A Home for Goddesses and Dogs

by Leslie Connor

The car had stopped in front of the house. The low afternoon sun blanked out the windshield. I squinted. We had ourselves a stranger on Pinnacle Hill. Who could this be? Suddenly, I felt like a lightning bolt had speared me.

  It was Cici Hoover.

  Had to be. She’d said she was coming and now she was here. No bluffing. I was alone. My heart throbbed against my ribs.

  No way, I thought. No way will I let her touch a single blond whisker on my dog.

  Over my dead body. . . .

  I squatted down and grabbed up a handful of dirt. I made myself tall.

  The car door opened. I watched Cici extend one leg out. Long khaki pants. Not what I expected somehow. A head and shoulders emerged behind the open car door. She stepped into view. Cici Hoover was—

  Wait . . . this is a man. . . .

  He was tall and thin. Reddish-brown hair and beard. He was looking right at me. He took a few steps forward.

  “Lydia?”

  “Yes.”

  No! . . . Don’t answer! . . .

  “Wow. It’s really you?” His voice was warm as a cup of cocoa. A soft smile pressed his beard into folds up both cheeks. I squeezed my handful of dirt and stone. He came forward, head on a tilt. He said, “S-sorry. I know this is a surprise. Do you know who I am?”

  I did.

  “You’re Kemp,” I said. “Aren’t you?”

  Without “Bratches” attached to the beginning, his name didn’t sound so much like my own. Amazing that I should be thinking about that while my long-gone father came closer.

  “Gosh,” he said. He closed his eyes and opened them again—wider. He shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  “Well, I’m not really me,” I said. “Not the same me as . . .” I waited. What should I say? “You don’t really know this me.”

  He dropped his chin. He nodded. “I guess that’s fair,” he said.

  “Well. Seven years,” I said with a shrug. “More than half my life. Why would I be the same—” I stopped. He should be talking. He was the one who’d come here—and shouldn’t have.

  “I expect you to be hurt. I know I failed. I’m ashamed of it. Ashamed of leaving you and your mom.”

  “She’s gone,” I said. “But you know that.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I was sorry. She lived a long time consid—”

  “Not really,” I said, though I knew what he meant. “That’s why I live here now.” I swept my fist backward to point out the farm. A few grains of dirt escaped through my fingers. “I’m here with her sister. My aunt Brat. Well, I’m home alone right now, but . . .”

  Don’t tell him that. . . .

  “Everyone will be back soon. In a few minutes,” I lied. “The whole family,” I added. “W-was there something you wanted?”

  Oh, why ask him that? . . .

  “I wanted this,” he said. “To see you. Check on you.”

  “Why? I mean, why find me now?”

  “Lydia, I’ve always known where you were. But then I heard that your mom had passed—”

  “Died,” I said. “Passing is for the salt and the pepper.”

  And the peas, if you like them. . . .

  He breathed a laugh—a sad and gentle one. “Right. That sounds like Holly. Sounds like your mom. When I heard, I sent a card to you at the old address.”

  She died . . . and you sent a card. . . .

  “But it came back.” He scrunched his brow. “You must have been up and out of there quickly.”

  “Yes. Aunt Brat came for me. Immediately,” I said. “We didn’t leave a forwarding address form. Not for me.” I avoided his eyes.

  “Right,” he said flatly. “Well, I saw that the place had been sold. It took a while for me to find you. I had to make sure you weren’t alone—”

  “I’m not. Like I said, Aunt Brat stepped up—along with her family. There is Eileen and Elloroy.” It felt good to say their names—like a blanket around my shoulders. “Also, I have friends here now and—” The truthfulness of everything I was saying struck me. “The thing I don’t have is Mom. I miss her. I miss being her daughter. . . .”

  I stopped myself yet again. Why was I sharing this with him? “But it’s all been getting better,” I said. That was true too. I shrugged. “Turns out I’m pretty strong,” I told him.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “And I’m sorry . . . sorry that I’m probably not the parent you got that from. Holly’s—your mom’s health issues, they broke me.”

  “I know,” I said. I dropped my little ball of dirt and scuffed it into the gravel with one foot. “So, what about you, anyway?” I asked. (If we covered that, then maybe he could be on his way.)

  Kemp told me how much better he’d done. Like, since leaving Mom and me, though of course he didn’t say it like that. He had started a computer service business. He had six employees now, four vans. He’d married. They had two girls, six and eight years old.

  “You have an eight-year-old?” The words slipped across my lips.

  “Yeah,” he said, and then again, “Yeah.”

  Math . . . it can make your blood boil. . . .

  “You traveled a long way to come here,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Not so long.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t mean the miles.” I tried to think what Mom might say, because she was nicer than I was—kinder. “But your soul,” I said, “what a journey that must have been.”

  He fixed his gaze on me. “It’s been bittersweet,” he said. “I mean to be better than I am.” He blinked. I thought his eyes twinkled then, at me, or for me. But what did I know of the looks that Kemp gave?

  I wanted him to get back in his car now and drive away. I asked myself, Is that right? Should I be more interested in him?

  I looked at Kemp. I saw a sorry man. A father. But not mine, except for biology. But he was also a human being, reaching out. That had to be Mom, swimming through my mind and telling me to be human back to him—if I could.

  “Hey. Do you remember the raisin boxes?” I asked.

  He laughed and nodded. “I think about that all the time,” he said. “You liked those better than toys.”

  “Because I thought that was Mom’s picture on every box.”

  “You were a good daughter to her, Lydia.”

  “That was easy,” I said. I waited, thinking about the morning he’d left—how it’d seemed to me that all my Sun-Maids were watching him go. Did he remember that? Maybe I should not have mentioned them. I gave a little cough. “Well, I have responsibilities.” I poked my thumb back behind me. “We have a dog, and he’s been through a lot recently. He needs me.”

  “I understand,” he said. “And you know where I am if you need me. For anything.” He was looking at me intently. “Same address. For years now.”

  I knew that he meant I could get his address off the envelopes. I think we both knew that I wouldn’t.

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t even make my head nod. I turned and walked to the door and went inside. I stood back from the window and watched. He got back in his car and fiddled with his phone, maybe set his maps. Then he was gone—just like he had been for seven years.

  I felt still inside. I knew why: it was because the best thing about Kemp showing up was that he wasn’t Cici Hoover.

  If she’d come here thinking she could take Guffer away, I would have flung my fistful of dirt at her. I’d have kicked her in the shins. I would’ve screamed at the top of my lungs from Pinnacle Hill.

  But it was only Kemp, I thought. Only Kemp.

  I got down onto the floor close beside Guffer and tucked my nose into the golden fur at the back of his neck. “Oh, Guff,” I said, though he was out cold. “It is so complicated to be a human. . . .”

  His eye opened slightly in his sleep. The inner lid stretched over the inside corner, the way they sometimes do. I laid my hand over the shaved patch and the scar on his back. How amazing; he’d been opened. The not-right part inside of him had been fixed. So many of us needed something fi
xed. “But it isn’t always possible,” I whispered. I was careful not to send a ticklish breath into his ear. I lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling, my side snugged up against the dog.

  “So glad,” I whispered. “Glad you’re here. Glad I’m here.”

  62

  Remembering the Nugget

  As soon as Aunt Brat, Eileen, and Elloroy got home I told them.

  “You’ll never believe it. Kemp was here.”

  “What?” said Eileen.

  “Who?” said Elloroy.

  Aunt Brat turned to face me. “Kemp? Really? Whoa! Did you know he was coming?”

  “No! Aunt Brat! I would never keep that from you.”

  “Good to know,” she said. She sounded like she was trying hard to be chill. “So, what was the nature of his visit?”

  “Really, Brat? The nature?” said Eileen. She bobbled her head.

  “He said all he wanted was to check on me. He knew about Mom. He told me he has a wife and kids, and a good job and a good life.”

  “Pfft! Barf!” Eileen coughed. Elloroy patted her on the back and wanted to know if she was all right.

  We ended up laughing about that, which was good. We started making dinner together, and talk of Kemp got lost in a yeasty batch of pizza dough and toppings.

  But later Aunt Brat sat on the couch with me. We’d been doing this—Eileen too—because all of us wanted to sit near Guffer and Soonie. The goddess memoir was pretty public now. I often sat with a collage across my lap while I wrote. My adults and I had talked about Mom more and more.

  “So, about Kemp’s visit,” my aunt said, “you seem all right. Are you?”

  “I think I am,” I said. “Isn’t that weird?”

  “Not necessarily. But if you feel there’s anything to sort out, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Brat. But I think I get it,” I said. “It would’ve been hard for me if I thought I needed him. But I don’t, and I know that in my bones.” I drew my fingers over the surface of a collage; I traced the head of the goddess. “I can’t remember exactly what she said, but Mom left me some little—I don’t know—a nugget?” I smiled at Aunt Brat. She nodded back. “It was about me not having to take care of his soul. Ever. You know? She said even if I love him again someday, I shouldn’t feel like I need to try to fix whatever that thing was that let him leave us.

  “Oh, my goodness. Your mom—my little sister—was something else,” Aunt Brat said, and she dabbed at her eyes. “That is a very useful nugget.”

  63

  The Letter I Didn’t Know I’d Write

  I kept working on the goddesses. I kept writing and putting thoughts out there, like sending love letters to Mom.

  Well, what a twist, and what a surprise, when one day in May, the blank page in front of me turned into a letter to Kemp. Ever since his visit, I’d been having little “dialogue moments” with him inside my head. There were some things I might have said, if I’d been prepared for that reunion, but other things I could know to say only because of it happening just the way it had.

  I wrote: “Dear Kemp.”

  Then I struck through it because I wasn’t sure he was dear. I started again.

  Dear Kemp,

  Hello Kemp,

  I’m sorry if I might have seemed very rude the day you came to Chelmsford. I apologize for I won’t apologize. I’ll just say that I was afraid. Not OF you but ABOUT you, if that makes sense. I wasn’t sure what you wanted. Maybe I still don’t know why you came.

  There is something I want to tell you. You might remember not know about the goddesses. They are art pieces. Mom made them sometimes with me. I kept them all, and now they hold our story. Memories. They’ve also helped me sort out all the feelings life.

  There is a Goddess of Gratitude. She’s a hard worker. I was looking at her after you left. I realized I have two things that I should to thank you for. First, thank you for the money you sent over the last seven years. I had weird feelings I hadn’t used it and I admit that I didn’t open all of most of your cards. Not when they came. I didn’t know how to use your money. I could not understand what kind of gift it was, so I couldn’t spend it. But then one of our dogs here needed an expensive operation. It’s a dog that I love in a deep and wild way that I also don’t understand. That’s when I knew what the money was for. The operation worked. He is doing well. I’m grateful. To you.

  The second thing isn’t simple to explain but I’ll try. When you showed up here I suddenly felt like there was something I could lose. That something is belonging. I saw you and I felt in a whole new way, how much I belong here with Mom’s sister Aunt Brat and her people. They are my people now too.

  The way I see it, I still have seven or eight years to become an adult. I hope I get to go to college before I’m done. But what I am saying is that this is the place and these are the people who will grow are growing me now, and they are the ones I see myself coming home to even after I’m grown. Thank you for coming here so that I would know that. Thank you for making me sure. I didn’t even know myself how much

  Sincerely

  Wishing you the best

  Regards,

  Love,

  Lydia

  I wrote the whole thing over, clean. I read it back to myself—but only once. I took the letter down the hill, walking slowly, while my yellow dog limped along close by my side. I shut the letter into the box and patted the door with my hand. “Take it away, Jaycinda,” I whispered.

  64

  Chelmsford, Night to Morning

  June is the time of the Dyad Moon.

  . . . two parts . . . like mother and child . . .

  I, Lydia Bratches-Kemp, did a terrible thing to my aunt.

  I wrote:

  Don’t worry!

  At the Bigelow River with friends.

  See you in the morning.

  I love you.

  I’m sure I was the only eighth grader to leave a note. But I had to; my adults were inexperienced.

  I slipped out of my bedroom window and crossed to the edge of the flattish roof. There, I dangled myself down until my feet met Moss Capperow’s shoulders. He grabbed my hands and I jumped to the ground. You might have thought we’d practiced. But we hadn’t.

  I walked beside Moss under the early June moon.

  At Soldier’s Chimney we met Raya and Sari, who squeezed my arm. (She always did.) “Lydia! You made it!” she cried. “We weren’t sure you’d come. . . .”

  But here I am. . . .

  Our class gathered—not a single one missing. Then we—the little jumping horses of Chelmsford—hiked along the night-quiet road to the Bigelow River and to the very spot where we’d sent the fingerling trout home.

  I spent the night in the forest with my friends.

  We sat shoulder to shoulder around a campfire, roasting marshmallows or just holding sticks to the flames until they caught.

  They told stories. (I listened.) We hummed and sang, then laughed at our singing. All night long these twelve watched out for one another—and for me. I’d seen it all semester.

  In the middle of the night, Moss and I went hunting for firewood. We headed up a trail that wound above our little camp.

  “Good thing we’ve got the moonlight,” I said, reaching down for a twig. Smiling, of course, Moss agreed.

  We hit the jackpot—a fallen limb with lots of dry branches. We set to cracking them into pieces under our feet. We began to gather it up. I reached for a stick; Moss chose the same one. His fingers curled around mine. I looked into his face—so impossibly close—

  I could kiss you, Moss Capperow. . . .

  At sunrise, we hiked out to the road—heavy feet carrying tired bodies. I didn’t expect to see the cluster of parents waiting with their steaming coffee mugs, and I didn’t expect to see Aunt Brat. But there she was, talking with the other parents. She caught me with her narrowed eyes.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Morning,” I echoed. She scooped an arm over my shoulder
. I hugged her waist. We bumped hips on the way to the car.

  “How did you know where to come?” I asked.

  “Another parent took pity and tipped me off.”

  “Oh . . . and did you see my note?” I asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Welcome,” I said.

  “You’re not off the hook,” she promised.

  The boxy car jiggled us up to Pinnacle Hill, and when I walked in the door everything I loved the most was waiting for me.

  “Why, Lyd-jah!” cried Eileen. “Love those twigs in your hair.” She wrapped me in a hug, then passed me to Elloroy. Soonie stood by, blinking, and Guffer—my Guffer—wove through my legs and wagged so hard he tottered. Then he lifted his chin and sang me a long, long dog-song.

  “So?” said Eileen. “What did we do all night by the big Bigelow?”

  “Hmm . . .” I yawned. I felt giggly and goofy. “Well, we built a campfire, toasted marshmallows. We sang, really badly, and I kissed a boy.”

  “You what?” Aunt Brat’s eyes popped open.

  “Not very well.” I shrugged. “But then he kissed me back. And he was better at it.”

  “Huh-haw!” said Eileen.

  Elloroy’s jaw dropped into his old turtle grin. He chuckled.

  “Wait, wait!” cried Aunt Brat. “There was kissing?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m surprised, too. . . .” I headed for the stairs.

  Up in the hall I hesitated—stood smoothing my hands down Mom’s long sweater.

  January to June . . . it was time. . . .

  I shuffled into the bathroom, pulled back the curtain on the tub. I ran the cold water with a capful of shampoo. I slid the sweater off my shoulders and laid it into the water. I sank it and swished it. A thin cloud of gray floated into the suds. I left the sweater to soak.

  In my room, I collapsed on the bed. I closed my eyes, but Aunt Brat swept in—not done with me yet.

  “I’m so tired,” I groaned.

  “I’m not surprised.” She set her hands on her hips, attempted a scowl. “Happens to those who stay up all night.”