by S. Bennett
“That money goes to my wife. She uses it to supplement her retirement. Puts some into a college fund for the grandkids.”
“You have grandkids?” I ask, wondering if Bernard will ever quit shocking me tonight.
His smile goes from troubled to nonexistent, and it’s clear I’ve hit on a very sensitive nerve. Slapping a palm to his thigh, he makes to stand up from his rocker. “Well, it’s getting late. Would you mind giving me a ride back to town?”
I feel horrible for chasing him away with my questions. He’s shared a lot tonight, and I should have backed off.
So I lighten things up. “Absolutely I will, but first we’re having my strawberry shortcake. I made the pound cake to go with it from scratch.”
A wave of relief washes over Bernard’s entire body, and he sinks back into his chair. I can see it in his eyes, the relaxing of his jaw and the droop of his shoulders. I had clearly stressed him out with my poking around, and I feel wretched about it.
He knows I feel bad because he gives me a bright smile to bring me out of it. “Strawberry shortcake sounds delicious.”
I smile back as I put my half-empty beer on the small patio table and stand up.
“Just a small piece for me,” Oley says. “I’m afraid I ate too much of your potato salad.”
Another roundabout-Oley-compliment. I beam at him.
As I’m opening the french door to head into the kitchen, I hear Oley say to Bernard, “The Pirates are playing the Indians tonight if you want to stick around and watch.”
My chest swells with fondness for Oley. For making Bernard feel so welcome, and for redirecting him onto less stressful topics. The fact he’s opening his home up to Bernard says a lot about the man.
But then again, Oley’s also a lonely person. He’s been by himself here for over twenty years. His wife died when she was fifty-two, and their kids had already flown the nest and moved to other parts of the state. Oley has a daughter over in Raleigh and a son in Charlotte. He has grandkids, too, but he rarely sees any of them because, in his words, “They’re always so busy they don’t have time for me”.
In fact, he rarely talks about them at all. I realize Oley totally understands Bernard’s family issues. They have something very important in common.
Well, and baseball, too.
When I step into the kitchen, Atticus—who is laying on his side—opens his blue eye to stare at me. His tail thumps, but he makes no move to get up. He ate quite a bit of the dog cake so he’s in lazy, sleepy mode right now.
“Don’t get up on my account,” I tease. Of course, he doesn’t understand my words, but he always understands my tone, which makes his tail pound the tile harder.
I move to the counter where I’d set the pan of pound cake I’d left earlier. For a moment, I’m utterly confused. I’d put it back into the L-shaped corner where the counter meets the wall because I know Atti’s propensity to counter surf. He’s so damn fast, too, but I don’t think he could have reached it.
Besides… the pan itself—which is made of heavy ceramic—is gone.
I did bring it down from my apartment, didn’t I?
Yes, I absolutely remember bringing it down. I had covered it with tinfoil, set the bowl of strawberries on top, and carefully walked down the steep stairs.
I turn around to scan the counter with the kitchen sink that overlooks the backyard. Perhaps Oley moved it.
No pan.
I look to the kitchen table.
No pan.
The stove.
No pan.
“What in the hell?” I mutter, feeling like I’m in the twilight zone.
I check inside the fridge, the oven, and the microwave. No pan.
And then, a bell goes off.
I slowly turn toward Atticus. He sure looks innocent enough. I had been keeping an eye on him through the double doors while we sat on the patio, but I didn’t keep my eyes on him one hundred percent of the time.
But there’s no way he’s involved because the entire freaking pan is gone. I know damn well he didn’t eat ceramic.
Spinning around in circles, I keep thinking I’m just overlooking it. In frustration, I decide to check the living room because maybe I’m just totally losing it and I put it in there. Or maybe Oley’s playing a trick on me.
I move around the kitchen island. When I clear the corner, I see it.
The ceramic dish on the tile floor. The tinfoil cover is beside it. And the pound cake is nowhere to be seen. Oh, there are crumbs left. Some pieces in the corner that were perhaps too difficult for a huge Berner mouth to get at, but—
“Atticus,” I shriek in frustration as I wheel back around to face him.
The little asshole doesn’t even move, but his tail thumps harder and the corners of his mouth pull back to smile at me in defiance.
The door to the patio opens and Bernard comes rushing through, followed by Oley hobbling as fast as he can. Both men look from Atticus to me to Atticus, wondering what in the hell he’s done.
I point a shaky finger at my dog, who just lays there on his side with that truth-teller eye staring at me. His mouth is curled into a lazy smile that says he’s content with the outcome of the pound cake. “That… that… monster,” I manage to sputter as I glare at my dog. “Ate the entire pound cake.”
Bernard blinks in surprise, but Oley snickers. He knows how bad my dog can be.
Turning for a moment, I bend over and snatch the pan off the floor, holding it out for them to see it. “This is all that’s left.”
“Whoa,” Bernard says in awe.
“Wait a minute,” Oley says as his eyebrows furrow inward. “That pan was on the floor? Is that where you’d left it?”
I roll my eyes and snap, “Of course not. I had it on the counter, pushed to the back. Besides, I had my eye on Atticus the whole time he was in here.”
Oley shakes his head in disbelief and chuckles. “Do you realize that means he got up on that counter, lifted a heavy ceramic pan filled with cake with his mouth, and gently set it on the floor. If he’d pushed it off or let it drop, that pan would have shattered. Talk about smart dog.”
“He is not smart,” I growl. “He’s an asshole.”
“Language,” Oley reprimands with his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
Bernard’s eyes are sparkling, his hand covering his mouth as he tries not to laugh. He makes a choking sort of sound, and then it just comes out. A deep, rumbling belly laugh that makes him double over and hold his stomach. That gets Oley laughing right along with him.
I just stare at the two old farts in disbelief. My dog ate our dessert, and they’re laughing. Atticus’ tail thumps harder, and I glare at him.
Still smiling with not an ounce of apology in his expression.
“Asshole,” I mutter again as I set the empty cake pan on the counter.
Admittedly, I am now slightly marveling in hindsight over the fact Atticus had to have picked that damn thing off the counter and set it on the floor before eating it.
My voice is tight and clipped when I tell the men, “Looks like we’re just having strawberries and whip cream for dessert.”
Both laugh harder over my obvious distress. I’m sure I’ll laugh about it later, too, once I get done being pissed off at my dog.
Good thing he’s cute, or I’d have shot him by now.
CHAPTER 24
Hazel
Holy hell it’s hot today. It was in the mid-nineties all day, and I was thankful I have an inside job working with Oley. But when we left this afternoon and locked up, the heat radiating off the asphalt felt like it would melt my shoes.
As soon as we get back to the farm, I’ll race up the stairs to my apartment to let Atticus out. I’d stopped taking him to the clinic with us because he couldn’t stand to be separated from me for any length of time and made quite a fuss. If I had to help Oley with a patient, Atticus would scratch and scratch at the exam room door to get in. We
tried to kennel him, but he’d just howl and bark and make such a ruckus Oley and I determined he should stay back at the apartment. Of course, because he’s a puppy and still quite destructive, he has to be crated.
We had a busy day packed with patients, and I even assisted Oley neuter a seven-month-old Great Dane. With his new glasses, Oley can now see to do detailed work. Stitches and cutting balls off are a piece of cake for him. He told me it was a very simple surgery, and it really was. I didn’t even get sick watching. And that’s about all I did. Even though I say I assisted, I pretty much just shaved the dog after it was under anesthesia and Oley did the rest. It took no more than half an hour, and the castration was complete.
Poor Atti. I need to schedule his soon. Oley says he thinks some time in between six and nine months is the sweet spot. I have to admit I was hesitant to have Oley do it until I saw how much his new glasses improved his vision. He’s sharp minded and steady handed, but I want him to be able to see what he’s doing if he’s going to be cutting on my little boy.
And now I hate I doubted him, but that will be my secret to keep.
I’m covered in sweat just from that jog up the stairs. Even at four-thirty, it’s still brutally hot. Atticus barks from inside, an exuberant bellow that goes high pitched when I put the keys in the door. When I open it, he starts clawing the plastic tray at the bottom of his kennel, paws moving furiously fast. He’s not trying to get out but rather doing his “happy dance” to see his mom. His barks turned into whines as he starts batting the wire door with his paw.
It’s the same routine.
I pull the latch back but before I open it, I say, “Sit.”
Atticus vibrates with pure energy and excitement. He ignores my command.
“Sit,” I repeat again and reluctantly, he obeys me. His butt drops ever so slowly to the ground.
“Stay,” I drawl slowly, holding my hand up, palm out toward him. I repeat the command again, because Atticus is stubborn and hardheaded. “Stay.”
His gaze zips back and forth between my face and my hand poised to open the kennel. I brace myself and say again, “Stay.”
I slowly open the door, still holding a palm up to him. Atticus trembles, and it reminds me of the way big rockets sort of rumble and shake in place before they lift up from the launch pad.
And like a rocket, I brace for Atticus to explode out.
“At ease,” I tell him, which is his release command.
Shooting out of the kennel, he charges me in a blur of fur and tongue flopping out the side of his mouth. There’s not time to give a command for him to stop, and it wouldn’t do any good anyway. I’ve yet to be able to control this part of his enthusiasm over me coming home.
He goes to his hind legs, front paws to my shoulders, and he starts jumping as if he wants to land right in my arms. I put my arms around him, turning it into a bear hug. He whines and slaps at me with his tongue, and when I finally push him off, he jumps at me again.
This starts a series of more “sits,” which he ignores, another jump at me I try to turn away from, and his paw rakes over my back, scratching grooves into my skin that hurt like hell. At six and a half months old and sixty-seven pounds, it’s clear Atticus is going to be a big boy. I should do a better job of getting him calmer once he’s out of the kennel, but there’s a part of me that secretly likes this onslaught.
Never in my life has anyone been so happy to see me.
“Come on,” I say after I push him down for the third time. “Let’s go get potties.”
Atti’s ears perk forward and he prances toward the door, looking at me to ensure I’m coming, too. He has to pee, but he doesn’t want me to be out of his sight either.
It takes less than half an hour for me to take care of Atticus, which includes his dinner, then change my clothes and drop him off with Oley in his living room so he can watch the early news. He’s cocked back in his recliner, and I know his hip has to be hurting him. I’ve been trying to get Oley to see a doctor about it, but he says it’s arthritis and there’s nothing they can do.
“You’re leaving already?” Oley asks in surprise as he looks away from the TV. Atticus jumps on the couch, making himself right at home. The first time he did it, I yelled at him to get off, but Oley was fine with it. He told me all the dogs he’d had over his lifetime were always welcome on furniture.
“I’m going to stop by Charmin’s,” I say.
He nods in understanding.
“Okay… I’ll be back by six thirty with Bernard and pizza in hand,” I tell him. “Anything else you want?”
“I’m good,” Oley says, settling his attention back on the TV.
This has become our Friday night tradition since Bernard came to join us for 4th of July a few weeks ago. The two men got along well, bonding in their shared hilarity over Atticus eating the pound cake. They both share a love of baseball—Oley follows the Braves and Bernard the Phillies as he’s from Philadelphia originally—but they’ll watch any game. So regardless of who is playing on Friday night, I’ll go pick Bernard up, grab a pizza, and come back to the farm where we’ll all watch baseball.
Rather, they’ll watch baseball and I’ll play around on my phone. I’m deep into Angry Birds and determined to get three stars on every level.
As I maneuver the country roads that will lead me out to Highway 17, I consider what I learned about Charmin and contemplate my struggle with going to see her. Bernard told me last week as we were munching on pizza and drinking PBR—Oley stuck with iced tea—that she told him to tell me hello. I grimaced when he said that, because I’m obviously still sore at her.
Bernard regarded me with those dark eyes. “She’s really sorry about what happened, Hazel.”
“I’m sure she is,” I clipped out, flinging a yellow triangle-shaped bird at the horde of green pigs mocking me on my phone.
“She broke up with Chuck the week after you left,” he added.
“Good for her,” I said vaguely. “He was a douche.”
“Language,” Oley chastised, but we both ignored him.
“I witnessed the breakup,” Bernard said and that got my attention. I looked up from my screen. “It was very loud and very public, right there in Tipsy’s. She pretty much broke up with him because of what he did to you and Atticus.”
That mollified me a bit, and I’ve been stewing on it since. I was really hurt Charmin hadn’t stood up to Chuck when he said Atticus had to go, especially since she knew it meant I’d have to go, too.
But there’s a part of me that absolutely gets why Charmin sided with Chuck. She’s a lot like me… sees her value tied up with a man. As much as it shames me to admit it, it’s perhaps something I might have done if this situation were reversed.
What really made up my mind, though, is one simple undeniable truth. What happened to me that night Chuck said I had to go, and me subsequently getting fired, was actually one of the best things that has ever happened to me. These past months working for Oley have given me confidence. It’s built up my badly wounded self-esteem. I’ve realized I’m worth more than just the title of “wife” to a man who didn’t value me.
In addition, as I discover ways in which I’m changing for the better, I’m realizing the people I surrounded myself with tended to change me for the worse. I’m not sure at what point in my life I became an absolute doormat, but I know I let it happen.
But more than all of these new realizations about myself is the one thing that changed it all.
Atticus.
Having responsibility for him gave me purpose. Seeing the way he loves me for who I am and nothing more makes me realize there are many types of love in this world, and I wasn’t searching for the right type.
The unconditional type.
So yeah… how can I still be mad at Charmin when I am right where I’m supposed to be and I’m loving my life right now?
Or, another way to look at it… had Charmin stood up for me that night, I’d probably still be sleeping on her couch a
nd working a dead-end job while I hid my dog in the storeroom.
I make it to Charmin’s apartment by six. She’ll be getting ready for her shift at Tipsy’s, so I won’t stay long. She doesn’t have much room in her primp schedule for an extended visit.
She opens the door, greeting me with a bashful, surprised smile.
“Hey,” I say casually with my hands shoved into the front pockets of my shorts.
“Hey,” she says, gaze briefly going to our feet before popping back up. And then she gushes, “I am so sorry, Hazel. Chuck was such an ass, and I can’t believe I ever even thought I was in love with that guy. I kicked him out.”
“Bernard told me,” I say with a nod. We just stand there and stare at each other. Finally, I say, “Going to let me in?”
Charmin slaps her palm to her forehead. “Sure.”
She steps back, and I enter the apartment where I’d lived for a while. My first step in pulling myself up after Darren knocked me down low.
“Want something to drink?” she asks. She’s in her bathrobe, her hair wet.
I shake my head and motion to the couch. “I know you’ve got to get ready for work, but why don’t we just sit and chat a bit?”
“Okay,” she says nervously.
We situate ourselves on opposite ends of the couch—also known as my former bed. Charmin tucks her legs underneath herself, warily eyeing me.
I give her a comforting smile. “It’s okay, Charmin. About what happened. I just wanted you to know I’m not mad about it, and I get it. And honestly… I have never been happier in my life.”
Charmin practically sags in relief, her face lighting up. “Bernard told me you were a veterinary assistant.”
I laugh at the title. “Something like that. I pretty much do whatever my boss needs, but I’m definitely learning about veterinary medicine.”
“And how is Atticus?” she asks, her voice sentimentally soft.
“Oh, my God,” I gush as I pull my phone out and unlock it. “He’s so big now. Sixty-seven pounds.”
“Holy shit,” she exclaims, sliding closer to sit next to me as I pull my photos up. I start scrolling through, catching her up on everything Atticus.
