In the Dog House

by V. M. Burns

  “Why you want it? Seems to me that man done you a favor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you don’t like the house. He wants the house. Why fight for a house you don’t want?”

  I shrugged. “I guess it’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Pshaw. You gotta pick yo battles, and that one ain’t worth the energy. Now, I ain’t saying you just give him the house. No. You entitled to a fair share. He should pay you half of what the house is worth. Then you take that money and you do the things you’ve always wanted to do.”

  “What things?”

  She laughed. “Baby, only you can answer dat.” She chuckled. “But I can tell you, if it was me and I had a chance to start over, I’d leave this snow and cold and move someplace warm.”

  I smiled. “Florida?”

  “Noooo.” She shook her head. “Florida is too hot and humid for me, plus they got gators in Florida. Miss Florrie can’t do no gators.”

  There was something lyrical in the way she spoke. Florida sounded like Floor-y-da, and I wanted to smile.

  She shook her head. “Naw, I got a sister lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I ain’t seen her in ten years. I’d move there.”

  “Chattanooga? I have a friend in Chattanooga, my roommate from college.”

  “Where ’bouts?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I’ve never been there. We were best friends in college, but we drifted apart,” I said vaguely. “You know the kids came, and well, we just lost touch.”

  Miss Florrie looked at me as though she could see through my soul. Heat rose up my neck, and I knew I was blushing. She saw through all of my lies, but she didn’t say anything.

  Instead, she shrugged. “It’s warm most of the time in Chattanooga. It gets hot in the summer, but that’s okay with me.” She leaned closer. “The older I get, the harder it is for me to take the snow and cold.” She shivered. “I feel the cold down in my bones and it gets in my soul. The long, cold winters do somethin’ to folks. They gets depressed and sad with all dat snow and cold.” She shook her head as though shaking away the memory of the cold. “They got mountains and lots of green in Tennessee.” She nodded. “Yep, if it was me, that’s what I’d do. I’d buy me a house and a little building where I could start a restaurant down south and start over. Life is too short to be unhappy.”

  “A restaurant? Are you a chef?”

  She chuckled. “Naw, I ain’t no chef. You gotta go to school to be a chef. I’m just a cook. Been cooking all my life.” She sat straight and tall. “Pretty good at it too, if I do say so myself.”

  “What if you move away and you don’t like it?”

  Miss Florrie laughed. “Baby, that’s easy. I’d sell the house and the restaurant and try someplace else, and I’d keep trying until I find my happy place.”

  * * * *

  Later, when I sat in the cold cookie-cutter house Albert insisted would be a great investment, I thought about what Miss Florrie said. I thought about finding my happy place. If I was honest with myself, I hated the house. I’d always hated it. Almost all of the houses looked exactly the same. The same builder built most of them, and there were only three different plans in the entire subdivision. The same house, but with different color siding, shutters, or brick façades. I hated the fact the house had very few windows. I hated that the neighborhood association dictated my life, right down to the type of plants I could have, and refused to allow a fence. They even had rules about the type of Christmas decorations I could put up. I’d always wanted a dog, but the association would only allow invisible fences. At one time, I thought about fighting them, but Albert was allergic to dogs anyway, so it all became a moot point and I eventually gave up. If I moved, I could get a house with a fence and I could get a dog. Heck, I could get several dogs if I wanted. The children were grown and had both moved away, Stephanie to Chicago and David to New York City. There was nothing holding me to Lighthouse Dunes. No job. No husband.

  The idea of moving away and starting over had sounded scary on the train. However, in the still silence of an empty house, the idea took root and started to grow. I walked through the rooms, full of furniture and memories of a life that was no longer my reality, and realized I didn’t particularly care about any of the furniture. The pictures of the children were the only things I valued, and I could take those with me. At that moment, I decided to take control of my life and find my happy place.

  “But where to go?” I spoke into the cold, dark, empty house and waited. Thankfully, there was no answer. I sat at my computer and typed, Where should I live?

  I didn’t honestly expect an answer. However, my browser returned a list of sites with quizzes to determine the best place to live, based on my responses. I was pleasantly surprised and spent several hours taking online quizzes. I got responses for everywhere from Spain to Texas. One of the sites provided a list of ten best cities based on my answers, including climate, housing, and demographic information. I browsed the list and was excited when Chattanooga, Tennessee, showed up in my list as one of my ten places. I clicked on the link and stayed up until the wee small hours of the night looking at houses and jobs and reading as much as I could. Spain sounded exotic and fun, but my Spanish was malo, muy mal.

  Chattanooga had a lot going for it. It was in the United States, for one, and I wouldn’t need a passport or shots. Like several other states, Tennessee had no state income tax. The cost of living seemed a lot lower than in Indiana. Plus, it didn’t snow very often. Add that to the fact I knew at least one person in Chattanooga, which catapulted it to the top of my list.

  It turned out the Internet was good at finding long-lost friends too. I tracked down an e-mail address for my friend Scarlett Jefferson. Scarlett and I met during our freshman year of college and had been fast friends. She was a southern belle with a wicked sense of humor and a sharp mind. Her mother had been a huge fan of Gone with the Wind, so much so she’d named her two children Scarlett and Rhett. Despite the moniker, Scarlett got along well with the Yankees at Northwestern University and made tons of friends. Everyone called her Dixie, and we’d remained friends and roommates for our full four years. However, after college she moved back to Tennessee and married her high school sweetheart, Jeremiah Beauregard “Beau” Jefferson, and I fell in love and married Albert. We wrote for a few years and talked on the telephone, but Dixie and Albert never got along. Albert thought she was too opinionated and outspoken. Dixie never trusted Albert. Turned out she was right. While I was still riding high from the excitement of my decision to start over, I fired off an e-mail before my courage failed, stating I was thinking about moving to the Chattanooga area and was curious if she could recommend a good Realtor. I pressed send and promptly shut down my computer. I wasn’t sure if anything would come of this, but I was determined to find my happy place.

  CHAPTER 2

  I fully expected the crazy idea of moving to Tennessee would have faded in the bright light of a new day. However, the next morning I found myself even more excited than I was the previous night. In fact, when I sat down with coffee, I noticed a new e-mail had arrived. It was from Dixie. She was ecstatic to hear I was considering moving to Chattanooga. There were a lot of capital letters and exclamation marks, along with an entire row of happy face emoticons. She declared it fate that she was actually only a few hours away attending a Poodle Specialty, whatever that was, in Lansing, Michigan. She was going to be staying in the area for another week to attend an Obedience workshop and would drive down and maybe we could have lunch or dinner.

  I promptly responded I would love to get together and sent my address, my cell phone number, and directions. I had plenty of room and invited her to stay here while she waited for the workshop. Message sent, I drank my coffee and tried to remember the last time I’d seen Dixie.

  Later, I called Stephanie and told her what I wanted. Initially, she was uns
ure, but when I shared my plan to move someplace warm and sunny and start over, she thought it was a great idea. She told me to leave all of the legal arrangements to her, which I was happy to do.

  I got dressed and started on my tasks. My next-door neighbor was an elderly retired police officer who suffered from dementia. Bradley Hurston had retired from the Chicago Police Department and moved to Lighthouse Dunes to stay with his sister after her husband died suddenly. Mr. Hurston had once been very active, coaching the boys’ baseball team and teaching self-defense classes to the women in our neighborhood. I still remembered his suggestion to S.I.N.G. if we were ever attacked. SING was the acronym he used to help us remember the four areas to attack—solar plexus, instep, nose, and groin. He was now confined to a wheelchair, where he spent his days looking out his front window with a pair of binoculars.

  I got the lawn mower out of the garage and cut the grass. It had been a very wet spring, and now that summer had arrived, the grass was growing very rapidly. When I finished my yard, I cut Mr. Hurston’s grass, as well. His son usually cut his grass when he was in town or arranged for someone to do it, but he was a cop, too, and I knew he was often tired when he got home from work. Plus, he had a family and a yard of his own to mow. So, I’d made a habit of cutting Mr. Hurston’s yard whenever I cut mine. Besides, it was the least I could do for someone who’d been so committed to serving and protecting our community.

  When I was done mowing, I edged both yards and swept up the grass clippings. The neighborhood association frowned on grass clippings left on the sidewalk. Three hours later, I was hot, sweaty, and covered in grass clippings, but both yards looked great.

  The front door opened, and Marianne Carpenter, Mr. Hurston’s sister, smiled and beckoned me to come in.

  Marianne Carpenter was a petite woman, barely five feet tall. She was probably in her mid-sixties but looked older. I suspected that was due to her hair, which was thinning but which she dyed a vibrant orange, along with an excessive amount of makeup, which highlighted rather than concealed every wrinkle. She was a timid woman who liked flashy clothes, large gawdy pieces of jewelry, and pink slippers. “You must be worn out. Come inside and have some lemonade.”

  I was itchy from the grass clippings and suspected the odor that made its way to my nose every few seconds wasn’t something being carried by the wind, but was me. Nevertheless, I’d learned that declining Marianne’s offers was in poor taste. Her eyes filled with tears and she became offended. So, I made my usual half-hearted protests and went inside.

  Bradley Hurston was seated in front of the living room picture window. He had always been a big man. Now he seemed small and shriveled up. His skin sagged, and the few hairs that remained stood out, making him look like a mad scientist.

  “Hello, Mr. Hurston. How are you today?”

  He gave me a glassy stare. “I saw you. I know what you did. I’ve got my eye on you.”

  This was his standard greeting. He repeated those same words to everyone he met, repeatedly.

  I nodded and followed Marianne to the kitchen. The layout of the house was a mirror image of my own, which always threw me off. My natural instinct was to turn left to go to the kitchen instead of right. After more than twenty years, I still veered to the left, bumped into the console table, and stubbed my toe. I went into the kitchen. Marianne was sitting at the circular wooden table with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies.

  “Have a seat and take a load off.” She smiled.

  I sat and took a long drink. The lemonade was a mix, and it was so sweet I could feel my blood sugar rise. However, I was thirsty, so I chugged it down. Marianne Carpenter was the world’s worst cook. Her cookies were so hard I once used one as a wedge to level my kitchen chair. When she offered, I used my standard response, “Those look delicious, but I’m dieting.”

  I wasn’t overweight. I’d describe myself as “big boned.” I was five feet four, one hundred fifty pounds, but compared to Marianne, I looked like the Jolly Green Giant. She was conscious of her figure and very conscientious of mine. She was extra-sensitive about everything else, but she understood dieting.

  “Of course, dear, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Please forgive me. I’ve never had to watch my weight, but I do understand.” She patted my hand.

  I plastered a fake smile on my face and dug my fingernails into my palm to prevent myself from flinging the glass of lemon-flavored sugar water at her.

  “How are you holding up?” She leaned across the table and whispered with the look people wore to console family members at a funeral.

  “I’m doing well. How are you?” I pretended I didn’t know she was referring to the fact that my husband had left me for a younger woman.

  “Well, of course you’re fine.” She patted my hand again. “I’m praying for you two. In fact, when the pastor had altar call Sunday, I stood up and shared your situation with the congregation, and our pastor put your names on the prayer list at church.”

  I dug my fingernails deeper and bit the inside of my cheek. “You did what?”

  She smiled proudly, then hopped up and pulled a calendar off the refrigerator and brought it to the table. “Not only that, but I asked our prayer circle to keep you both on their prayer chain. There are people praying for you every hour of every day.” She looked at the sheet. “I’m scheduled from five to five thirty every morning.” She pointed her long, bony fingers at the time slot on the calendar.

  I stared at the sheet until my eyes blurred and a vein throbbed on the side of my head. I stood up so quickly I nearly knocked over the chair. “Thank you for the lemonade, but I have to go.”

  “You’re welcome, dear,” were the last words I heard as I rushed out the back door.

  As I marched home, I told myself over and over again, “She meant well.” However, the idea of sharing my marital situation with the entire church in a small town like Lighthouse Dunes was the equivalent to posting an ad on the front page of the Chicago Tribune.

  It took the rest of the afternoon before I calmed down enough to step outside. However, I needed groceries, and unless I went to the store, I’d be forced to order pizza again and the delivery boy went to Marianne’s church. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Albert was the one who cheated. He was the one who had an affair. He was the one who had left me for a bleached-blond Barbie doll who was young enough to be his daughter. Nevertheless, I found myself looking askance at everyone I passed at the grocery store and the gas station.

  When I got home, I was surprised to find a large RV parked in my driveway. I pulled up next to it, and the door opened and out jumped a tall, thin woman with big Dolly Parton hair, tight jeans, lots of jewelry, and holding a tiny black poodle.

  “Lilly Anne, I know I should have called.” She hugged me, careful not to squash the poodle. “I was so excited to get your e-mail this morning, I hopped in my RV and hightailed it up here to see you.” She pulled back and looked at me. “I hope that’s okay?” she said in her sweet southern drawl.

  I smiled and gave her another hug. “Of course it’s alright, Dixie. I’m really happy to see you too. Please, come inside.”

  She handed me the dog. “You don’t mind I brought a few of my dogs along, do you?”

  I juggled my grocery bags and held the little shivering fluff ball to my chest. “Of course I don’t mind. I love dogs, but I thought you had big poodles.”

  She opened the side door to the RV and out pranced two large black poodles that appeared to be shaved closely in many places, but where their coats were longer, the hair was wrapped up as though they were getting a perm. They had bright-colored wrappers hanging from their ears, and the hair atop their heads was a conglomeration of scrunchies and rubber bands. On the ground, the dogs came to my waist. They were big and carried themselves regally, regardless of the ridiculous wrappers and bands. There was something in their bearing that pr
oclaimed, I don’t care what you think of my appearance. You are beneath me.

  “I do have standard poodles.” She placed a lead over one of the dog’s heads. “This is Champion Chyna, the Ninth Wonder of the World.”

  I raised an eyebrow at hearing the name.

  Dixie shrugged. “That’s what I get for letting my nephew and his fraternity brothers choose the name.” She patted the dog. “I just finished her at the specialty, so that made the win even more special.”

  She scratched the dog behind the ear, and Chyna looked as though her eyes would roll back in her head. “That’s her registered name, but her call name is Chyna.” She put a lead around the other dog. “And this is Champion Galactic Imperial Resistance Leader, call name Leia.”

  “Wow. That’s a mouthful.”

  She smiled. “The registered name is just for shows. Breeders try to come up with unique names that will make a statement with the judges. The call name is what we actually call the dog.”

  “I get it. So, Chyna and Leia?”

  She nodded. “You got it.”

  I held out the fluff ball in my arms. “And who is this?”

  She smiled. “I have no idea. One of the breeders rescued her from a puppy mill. Her husband went bonkers when she came home with another dog, apparently fifteen was his limit. She asked if anyone would be willing to take her.”

  “She looks awfully small.” I stared at the other poodles relieving themselves on the shrubs that separated my house from my neighbor’s. I cringed at what Bradley Hurston would say when he saw me again.

  Dixie must have noticed my cringe, because she quickly grabbed the dogs’ leads. “I’m sorry. I forget not everyone is a dog lover.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  She pulled bags out of her pocket and cleaned up the deposits and walked them around back to the garbage cans. When she came back, she opened the RV door to return the dogs, but I stopped her.