by Leanna Ellis
With the warmth of the fall day still heavy in the air, I begin running. It yanks me forward. Two houses later, my legs burning, my lungs exploding, I stumble to a halt, grab my pinched side. My workouts stopped about the time Cliff left. I never could find the energy or time to lift weights or take a jog around the block. My membership to a workout facility, of course, had to be dropped as my financial situation changed. Now, I suck in oxygen like it’s on sale.
But Coach It hasn’t finished with my workout. She tugs on the leash and I stumble forward. We walk and walk and walk. She darts right then left, sniffing at each mailbox as if she might be tracking the postman or expecting a letter. When my pulse slows close to normal, I attempt jogging again. Two houses more, I stop, gulp air, then walk again. I repeat this around the block three times until both of our tongues hang out, though thankfully mine doesn’t drip slobber, and we find ourselves back at our starting point.
I stare at the outline of our house presented by the moon. It has a low-lying roof, square windows, red bricks. Southern Living would never stop here to take a photo. The house is over thirty years old. It’s small, but it’s all mine. Everything Cliff and I bought together over the years was with his money, whatever he earned or borrowed from his parents. Now I am earning a living on my own. I was thrilled to find a house with a yard large enough for a pool for Izzie.
I contemplate going to see my friend, Terry, whom I haven’t seen in months. Or has it been longer? She lives in the same exclusive neighborhood as Jack Franklin, in her Tara-esque mansion. It wouldn’t be but a ten-minute walk. I’m sure Cousin It is up for it. But I’m not sure I am. Besides my hair is matted with sweat. What would I say anyway? Maybe, “Do you ever feel like running away?” But I know her answer. Why would she run from her perfect life, husband, daughter, and house? She’d also tell me I brought my ex-mother-in-law on myself. So would my best friend, Annie, which causes me to nurse my misery in private.
For a long while I study this place I now call home. All I see are things that need fixing, kind of like staring into a mirror and seeing only the threadlike wrinkles appearing between my eyebrows and at the corners of my eyes, sun blotches, freckles, a gray hair sneaking into my brown. My house needs a fresh coat of paint and some of the bushes replaced. I need moisturizer, hair dye, and tweezers.
Let’s face it, we both need a facelift.
The irony strikes me as funny, but I’m too tired to laugh.
The sound of laughter leaps out from down the darkened street and grabs me. Cousin It jumps to her feet, barks and lunges toward the noise. My skin contracts.
“Kaye? Is that you?” A familiar voice reaches out to me from across the street. I feel guilty for my instinct to duck and run. But it’s too late.
“Terry!” I yank back on the leash as It lunges and barks. “What a coincidence, I was just thinking about you.” I jerk the leash hard. “Sit.” She doesn’t.
“Did you get a dog?” Terry slows, her hand clasped in her husband’s, and stands across the street from me. Miles shifts from one foot to the other as if anxious to move on.
“Oh, it’s a temporary situation. How are you?”
Terry glances at her husband. “We’re okay. Just enjoying a few minutes together.”
“It’s good to see you.” Suddenly, I feel like a third wheel . . . with a furry sidekick.
“Call me!” She and Miles move past. Over her shoulder she adds, “We need to catch up.”
I nod and watch them move into the darkness. Cousin It’s barking rings out into the night. I sit down on the curb, the oversized tennis shoes in the street, and Cousin It butts up against my hip. I place an arm around her narrow but furry shoulders. “Well, at least I have you. Temporarily.”
The flash of headlights alerts me to a car coming down the street. I wrap Cousin It’s leash tighter around my hand. Already she’s on her feet, her furry body quivering with the feral urge to give chase. Surprisingly the headlights slow, blinding me for a moment. I scramble to my feet as the truck pulls in front of my house. Cousin It carries on as if I’m going to be dragged off. Her eagerness to defend me would be semisweet, that is, if her raucous bark and jerking on the leash wasn’t so annoying. If only Cliff had defended our marriage so nobly.
The driver’s door opens and out steps Jack. Instinctively I step behind the mailbox and wish it were larger instead of just a cantankerous pole that leans slightly toward the street. “Hi!”
“Sorry to bother you so late.” He walks toward me, bending at the waist to greet Cousin It. “Hey, big girl, how are you?”
Behind them, the passenger door opens, and Gabe emerges. He waves at us but heads toward the front door.
“Gabe needed to borrow a book from your daughter. And I thought I’d bring this contract by.”
“Oh! Sure. No problem. Isabel didn’t tell me you were coming.” Or I would have put my suit back on instead of leaving on jeans and Izzie’s oversized tennis shoes. Thank the Lord good sense prevailed and I didn’t take her up on her offer and wear her shorts around the neighborhood, which seems to have turned into Grand Central Station tonight. I jerk back on the leash as Cousin It strains forward.
But Jack leans over, producing a hand for the dog to sniff and then lick. He smiles and rubs the furry head. “Thanks for taking care of Cousin It for us.”
“No problem. I didn’t know Gabe and Izzie were friends.”
Kneeling, Jack pats the dog. “I think they just met.” He glances upward at me, studying me for a long moment that makes my insides crimp. “Isabel said it was okay for It to crash here—she did ask you, didn’t she?”
“In her own way.” I smile, this time my smile not quite so tight.
“She isn’t being any trouble, is she?”
“Trouble?” My smile freezes in place as I recall my shredded roses. “Not at all.” As if to prove I’ve forgiven her, I lean forward and brush the top of her moppy head with my fingers, accidentally grazing Jack’s arm. “Nope. It’s fine.” I rub my fingers against my jeans. “Good.”
He stands upright. “You don’t strike me as the dog type.”
“I used to have a dog a long time ago. When I was in college. Her name was Brontë. She was an English bulldog.”
“Which sister?”
“Emily.”
His mouth pulls to one side. “So, you have a dark side.”
“Don’t we all?”
He laughs and pulls a rolled set of papers from his hip pocket. After he carefully unfolds it, he hands me the contract.
I glance down at his bold, confident signature and notice he changed the amount—making the sum he owes larger. Beside the tacked-on excess fee he wrote—Cousin It Boarding. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He glances down at the dog. “Oh yeah. She’s not a simple houseguest.”
His thoughtfulness surprises me. What would Cliff have done in a similar business deal? Would he have added on a charge he’d have to pay? Or would he have assumed his good fortune? Probably the latter. Jack is definitely a different type of man. “Did you have any questions?”
“Seems straightforward. How soon can we get started?”
“You’re in a hurry.” It’s more a confirmation to my suspicions than a question.
“I thought you would be.”
In question, I tilt my head.
“To get rid of Cousin It.”
I laugh but feel the reality of caring for the monster dog, as well as Marla, settle into my bones. “I’ll get furniture ordered tomorrow morning.”
“Fine.” His gaze feels heavy.
Maybe it’s only my imagination, this awkwardness that springs up between us, probably my paranoia and needs arcing through the dark landscape of my social life like a search light.
Last week I was in Barnes and Noble and the checkout guy asked for my license to verify my credit card.
“Nice picture.” He studied my ten-year-old driver’s license picture a moment too long. Then his bushy-browed gaze shift
ed toward me.
I snatched my license out of his hand. “It’s old.” About ten years and twenty pounds ago. I tucked my license back into my wallet and grabbed my bag. “Thanks.”
“Mom!” Izzie nudged my shoulder as we turned away from the counter. “He was flirting with you.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Yes, he was.”
I stole a glance over my shoulder and sure enough the man with gray hair and thick glasses was watching me instead of paying attention to the next customer. Then I smacked my shoulder on the door Izzie had opened for me. “Ooh, Mom! You’re putting out vibes. Good for you!”
A blush blooms inside of me now as I feel Jack’s heady gaze upon me like a warm caress. I glance away from him. I’m not putting out vibes. I’m not interested in dating. I’m working on getting my husband back.
In that brief instant of self-indulgent introspection, Cousin It pounces forward, placing two big paws on Jack’s chest, which doesn’t knock him back a step or make him grimace.
His smile remains steady and real. “Miss you too, baby girl.”
Cousin It jumps and licks, while Jack dodges that pink tongue.
I yank on the leash, irritated more at myself and my own foolhardiness than the beast.
Jack laughs and rubs the dog’s sides and back, then he takes the leash from me, our hands brushing. “Let me. She can be a handful.”
He takes her through several commands—sit, down, roll over, come—all of which she obeys quickly and eagerly.
“How come she doesn’t do that for me?”
Jack plants a knee on the ground, a solid hand on Cousin It’s back, and peers up at me. “You have to show her who’s the boss. Be alpha dog.”
My brow pinches together. “I’ve always been the roll-over-and-submit kinda gal.”
His eyes twinkle as a smile spreads across his face. “Maybe she’ll be good for you and teach you a few new tricks.”
“Alpha dog, huh?” I laugh, enjoying the taste of the words and the powerful feelings they invoke.
“That”—Jack pulls something from his pocket—“and liver treats.” He holds out the little block on his palm and Cousin It gulps it down. “She’ll do anything for a liver treat. Just not too many.”
“Or she’ll get fat?”
He shakes his head and pats It. “Gas.”
The sound of the front door slamming echoes through the neighborhood.
Jack winces. “Hope Gabe and Isabel didn’t have a fight.”
But neither Gabe nor Izzie emerge from the shadows. Instead, Marla steps onto the edge of the top step into the porch light. At her glare, I cringe.
“What is going on here?” Her fists are mounted on her narrow hips. A soft fall breeze ruffles her yellow negligee. “Is there some sort of disaster?”
I step even with Jack, noticing his eyes widen at the sight of her. “I’m sorry, Marla. We’ll be quiet. I promise.”
Jack dips his chin just slightly and his features compress as he stares at the formidable, alien-like creature on my porch.
“Well, I should hope so. I came here to get rest, not be the watchdog of the neighborhood.”
“We’re sorry, ma’am.” Jack’s smile fixes as if Botox has been administered and he can no longer move those muscles. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Marla gives him a dismissive glance and focuses on me. “You’ll just have to tell your boyfriend to come back later.”
“Boyf—? Uh, no.” I take a decisive step away from Jack. “You don’t understand.”
She gives a condescending wave as if she is returning to her throne. “Just keep the noise down.”
Cousin It gives a resounding bark.
Marla turns back, narrows her gaze on the back-talking beast. She bares her teeth and a low growl emerges from her throat. It takes a step back and whimpers. A moment later the front door closes, the sound echoing through the neighborhood.
Jack slowly faces me. His features are blank as if he’s been stunned. “What happened to her?”
“Facelift.”
“Ouch.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“They show before and after pictures, but not during for a reason.”
A smile breaks through his shock. “She has the right attitude for what we were talking about.”
“Alpha dog?”
“Was she Darth Vader?”
I tilt my chin downward to hide a smile. “Good guess.”
“And she’s living with you?” He holds a hand up. “Sorry. Not my business.”
“I roll over, remember?” Or maybe I am doing what I want, taking action to get Cliff back. Maybe I need to be more aggressive in that regard. “It’s temporary. Very temporary while she recovers from surgery.”
“That’s cool.”
I stare at him. “Not cool at all. She’s driving me crazy.”
“I meant,” he amends, “cool that she trusts you enough, thinks highly enough about you to depend on you. That says a lot about you as a person.”
I rub my forehead where a headache is gathering like storm clouds. “I don’t know about that. More likely it says I’m a sucker.”
His gaze settles on me, his eyes narrowed, but it doesn’t feel judgmental. In fact, it feels too much like how men used to look at me. That look of interest and discovery. A look that makes my insides flip over like a gooey pancake. “I don’t buy that at all, Kaye.” The rumbling of his voice rattles me. “It’s okay to admit you’re a nice person.”
“To tell you the truth, I have personal motivations in taking Marla in.” My confession will put a strong barrier between us and let Jack know exactly where I stand. “I’m hoping this will lead to reconciliation with my ex.”
His gaze never wavers. There’s not a flicker of disappointment or pity. But he steps toward me. “Now that’s a noble cause.”
The front door opens again, and Gabe jogs out toward the truck carrying a book under his arm.
“Time to go.” Jack smiles. “You’ll call me when the furniture is in?”
I nod, unable to say anything else, confused by an odd hybrid of disillusionment and empowerment.
Chapter Seven
My eyes ease open as a male voice penetrates my sleep-fogged brain. I blink and focus on an angry, frustrated discussion. Who could be angry this early unless they, too, were awakened? Then I catch something about the president, his staff, the White House.
Is Cliff here? He watches CNN and listens to talk radio, usually hurling insults at the talking heads. I throw back the covers and leap to my feet, trip over the blanket, which must have slipped off the side of the sofa bed. Prayer will have to be on the run today. I stumble forward to investigate the jarring voices and pans rattling in the kitchen.
Marla, dressed in a blue robe, actually more a negligee with flowing sleeves and lacy additions, fuzzy slippers with heels, an anomaly I can’t quite grasp this early, along with her newly acquired head gear in place, rearranges a cabinet. I glance around the kitchen, which isn’t big enough to hide a melon baller, and realize she’s alone . . . except for me. No Cliff. From the radio on the counter come the angry male voices, which jangle my nerves as the talk show moves into a commercial and the volume escalates.
From the doorway I watch my ex-mother-in-law move cautiously from side to side, bending her knees, not stooping to reach things down low, not lifting her chin to reach up high, deftly keeping her drainage tube even and steady. Quite a balancing act. Maybe she could audition for Cirque du Soleil. Or a freak show since she resembles My Favorite Martian. Still, she makes me feel like a sloth with my mismatched faded red T-shirt and orange threadbare pajama bottoms.
“Marla?” I reach for the volume knob on the radio.
“Good morning!” Her voice sounds chipper despite her gritting her teeth. How does she manage to appear regal with a lopsided antenna bobbing above her swollen left eye? She places a juice glass in a cabinet that contained spices before her arrival. To deal with this, I should h
ave taken an hour or longer for prayer. Lord, help me!
I finger my right temple, which has begun to throb. “What’s going on?”
“Thought I’d get breakfast started.” She pulls the silverware bin out of the dishwasher. “Isabel should eat heartily before her swim.”
“You’re supposed to be resting.” I manage a calm tone, then add a command as if she’s Cousin It. “Go. Rest. Please.” Thankfully I hold back what I long to say: Get out of my kitchen! Instead I offer, “I’ll fix breakfast if you’re hungry.” And she probably is since she didn’t touch the homemade chicken noodle soup I made especially for her. I steer her toward the kitchen table where she sits, poised on the edge of a chair.
“I had my yogurt.” She touches her flat stomach. “Don’t want to need a tummy tuck too.” She gives a slight glance in my direction and I do a quick intake to suck in the dome that has emerged across my once flat belly. Too many late-night snacks since Cliff left. Too many stress snacks—the refrigerator offering comfort when I had no solutions for money troubles, loneliness, and raising a teen all alone.
I close the dishwasher and the cabinet, lean heavily on the counter as I get my bearings. I feel as if I’ve been on one of those spinning rides at the Texas State Fair and the fried butter, fried pickles, and corn dogs are backing up on me. Picking up an egg from the carton, I fold my hand around its coolness. “Did you want an egg?”
Marla taps her fingers on the edges of her knees. “I was about to boil some.”
A yawn takes over me for a full ten seconds. “Okay.” I spot a pan on the stove, the water starting to boil, and plop three eggs into the roiling bubbles. “Did you sleep well?”
“Those pills work like a dream. Think I’ll keep taking them after I’ve recovered. No more tossing and turning.”
