Good Karma

by Christina Kelly

  After several minutes of increasing restlessness, as if Sequoia were dreaming of starring in a Scooby-Doo movie, Ida Blue realized the pigs in a blanket might have been too rich for the dog. At least she had had enough sense to skip the spicy jalapeño mustard. It might take time, but she could adapt to Sequoia’s habits and tastes. She could stock doggie brussels sprouts or carrots or whatever was healthiest. She would ask the old man for a list of preferred foods.

  Although Ida didn’t have much access to motherly role models—the few times she’d seen her own mother, she’d had a cigarette in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other—she’d learned something from TV. She’d watched Marge Simpson and Carol Brady tend to colicky babies, fix a teenager’s kite, and calm Homer or Mike. She wondered if mothering were an innate skill or something that could be taught. Whether you could pretend to be a mother, like you could pretend to be a pet psychic.

  Using the faint light from her clock, she rose from the mattress, found her sock monkey slippers, and stepped toward the kitchen. “C’mon. Let’s get you outside.” Rather miraculously, Sequoia followed. Together they padded through the kitchen and her slippers’ shadows bobbed as she walked, almost as if the spirit of the old woman at Fred Wolfe’s house were nodding with encouragement. She grabbed a penlight from a wicker basket on the counter and they exited the kitchen’s sliding glass doors as she snapped on the outside light switch. Two of the four backyard bulbs had burned out, probably years before. A few large clouds left over from the storm crowded the sky, and there was just enough light to make it down the stairs and into her yard.

  “Over there,” Ida Blue said and pointed. And then, as if Sequoia had been listening to her for years, the dog retreated to the pine straw off the lawn. “Go potty,” Ida Blue instructed with intensity, just as she’d seen on Animal Planet, staying assertive and calm and using a phrase that perhaps the dog would be familiar with.

  Miraculously, it seemed, Sequoia crouched into position and did her business. This wasn’t just make-believe. Ida Blue was being heard. Ida Blue asked Sequoia to relieve herself and she did. Voilà. With the penlight illuminating the darkness, Ida Blue examined the dog’s dropping. Meadow muffins, her uncle called them.

  Across the woody expanse behind her lot, she noticed the lights in her neighbor’s house. Although she sometimes saw the faint bluish glow of Fred Wolfe’s TV, she’d never seen it this bright. Every light in the house was on, lit up like a casino ship on the ocean. She wondered what he was up to, dropping off his dog to her, then hosting American Idol?

  As Sequoia sniffed the overgrown grass, Ida Blue brushed off the layer of hard-coated seeds, berries, and spanish moss from the rusted table and plopped down onto the metal seat, still damp from the big storm. The moist, calm night made her sad that she’d never thought to sit outside to watch the stars. Sometimes just taking a phone call or changing a channel felt like a supreme effort, but sitting here with the Great Dane felt easy.

  Sequoia came over to her side. “Sit,” Ida Blue said. The dog sat. After a few minutes, and feeling confident that maybe this really was her calling, she said, “Down.” The dog lowered to the ground.

  She did have a gift. She could become a dog trainer or have a cooking show or both. Maybe do personal training while cooking pigs in a blanket. Franks and Planks. Perhaps Nigella or Sandra Lee was looking for a partner. She would call Judge Judy to start the copyright proceedings.

  Sensing Ida Blue’s excitement, Sequoia perked up and looked toward Fred’s well-lit home. She stretched her neck forward and sniffed the night air. Ida Blue imagined the dog could smell Fred’s back deck or even her owner from this distance, as if a nearly invisible fishing line connected the dog and the old man.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Ida Blue and Sequoia woke at about the same time. They stayed in bed, blinking at each other. Looking into the dog’s eyes reminded Ida Blue of the dark opening of a Magic 8 Ball and a childhood of asking questions of a multisided pyramid. Will I ever leave Pine Straw, Georgia? SIGNS POINT TO YES. Is ventriloquism a gift? IT IS DECIDEDLY SO. Will I eventually find love? REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN.

  It was after ten but, remarkably, Ida Blue wasn’t hungry. By now she usually would have had several jelly donuts and watched at least two morning talk shows to see what everyone was up to. On any other day she might enjoy the hilarious antics of Live! With Kelly and Michael, with cheery Kelly Ripa, her teeth sticking out into the audience like those of a badger who’s just gone to the dentist, or the pleasantries on Good Morning America, with George Stephanopoulos looking like he’d taken a wrong turn in the TV studio and fallen into an insane asylum. Somehow, with Sequoia beside her, it didn’t seem as pressing to learn the secrets of taking selfies or playing the ukulele.

  Today she might even take Sequoia for a walk or teach her a few more tricks, like rolling over or carrying her purse or climbing a ladder. She imagined a future with the dog. If Fred didn’t need dogsitting, she would talk to him about renting Sequoia on a daily or weekly basis. She could walk her along the marsh, or they could train for Savannah’s Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon with sponsorship from the Woof Gang Bakery. She and Sequoia could spend afternoons downtown taking loops around Forsyth Park or window-shopping along Bull Street. They could wander down cobblestoned River Street, with delighted tourists asking, “Is this your dog?” She could harness the Great Dane to a giant green wagon for the annual Saint Patrick’s Day Parade while she rode behind, waving to the crowd.

  And so she closed her eyes, the dog’s wet nose pressed against her collarbone and her hind legs across her calves. She knew this was just make-believe. That they had known each other only a little more than twelve hours, the life span of a mayfly. That Sequoia wasn’t her baby or even her own dog. Yet it was more real than anything she had felt in a long time.

  chapter 28

  He can no more carry a tune than fly to the moon, Catherine thought.

  From her stool in the kitchen, she heard Ralph singing in the shower. Something from La Bohème or Don Giovanni. He must have the bathroom door open. Again. Even after years of her suggesting he keep it closed and remain anonymous until the world was ready to embrace his talent.

  Catherine was already dressed in a casual flowered skirt and short-sleeved shirt, her white hair brushed into a low ponytail. Though she didn’t normally wear makeup, she had dabbed bronzer on her cheeks, smoothed matte powder on her eyelids, and flicked mascara across her lashes. She’d gotten up early so as not to disturb Ralph and have to review yesterday’s adventure with him. When he’d arrived home late the previous night she was pretending to be asleep, eyes closed, lying in their darkened bedroom, thinking of Fred.

  And this morning she didn’t dare go in to ask about Ralph’s poker game and whether he’d won or lost ten dollars. And what if he’d been lying to her about where he’d been spending his time? Maybe he’d been with Audrey, having drinks or dinner or more. But she didn’t want to dwell on that possibility, because this morning she felt fresh and clear and invigorated by her adventure with the kind gentleman.

  She remembered how the storm had come on suddenly, the rain falling in breathtaking sheets. How Karma and his new friend Sequoia had escaped through the back gate, and she and Fred had driven around in the dark evening. How he had somehow found Karma later in the night and brought him back to her. She couldn’t recall exactly what they’d talked about. They’d been in the car for hours, so they must have filled the air with conversation, but it was the kiss she remembered.

  Now, in the brightness of the morning, she called for Karma. Her dog sensed they were on the move and was already waiting for her by the door. Before leaving, she scribbled a note: R: I’m off. Have a good day. It reminded her of when Ralph worked in Manhattan, when he’d leave early to catch the 6:37 train to Penn Station. Sometimes they didn’t really see each other for days, besides sleeping at the same address, their feet bumping into each other under the comforter at night.

  Catherine settled Karma in his
doggie seat, not bothering to strap him in. She wondered if mothers did the same with children. I’m just going to the mailbox. I’m just dropping a book at the neighbor’s. She imagined they didn’t, but there were just too few opportunities to rebel in this world. The only ways she ever rebelled were ripping a recipe out of a magazine at her doctor’s office or eating a few chocolate-covered pretzels before weighing the rest at Whole Foods. And she wondered if her kiss with Fred was a rebellion against Ralph or just something that happened organically. An outlier, it would be called in science. Like a distant island outside a tight archipelago.

  Though the audiobook about the universe’s origins had been intermittently jammed in her car’s CD player for months, today it started up right away. It reminded her of her drive alone to Savannah and the young businessman who’d spoken to her in the hotel elevator. It reminded her that there was life outside the gates and that the universe didn’t begin and end with Ralph.

  She arrived at Fred’s house at eight o’clock, just as they’d decided. He lived in the first phase of Seven Oaks, reflected in the older trees and narrower sidewalks with homes that had fewer windows and petite, almost baby, mailboxes. She parked in his driveway and let Karma out the back door. He raced across the lawn, sniffing wildly, his stub of a tail shaking with excitement while Catherine breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the soft morning air. She felt an unfamiliar lightness, as if she’d just been given great news—a free turkey or an extra spin on the Piggly Wiggly discount wheel. Fluffy azaleas lined Fred’s front porch. And she thought how sweet the house seemed, similar to what she used to imagine all Savannah homes looked like, a house with a wide porch to relax on while drinking sweet tea and reading Gone with the Wind.

  Fred opened the door before she made it up the front stairs. He wore khakis and a button-down checkered shirt, his hair damp from a shower.

  “Cath-er-ine,” he said, pronouncing each syllable as if each part of her mattered. Momentarily, it seemed he was going to lean in to hug her or even kiss her cheek, as if they were at a crowded cocktail party. Instead, he stepped aside and opened the door wide. “Good morning. Come in.”

  She liked the cozy feeling of his house. It wasn’t as open as hers, one room didn’t run into another, but the lower ceilings gave his furniture a sense of appropriate proportion.

  “Sleep well?” he asked, as if they did this all the time, spent their lives waking up together.

  “Yes, thank you. Very well.”

  In the kitchen he poured her coffee and stopped just before adding cream. He looked briefly out the window, then back at her. “Sorry. Old habits. Do you take half-and-half?”

  “Yes, just a splash.”

  His hand shook a bit as the cream lightened the coffee, and he handed it to her. “My wife did too.”

  Catherine sipped the coffee, tasted burnt cinnamon or chicory, and imagined the Brazilian rain forest where the beans had been harvested. Ralph wouldn’t allow anything but french roast in the house. “Any sign of Sequoia?” she asked.

  “Sadly, no. I’ve called security again and just returned from putting signs around the neighborhood.” Then suddenly he asked: “But where’s Karma?”

  “Oh my!” What kind of mother am I? she thought. As if Fred hadn’t just gone through all this trouble to bring him home to her. Catherine rushed to the front door and there her dog was, sitting happily on the porch. He dropped a single rubber flip-flop in front of her as if delivering a message about Cinderella.

  “Bring him in,” Fred called from the kitchen, but Karma had already stormed inside. He raced excitedly around the living room.

  Catherine returned to the kitchen. “Maybe he’s still hyped up from yesterday.”

  “I think I might be, too,” Fred said. “I thought maybe we could begin at the nature trail, if you’d be willing.”

  If she’d be willing? “Wherever you’d like.” She moved to the refrigerator and fingered an old photo attached to the metal door with a Mount Rushmore magnet. It showed Sequoia as a puppy in the arms of a red-haired woman. Catherine felt moved by the woman’s wide smile and deep-set dimples.

  “We can take my golf cart to cover more ground, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe that’s part of my confidence in Sequoia,” Fred explained. “That dog has been everywhere, lived an exuberant life, and gotten out of scrapes worse than this. She’ll be just fine.” He motioned to a frying pan on the stove. “But, have you eaten? Would you like some scrambled eggs? I’ve also been known to whip up a mean French toast.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Catherine answered. And she meant it.

  Fred had been up late into the night. He’d started with the garage, specifically his golf cart, because he had the idea that if he rode with Catherine, she’d be that much closer to him. He recharged its batteries and wiped pollen from the plastic seats. He removed Lissa’s sunglasses and visor from the wire basket and hooked them around her golf clubs, which were still resting against the garage wall as if she might show up at any time for a quick round.

  Inside his house he’d cleared a pile of laundry that had somehow accumulated in his entryway, rinsed the dishes in the kitchen sink, and run a vacuum around the dining room. He dusted the living room, mopped the kitchen floor, and threw out the dead plant on the hutch. Who had brought it as an offering for his loss, he had no idea.

  He stayed up well past midnight, organizing, recycling, even throwing out rotten food from the fridge. Slimy sausages and brown onions that he’d never noticed. These were tasks he should have accomplished months ago, but he’d had neither the motivation nor the energy. Now, like his golf cart, he felt his batteries recharging.

  After Catherine finished her coffee, they walked out to his garage. She called to Karma, who came running out, and the three of them settled on the golf cart, the dog on the floorboard between them. Fred hoped that Catherine didn’t notice the emptiness in the garage where Lissa’s car had been. To him, it felt like a vacant lot.

  “Aren’t you going to bring a leash?” Catherine asked. “Just in case?”

  “Of course.” How could he be so careless? He stood, reentered the mudroom, and grabbed the spare leash from the side hook. “And treats,” he whispered to himself. He felt like a prom-bound teenager who had forgotten a corsage. It had been only twenty-four hours since he’d met Catherine, but his world had been shifted upside down. On its axis and inside out.

  They pulled out of the driveway and to the end of the street. He turned left, away from where Ida Blue was keeping Sequoia. He had tried not to think too much about his Great Dane. He knew that after the dogs’ long journey she would just sleep until noon. It would be good for her to rest. And the professional dogsitter, although a little odd, would certainly know how to handle anything that arose. He would retrieve his Great Dane after he had spent the morning with Catherine. He would bring Sequoia home that afternoon to check the pads of her feet and give her extra glucosamine. He would make sure she had a nice dinner of chopped steak or chicken strips. He would make it up to her.

  Fred stroked Karma’s boxy head. “So how’s he doing after his adventure?”

  “I think he’s happy to be here and be able to help look for Sequoia. To have a purpose.”

  “Yes, we all want that.”

  “He likes to hang out alone, but it’s good for him to have a new friend. To get to the dog park and socialize. To get out of the box.”

  Tell her! Fred heard his wife’s voice. It’s a perfect opening: “To get out of the box!” Mention your crossword puzzles! You do Sundays with your eyes closed. Why not do one with her this afternoon? God knows you have a pile waiting. You could sit together on the porch! She might even know opera or pop culture. Go ahead! You always just guess at those anyway.

  The golf cart path ran parallel to the road and was empty, golfers already at tee times or enjoying Mulligan omelets at the clubhouse. Fred and Catherine followed the main road to reach an arm of the nature t
rail. Once midisland, they stopped at Seven Oaks’ single traffic light.

  “There should be a word for this,” Catherine said.

  “What?”

  “Waiting at a red light. You know, that feeling you get just before it turns green.”

  He understood exactly what she meant. Lissa had taught him dozens of foreign words that translated into entire situations.

  Catherine seemed embarrassed by his silence. “I don’t know, I’m just running on, but like when you buy something at the grocery store just before it goes on sale?”

  Tell her the words we like!

  Fred thought of schadenfreude, and the word he and his wife had made up—what was it?—for an indentation in a couch after someone stands. He wondered if there were a word to express an unintended silence between two thoughts.

  The light turned green and they crossed the intersection. “Yes. I believe German has lots of those words.” He tried to sound interesting without appearing arrogant. “My favorite is wanderlust.” He pronounced the w like a v just the way Lissa had taught him.