The Story of Us

by Deb Caletti

  So we were on the ground and then back up, and the kind man called a tow truck. He delivered us to the only person we “knew” in the area, the breeder, who my mother had talked to on the phone for all of five minutes back home.

  The breeder and his wife were expecting us. He was a gruff man in a plaid wool shirt who had a barrel chest and smelled like cigarettes. Our road angel in his tan county uniform made sure we were all right and then drove off. I was worried again, really, to see him go. He seemed like safety. At that house, with its smell of something cat and the sound of a football game playing in another room, Mom made another call. She shut her eyes for a moment before she dialed. A prayer, I’m guessing. She’s not a churchgoing sort, as you know, but she believes there are reasons for things. I said a prayer of my own. Jon Jakes hadn’t moved in yet; he was out of the picture then, out, in, in, out, dealing with his own divorce. My prayer—I was hoping it wasn’t my father’s number she was calling. Please. Anything, but not that.

  Then the breeder went out to his barn, came back, and set a tiny puppy on their green shag rug. A tiny, trembling black puppy with a white spot on her back and a tail with its tip dipped in white. The last of the litter, a puppy who slept outside. A vulnerable little someone who tried to hide under their television stand. We would’ve made her into a hunting dog if no one wanted her, the breeder said.

  I’d expected to feel bad, taking a puppy from the family she knew. I’d readied myself for some sort of guilt. But the living room had paneling and a TV tray set up with an ashtray and a TV Guide on it, and the last of someone’s sandwich. A hunting dog. A puppy who had to sleep in the cold. We picked her up, our Jupiter. We took her from that strange home and the strange family she knew, to become one of us.

  Our mother decided not to wait in that place. We got a ride from the breeder’s wife into town. We waited at a restaurant with a lawn in front. We had a leash and a water bowl, and we tried to get the tiny, shaking dog to drink.

  And then the sky turned dark. It did. It began to snow. Yes, snow. It was a beautiful blue-skies day back at home, with no chance of bad weather, and now this. White flakes coming down, down—some sign that things indeed could get worse, and then worse again. We stood in the restaurant looking out the windows. Tiny Jupiter was zipped up into Ben’s sweatshirt.

  And then the truck arrived.

  “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my whole life,” Mom said.

  “Get in, munchkins,” Grandpa Shine said, opening the truck door. “Who’s the new member of the Shine family?”

  The last thing you want when you’re trying to be big and brave is to be rescued. But thank God we are rescued when we need it. And that day was a whole entire day of rescue. We thought about Jupiter living outside, the snow, that strange smoky house, that gruff breeder. That small baby, a hunting dog. We thought we’d rescued her. But when we finally got home, the three of us plus one more, it felt like something huge had shifted. We’d created a new family, moved on from the old one by bringing in a little somebody, who was scampering around our wood floors and cracking us up, biting our fingers with sharp teeth, looking so small beside her huge bowls now set on a colorful place mat on our kitchen floor.

  Tell me, who was rescuing who?

  And you, too, Janssen. I guess we had some traumatic bonding of our own. You arrived in our life when we were still shaky. Yeah, you say I was always strong, but inside I was small and trembling on green shag. But after that incident with my dad … Well, you put your arms around me, didn’t you? And then you kept them there. We still had to figure out how to walk the bridge over from kid sister to something else. Our future hadn’t really even arrived yet. But there you were. And I felt safe. And I’ve never stopped feeling safe, thanks to you.

  Love always,

  Cricket

  chapter

  nine

  After seeing that guy and that guitar, I gave up trying to rest. I went downstairs, where I found Mom and Dan sitting snug and close together on one of those plush couches. The living room was as inviting as the rest of the rooms—stone fireplace; those two-story-high windows; polished floors and thick rugs; those big, soft gray couches the color of the sea on a moody day. My mother and Dan had their bare feet up on the wood plank table, and Dan had his arm draped around her shoulder. Two glasses of red wine relaxed on the tabletop; it was a quiet moment, and I didn’t want to interrupt. But Dan spotted me, waved his arm for me to come over, and Mom patted the spot beside her.

  “What’s this?” I said. I crooked my head toward Jupiter and Cruiser. Jupiter was lying on the big pillow that was Cruiser’s bed, gazing serenely toward the windows and the sea, her chin on her paws. Cruiser was stretched out on the hard floor. His ears twitched with nerves and awareness. You had the feeling he’d be sleeping with one eye open tonight.

  “The little old girl is the dominant one,” Mom said.

  “Oh no. Look at him. Should we chase her off?”

  “No,” Dan said. “Leave it. They’ve got their own rules. Man, if only people-rules were that straightforward.”

  “Poor guy,” I said.

  “But she’s telling him what she’ll tolerate, I guess,” Mom said. “She’s drawing the line.”

  I leaned over Cruiser, scruffed his head. He leaned on his side passively. “Are you the big dog?” I said. “Are you a giant woof? You’re not just a dog, you’re an adventure, right?” Oh, it was pathetic.

  “But I gotta say,” Dan said, “that boy will take on the biggest, nastiest dog at the dog park. And look at him. Scared of the old lady. She’s whipping the big guy into shape.”

  She did seem to have things handled. There, she seemed to say. No more of that crazy running around and jumping of the night before. No large dogs getting on Grandmas.

  I sat down, sunk into that couch, which soaked me right up. “Rebecca sure can cook,” I said. I smelled something right then. Wine and mushrooms. Garlic. “You guys figure out all the wedding details?”

  “We thought we’d take care of business right here in this room,” Mom said.

  “Great,” I said.

  Still. Take care of business. Didn’t it lack romance? Maybe in a worrying way? Then again, romance required throwing caution to the wind, and after Dad, after Jon Jakes and Vic Dennis, Mom clutched her caution like a mace can in a creepy parking lot. And why not? I mean, Dan Jax meant she’d gotten to her car safely, but what about something hiding in your own backseat? What about sudden ambush from ruthless bad guys hiding behind cement pillars? What about careening Audis or jealous bystanders waiting to key your perfect paint job?

  “We were just thinking about those movies where there’s the last race to the church to stop the wedding before someone makes a mistake,” Mom said.

  Wait. Had I heard that right? “What?” I said.

  “Those movies,” she said. “The interrupted wedding scene. Someone always has to run to the church.”

  “Stupid movies,” I said. “Stupid.”

  “I swear, how many films end like that?” Dan said. “I’m curious about the whole history of the thing. Like, what was the first movie that showed that scene? And then, why did it seem like such a great idea that now it’s a romantic comedy requirement? Do you need more wine, sweetie?”

  “No, thanks,” Mom said.

  Dan—his hair was out of his ponytail, so it was wild all over the place, and I noticed that his watch had stopped at ten fifteen. He was such an innocent. A puppy. When Mom left Jon Jakes and Vic Dennis, we—Ben and me—we wanted to clap and cheer. Balloons should have fallen from the sky. I’m sure even Jupiter celebrated with us. She never liked either of them. She wasn’t herself with them either. But this time, with Dan Jax? If it turned out there were jealous bystanders wishing to wreck this, or, even worse, something in her own backseat, I think my heart would break.

  Mom spun the stem of her glass in thought. “The scene resonates, that’s why. Too many people watch those and wish they’d had someone r
un in and save them.”

  “But think of all the other bad choices people make that would resonate,” Dan said. “All kinds of scenes where people should get stopped at the last minute from making a huge mistake. Someone runs in right before you’re signing papers on some disaster house …”

  “Packing up to leave for the wrong college …,” I said.

  “Buying a used car,” Mom said.

  “Picture it,” Dan said. “Used car lot. Flags blowing. Piece of shit car with the keys dangling from the ignition.”

  “Our heroine, about to shake hands with the used-car guy with the receding hairline and gaudy college ring …,” Mom said.

  “The hero runs in …”

  Mom took a last sip of wine. “But it’s always the weddings,” she said.

  I heard the front door open and then Grandpa Shine’s booming voice.

  “Anybody home?”

  “We’re in here,” Mom called.

  “You hit a typhoon out there?” Dan asked. George’s once-crisp shirt was crinkled and shoved in at an angle into his pants. Grandpa Shine’s forehead glistened with sweat, and the underarms of his polo were ringed with wet circles.

  “Typhoon?” Grandpa Shine said. “Oh, we were working hard. Wanted to see every inch of that course.”

  “Your hat!” Mom said.

  Grandpa Shine punched it back out again from the inside, where it had been dented in. “Right!” he said. “Look at that! Tossed the clubs right on it. Got carried away.”

  “Hot day,” George said. He took a pinch of his shirt and waved it in and out.

  “Golf is a rougher game than I thought,” Dan said.

  “Oh, it’s a physical game, done right,” Grandpa Shine said. “The old farts with heart conditions need to respect that.” George smoothed down the back of his hair.

  “Well, you be careful out there,” Mom said.

  I had a Grandparent Moment at her words. You know the ones. Where you realize they won’t live forever, and you suddenly want them to know how much they mean to you. It’s a rush of guilt and goodwill. A collision of love and realization. “You know what I was just thinking about?” I said to Grandpa Shine. “The time you came and saved us when we got Jupiter.”

  “Oh, don’t remind me,” Mom said.

  “That damn car. Remember Christmas Eve?” he said.

  “Don’t remind me of that, either,” Mom said.

  I groaned. “My cello,” I said.

  “Cello?” Dan said. “Any story with a cello ends badly.”

  “Christmas Eve,” my mother said. “Bad time in my life. Divorce.” She looked at George to explain, and he nodded an ahh, as if he understood. George looked too innocent to understand the ugly corners of love. Valentine boxes in second grade, maybe, a crush on some little golfer girl.

  “We were headed to Dad’s house for Christmas Eve. The car was packed with presents, some food we were bringing. During a Seattle monsoon! Driving on the freeway at night,” Mom said.

  “The Bermuda Honda?” Dan said. He knew what that meant. “Oh no.”

  “It stopped. I swear to God, the thing just died. Again! There was enough forward motion to pull over, and that was it. Christmas Eve, and no star of Bethlehem. BUT, an orange glow in the sky … The one way God looks out for me—,” Mom said.

  “A 76 station,” Dan and I said together.

  “I drove out to pick them up, and I get out there, and everyone’s drenched, and we’re moving all this stuff to my truck,” Grandpa said. “And I open the trunk, and on top of everything else, there’s a damn cello in there.”

  “Cricket had just started playing, and she was going to perform for us after dinner. I swear, I’m about to lose it—that damn car again—but then it suddenly seemed like the most huge and ludicrous thing. A cello! I started laughing,” Mom said. She was laughing now, too. “Cracking up. We laughed so hard. Jesus, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.”

  “I almost wet my pants. That car had a curse,” Grandpa Shine said.

  “The cursed Bermuda Triangle, Automobile Edition, where odd and mysterious things happen,” Ben said. He was suddenly there, leaning in the doorway.

  “And we went home and had Christmas Eve,” Grandpa said, and George smiled.

  “And Cricket played that cello like an angel,” Mom said.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Ben said.

  “Okay, maybe not an angel,” Mom said.

  We were all laughing and smiling, and it was stupid, but I was worried. Jon Jakes and Vic Dennis and even my father were ditched the same as a professional hit man takes care of a body—with utter certainty and without hesitation. Clean. She put up with a lot of shit, but once she’d decided she’d had enough, it was over. But there’d been warnings. The final act seemed sudden, but the inner working of her mind left fingerprints and blood droplets. You’d hear music by angry chick singers playing with greater frequency in her car. She’d buy a fuck-you outfit, something she’d look great in and wear without him beside her. She’d sit alone and think too long. She’d spin a wineglass by the stem, and speak in double meanings.

  We had dinner in the big dining room again. Gram’s cheeks got red with spicy food and cabernet, and Aunt Bailey was a little tipsy too, laughing too much and flirting with George, who told us about his childhood in Chiba, Japan, and his trip here with his family. George was sweet. He made sure to hold the salad bowl for Aunt Bailey while she scooped, since it was heavy. He told her and Gram that two lovely ladies like themselves should have husbands, which was sort of an insult, but he meant well. He kept saying how beautiful everything was.

  I lost all the ground that I’d gained that afternoon with Hailey and Amy, or else I was just too tired to give them the kind of attention that made our relationship work so well. They sat together near the end of the long table, twirling pasta on their forks, looking down on us like two ravens on a telephone line. Amy picked the mushrooms from her sauce and piled them up on her plate, and Hailey would whisper to her and she’d whisper back until Rebecca or Mom or Aunt Bailey would ask them a question and their heads would pop up, wearing tight, polite smiles. They were the kind of smiles that said, I wish you’d curl up and die but I’d never, ever say so.

  Sometimes you wanted more from people. I wished Jupiter would get them in line.

  After dinner I headed to my room. I wanted to write to Janssen and tell him everything that had happened that day, but halfway there I changed my mind. I wanted to see the beach at night, I told myself, and myself told me what a liar I was. From the dining room I had seen the small bonfire, the orange glow that looked so inviting. I saw the figure there too. Of course, I could tell who it was even from there. The short hair, the wide shoulders. That stupid-girl hot-guy reaction wasn’t me, though right then my body didn’t seem to know that. It was new, that want. But it felt safe to play with. Desire could feel like a demand, but I knew it wasn’t one.

  It was cool outside. I should have brought a jacket. What I was doing felt wrong, but I kept stepping toward wrongness, kept picking at it, the way you pull a loose bit of yarn even though you see the sweater starting to unravel. That hot guy—well, I was stuck, and maybe he seemed like a way to shove myself in one direction or the other. You pull the bit of yarn and it unravels, and you either stop because you remember how much you love that sweater, or else you keep pulling, because it’s already ruined. But at least you do something. I could smell burning wood, and the ashy heat lifted up into the air and sent a swarm of firefly sparks dancing down the beach. I could hear the snap and pop of the fire as I got closer. He turned when he heard me.

  “Hey, Cricket,” he said. He knew my name.

  “Hey, Somebody with a Guitar,” I said.

  “Ash,” he said. “Pull up a log.” He sat on a blanket, his back against a large piece of driftwood. His guitar was propped beside him like a shy friend. He moved it so I’d have a spot. I sat down. It felt close. Very close, closer than I’d been to anyone except Janssen.
A male, non-related anyone. Oscar and Gavin, maybe, but they didn’t count.

  The fire made my face burn hot. The waves slid across the sand, their foamy edges bright white in the moonlight. I felt far away from Marcy Lake, where Janssen and I would sit sometimes at night, listening to crickets and watching strange insects dip down for drinks of murky water. I might as well have been in a different country, or in a different life altogether.

  “You live here,” I said.

  “I do.” He threw a stick at the fire and missed.

  I responded with several highly intelligent statements. “Oh,” I said. “Wow.”

  “Your mother getting married, or your father?”

  “Mom.”

  “When my father got married, they made us all go barefoot and throw pieces of paper with wishes for them into the sea.” He twirled a finger by his head.

  “What was your wish?”

  “I was, like, five. I think I wrote, ‘No fighting.’ F-I-T-I-N-G.”

  “That’s a good wish. Rebecca’s not your mom?” Well, obviously, if he was at the wedding. Oh, I can be an idiot when I’m nervous. Total lack of cool under pressure. It’s one of the things I like least about myself. Of course, I didn’t have much practice at this. You have a steady boyfriend, and whole rooms are closed off, red velvet cords across the doorway like in museums, so you can only peer in.

  “Nah. See?” he said. He pointed to his skin, his chest, where it was bare under his gray sweatshirt. He was looking right in my eyes—and my heart, that traitor, pretended it was a fish flopping on land. “Brown.” He crooked his thumb to the house. “White. My other family is Puerto Rican.”