thinking a condo. Until she’s married.”

  “I think she needs to go back to New York. She has a life there.”

  “Hush. You’ll see. She’ll reconnect with her friends, and she’ll have a life here in no time.”

  “You shouldn’t have forced her to come home.”

  “I didn’t make her. She wanted to come home.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  “Josie. Stop it. Now, listen to me. I want you to go with us to Paris, but there can be no more of this. Do you understand me? She is home, where she needs to be. Drop it.”

  “Was she excited about Paris?”

  “I haven’t told her yet. She’s gonna be thrilled.”

  “I thought she prefers London?”

  “What would make you think that? Paris? Over the holidays? Nothing beats Paris.”

  The conversation drones on. At some point, I wake, alone outside on the porch, and make my way back out to the pool house and into bed.

  In the morning, I go for a long walk through the neighborhood, shower, get dressed, and leave to meet Frank and Todd to discuss this next stage in my life.

  When I enter Mother’s, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant I grew up coming to with my parents, a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. Nothing about the place has changed much. It’s like walking through a time capsule. Black and white photos from early days line the wall, proving it’s a bit
of a living, breathing relic. My dad’s partners, Frank and Todd, have already claimed a booth.

  “Mr. Williams, Mr. Landry, so good to see you both.” My heart isn’t into being here, but I give them an honest to goodness smile and warm hug. I’ve known these two for as long as I can remember.

  “Delilah, you’re old enough now to call us by our first names.” Mr. Landry—well, Todd—has aged almost as much as my dad. He’s wearing a light blue and pink paisley bowtie. He always wears bowties. He’s not related to the Landry family that owns this restaurant, but you wouldn’t know that, given he comes here so often he knows everyone’s names.

  When we’re all seated in the booth, Frank adjusts his tie then starts to spread his arm across the back of the booth. He’s a big man, and it would seem natural, except his business colleague is sitting beside him, and I stifle a laugh when Frank gives him a glance that communicates What are you doing? And he retracts his arm.

  “How’s Frank Junior?” Frank’s son is five years older than I am, so he’s never been a close friend, but I’ve seen him at holiday parties and charity events over the years.

  “He’s good. Engaged to be married.”

  “That’s great. You and Mrs. Williams must be so excited.”

  “Oh, we are. She’s not you,” he says, pausing to wink at me, “but she’s a good one. We like her.”

  Todd interjects, “It would have made things a whole lot easier if it had been you.”

  In my head, the words, What you talking ’bout, Willis? sound out, but my friendly-to-adults smile remains plastered on my face.

  Mr. Williams angles his body in the corner of the booth so he’s halfway facing Todd and me. “Yeah, would’ve been a whole lot easier. But you two, well, you’re not really each other’s type. And he’s really into this girl he’s got.” His lips pucker as if it’s a big disappointment.

  I smile and politely nod, sip my sweet tea, and lob a question over to Mr. Landry. “And I hear Teddy and Mary Beth are expecting? You and Mrs. Landry must be thrilled.”

  “Oh, yes. Not due until spring. They’re busy getting ready.” He makes a loud noise in the back of his throat, and I look to Mr. Williams for any sign of concern over his friend’s choking noises. “He’s taken over the corporate development business, and Todd Junior runs the real estate side. You know, the side of the business where they develop neighborhoods and sell houses and stuff.”

  “That’s great.” We all nod at each other, bobblehead-like, and smile.

  “So, Delilah, tell us what you want to do at Bayou Development.” Frank Williams sits up a bit straighter, but there’s still a noticeable curve to his shoulders, and he pushes his spectacles up on his nose.

  The waitress walks up right then, and I’m filled with gratitude. I haven’t yet read the menu, but it’s not a problem. I always order the jambalaya.

  After she refills our sweet teas and walks away, Mr. Williams continues, as if the waitress never appeared. “It sounded like you were happy up north. What were you doing up there? Art?”

  “I’m a graphic designer. I develop advertising. At an ad agency.”

  “Do you like it?” Mr. Landry asks. He’s a friendly man, they both are, but their postures are all off.

  Below the table, I wrap the cotton napkin around my index finger, unwrap it, and repeat. Both men scrutinize me, watching my every fidget. It hits me at that moment. Mr. Long Tie and Mr. Bowtie see the same thing I see. There’s nothing for me to do in my dad’s business. At least nothing deserving of a partner title. They want me as a partner about as much as I want to join the firm.

  “I love advertising. I love coming up with ads for clients. I’ve always assumed I’d create ads for Bayou Development.” Mr. Landry grows three chins when he looks down to his lap, and Mr. Williams’s gargle noises rise above the low hum of the packed restaurant. “But I get the sense that’s not what y’all are thinking.”

  “We have an ad agency for the big projects. I mean, you could manage them. You might want to tackle some of the work yourself. It could save us some money.” Mr. Landry tips his head back and forth as he’s speaking, as if he’s weighing this idea.

  “But?” These two are tiptoeing around me, and they absolutely do not need to. I’m joining Bayou Development out of obligation, not because it’s my heart’s desire. “Just say it.”

  Both men startle at my words. “We don’t believe that’s partnership level work. It’s not deserving of one-third of the company.”

  And there you have it. “I agree.”

  Mr. Williams reaches up and loosens the knot on his tie as he smiles. His ruddy complexion has taken on a redder hue throughout our conversation. I don’t think his tea is spiked, but in this town, it’s possible. “Todd and I wanted to talk to you, without your dad, because he doesn’t see things the way all of us see it. Our sons, they’ve put in the time. They deserve to be partners.”

  Bing bang boom. Now I get these two. “But Dad doesn’t want Bayou Development to leave our family. His father started the company. I appreciate your asking me to lunch, but you realize Dad’s not going to agree? This has been the plan for as long as I can remember.”

  Seriously, I don’t remember a day when it wasn’t assumed this is what I would do. Sure, I had the standard childhood dreams of racing horses, being a princess, and flying to the moon. But when it came time to be real, maybe middle school, I understood I’d be stepping into the family business. One way or another.

  Mr. Landry reaches up and rubs the top of his scalp, ruffling the few random long strands of gray that remain. Mr. William rotates his iced tea, keeping it in place but turning it in circles.

  “What is the succession plan?” Dad’s mentioned it a few times, and based on the facial expressions across the table, I’m betting they don’t like it.

  Mr. Landry clears his throat again, and I push his water glass to him. He doesn’t take my hint. “The succession plan isn’t particularly thorough. We each own one-third of the business. We would like to buy out your dad’s third, but he hasn’t wanted to sell.”

  Mr. Landy adds, “Teddy and Frank Junior are fully capable of taking over. They’ve been working with us for years. But your dad, he wants you here. He’s being a mite stubborn.”

  I look to the ceiling. “And what does the agreement say? Can you force him out?”

  Mr. Williams shakes his head in a slow, drawn-out motion. “Not easily. Not without a courtroom battle royale. But if he doesn’t have a successor, yes, we can enact a buyout clause.”

  “Are you both retiring soon?”

  “Not from the board, but we work at the firm about as much as your dad.”

  Ah. If the last two weeks is an accurate portrayal, that means not much at all. Our lunch arrives, and the conversation segues to holiday plans. These two are good men. They simply want to give the firm over to their eldest sons. And I suppose if I had any interest at all in what they do, I’d be a happy little camper figuring out how I’d carry my third of the business. Mr. Williams has a daughter who handles all the firm’s legal transactions. She’s at least ten years older than I am, and I don’t know her well. She’d be a better third partner than I would. I wonder what she thinks of her dad giving his third of the business to her brother, but I don’t care enough to ask.

  After I’ve eaten every bit of my jambalaya, I place my napkin in the bowl to signal to the waitress she can remove it. Then, with crossed legs and my hands placed in a feminine manner on my lap, I lay it out on the table. “Gentlemen, this isn’t my decision. As far as I can tell, this is between my dad and both of you. When Dad brought you into the business, the three of you outlined succession plans. I don’t see Dad allowing this company to leave our family without putting up a big fight.”

  Chapter 20

  Mason

  December 11

  To: Mason Herriot

  From: Delilah Daniels

  Hey,

  Sorry we keep missing each other. It’s great that Amber is sp
ending so much time with Kara. She’s been posting some great pics on Instagram. Yes, I follow her, since you don’t even have a social media account. Her posts are a way for me to keep up with you and Kara. And her band must be doing pretty well. She has several thousand followers.

  I’m happy for you guys. Kara deserves both parents in her life.

  Did you know that after varicose vein surgery one has to wear thick stockings for, like, six months? These are the kinds of things one learns in gardening club. Fascinating. And Spanx makes tight leggings that work just as well as the tight stockings, which really are not that attractive, according to Marge. Although, while I’d never admit this to Marge, as it might lead to a lengthy conversation on the subject, I have to agree the nude/natural skin color in thick stocking form should probably never be seen in public.

  Kiss Kara for me.

  xoxo,

  D

  The subway rattles through the cavernous tunnels below Manhattan and under the East River. The fluorescent lights blink on one end. The evening rush has subsided. One man stands nearby, holding on to the silver railing overhead as he reads the New York Post.

  I type my response to Delilah.

  December 11

  To: Delilah Daniels

  From: Mason Herriot

  Hey there, Delilah,

  It is good that Amber is back in Kara’s life. Although I do worry she will disappear again, and that Kara is old enough that it will hurt more than in the past. But she and I are not together.

  Is that why you’re avoiding me?

  The subway pulls to a stop at Court Street Station. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, and I press delete. When I climb the stairs to reach the street, a dark night sky and the white glow of overhead streetlamps face me. I slip my gloves on, tighten my scarf, and make my way home.

  When I arrive, I hover outside my apartment door, shedding my gloves and coat, listening. I want to hear my daughter and her mother. I want to hear laughter or the hum of a conversation. I need to know I am doing the right thing, allowing them to bond. I don’t hear anything, so I unlock and push open the door.