Can I See You Again? (10 page)

I can't put it off any longer. I need to tell Jo the truth about her house. So, after a confidence-boosting pep talk to myself—not with megaphones and high kicks, but several spirited chants of
You can do it, Bree!
—I slide into my skinny jeans and well-worn UCSD alumni T-shirt that I bought for half price the day after graduation and make my way toward Jo's. I promised I'd tell her once I had a definitive answer, and
auction
is pretty dang conclusive.

On the way to Jo's house, my Uber driver stops at a red light.

Andrew's seated at a window booth of Ryoko's, a classy Japanese restaurant decorated with concrete counters, teak chairs, and a young business crowd during the lunch hour on weekdays. Dressed in dark pants and a mint green collared shirt that Andrew hung on our break room door after picking it up from the dry cleaner on Friday, he slides his water glass out of the way, making room for a plate of colorful fish the waitress sets before him.

What the heck?
I've tried to get Andrew to eat here for years. But he's refused, claiming he hates sushi, afraid of it, actually.

“Raw fish?” he's said in the past. “Like eyeballs, squid guts, and parasites swimming around my stomach? Sounds delicious.”

The pillar blocks my view of who he's with, but by Andrew's straight back and nervous smile, it's someone he's trying to impress.

The light turns green and as we drive away, I crank my neck, trying to see who is sitting across from him.

Strange.

A minute later, my phone rings with a number I don't recognize. A
442
area code. I hope it isn't Sean disguising his phone number, but, at the same time, I'm tired of hiding from him. I decide to play ball.

“Look, Sean—”

“
Hola
, Ms. Caxton?” A woman's Spanish-laced voice interrupts me.

“Yes?”

“This is Regina Voss, Nixon's mother.”

“Oh, yes, hello. I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else.

“No hay problema.”

“How are you?” I straighten my posture, even though she can't see me.

“Fine, thank you. I apologize for calling on the Lord's day, but this wedding seems to swallow my weekdays. I'm just now getting a chance to make a few calls.”

“No, worries. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I'm in charge of the reception seating chart and placement cards. It's insensitive to have a reception without placement cards, leaving people to just mill around, don't you think?”

“It's nice to know where to sit.”

“
Sí.
You understand the importance, then. The printer needs the names tomorrow. I selected a lovely embossed ivory card stock, and my son hasn't returned my calls. He promised
to bring a date and I figured you'd know her name. Have you found him a girlfriend?”

On paper, yes. And she's awesome.

“If not, I've got three women lined up to call.”

“I really shouldn't speak for Nixon, Mrs. Voss. How about I make sure he calls you right away?”

“¡Maldito sea mi hijo!”
she snaps, before releasing a long sigh. “I'll go ahead and invite one of these women. He leaves me no choice.”

“No, that won't be necessary. He's planning to bring someone to the wedding.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“
¡Maravilloso!
Tell me; what does she look like? Is she quite lovely?”

Almond-shaped eyes, buttermilk skin. And if I do say so myself, I kill it in a backless dress.

“Actually, Mrs. Voss . . . it's me. Nixon is bringing me.”

“¿En serio?”
She gasps. “Well, isn't that interesting? I didn't know you two had a connection.”

“Yes, well, as they say, one thing led to another.”

“Sí. Sí.”

Nothing but dead air suspends between us.

Oh, no. Have I overstepped? Is she mad?

“
B-R-E-E
, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Lovely, I'll tell the printer.”

Thank God.

“I'm glad to see my boy is in such good hands. I look forward to seeing you at the wedding. You seem like a charming young woman.”

“Thank you. See you in a couple weeks.” I hang up with a smile on my face until I remember I'm a fraud. A complete joke.

My God, my skin can't take much more of this.
I dig deep into my purse and yank out my tube of Cortizone cream. Extra strength.

Ten minutes later, I'm dropped off at Jo's. We're gathered around her kitchen table. She munches on a pumpkin spice muffin, alternating bites with Martin, who sits on her lap.

The good news is he hasn't nipped at my heels. But to be safe, I've tucked my legs underneath themselves—I'm not giving that four-legged piranha any opportunity to chomp.

“So.” I slide the
Close-Up
circular toward her. “Did you have a look?”

“Yes, it's good. But who is Nick? I thought your boyfriend's name was something else, Stan or Shane or something.”

For once, I'm grateful for her foggy memory. Rather than confuse her or say Sean's name out loud, I pop up and refill her water glass.

Jo angles the plate toward Martin, and he licks it clean.

“He's probably done. Let me take that dish to the sink.”

“No, no, he's not done. He likes it.”

“Likes to lick his own butt, too.”

“Be nice, now.”

My courage to tell her about the auction is wavering. Come to think of it, she hasn't asked me about it the past couple of days. Is it possible she forgot?
No, Bree. Get it over with.
“So, listen, Jo—”

Martin jumps off Jo's lap, runs down the hall, and barks at the door.

“He needs to go doo-doo. His leash is on the counter.”

“You want me to take him?”

“You brought the muffins.”

“I didn't feed him the muffins.”

He barks again.

“Hurry, before he tinkles on the floor.”

But I don't like Martin. And Martin doesn't like me.

“Grab a couple doggie bags, too, for his messes.”

And I certainly don't like Martin's messes.

Martin dodges and snaps at me as I try to fasten the leash onto his collar.

“Stay still, Martin.”

“See, that's the problem,” Jo says. “Your tone is all wrong. You can't yell at him; talk sweet.”

“It's hard to be sweet when he's trying to bite the flesh off my hands.”

“He's doing no such thing.”

Jo's joints crack as she kneels beside us. “Let me see that.”

Martin sits, facing her, tail wagging.

Suck-up.

With a click the leash is attached. “See, it's that easy.”

I take the lead from her hand and open the door, but Martin won't budge. I tug a little—refraining from yanking him hard and swinging him above my head like a lasso—but he's fixed in place.

“Go on now,” she says to Martin. “Be a good boy.”

He moves no more than a fraction of an inch, so Jo scoots him across the threshold with her foot. “Take care of him now.”

“This isn't such a good idea. How about—”

“When you come back, you can tell me what Nick is like in the sack.”

“Jo!”

She winks and shuts the door.

“You heard the lady, let's go.”

To my surprise, the little fur ball trots alongside me with his nose lifted in the air as if he's king of the sidewalk. He strolls toward a nearby rosemary bush, stopping for a moment to sniff. He then pulls on the leash, springing toward a cluster of red-flowered lantana.

“Okay, okay. I'm coming,” I say, finding myself laughing.

Martin buries his head inside the plant, pulls it out, shakes his ears, and sneezes off a red petal.

“Bless you.”

He heels by my side.

Well, look at this. Maybe this won't be so hard. Maybe Jo's right. Maybe
my
bad attitude resonated with him and we both needed a fresh start, to clear the air, literally. Maybe with this walk, we'll gain a new respect for each other. I mean, look at us, two peas in a pod. Now that I think about it, he's kinda cute, quite lovable.

Martin squats and poops on the sidewalk.

And quite disgusting.

I bend to pick up the stinky pile just as he kicks his spindly little legs, scattering the Tootsie rolls across the sidewalk and into the rocks.

“Jesus, dog. What are you doing?” I gather his messes while trying not to gag—this is why I don't have a dog—and tie the bag closed. “You are gross.”

At the sound of my voice, Martin lunges toward me, barking and snapping at my ankles.

“Ouch!” I try to flick him away. “I just picked up your poop; you should be nice to me. Stop biting me, you jerk.”

He circles me like a shark, gnashing his teeth, wrapping the leash tight around my legs.

“That's it, you little turd.” I untangle myself. “I'm trading you in for a goldfish.” It's only when I'm free that I notice Martin's dangling collar.

He slipped loose.

Oh God, no.

I search all around me.

He's gone.

In a panic, I whistle for him. “Martin? Come here, boy.” I
search the walkway and under the hedges lining the curb. I sprint toward the grassy area up ahead, screaming his name. “Martin! Martin!”

He's not here.

This is bad. Very bad.

A woman hurries toward me and I'm already thanking her in my mind, grateful for another set of eyes.

“Glad I caught you,” she says.

“Yes, thank you. If you'll search around the playground and I'll—”

She hands me a flyer for a community barbecue next Sunday. “What gluten-free item shall I put you down for?”

“No, I'm not . . . I'm looking for my dog.” I shake the leash in the air.

“We have a leash law.”

My phone rings.
Hee-haw.
I'm tempted to answer. Sean once found my earring back in the hall closet carpet. But, just like with the newspaper, I don't want his help.

“I gotta go,” I say to the lady. “Martin, where are you?”

Ten minutes have passed and Jo's sidekick is nowhere to be found.

I'm dizzy with desperation when a teenage boy calls from the opposite side of the grass bowl. “You looking for him?” He points at Martin, sniffing behind a trash can.

“Yes!”
Oh, thank God. Such a relief.
I hurry toward them. “Thank you.” I bend down and reach for Martin.

“Come here, you little numb-nuts.”

He spins away, flashes his teeth, and growls.

“He doesn't like you,” the kid says, before riding away on his skateboard.

Martin darts—faster than I thought his stumpy little legs could move—out from under my grasp. He ducks between two mailboxes lining the curb. Martin chases into the street.

A UPS truck approaches.

Oh, shit.

“Martin, no!”

I dash after him—faster than I thought
my
stumpy legs could move—and scream, “Martin! Martin, come!”

The truck gets closer.

I can see it now, walking back to Jo's without Martin, only his collar and leash in my hand.

Jo will kill me.

Worse yet, this will kill
her
.

I arrive at the curb's edge, fearing the worst.

But someone is watching out for me—or him—because I don't see the furry fella pancaked on the asphalt.

The brown truck continues down the street.

Thank God.

But only a fraction of a second passes before I realize Martin's still gone. It's almost dark.
What am I going to do?

Fifteen minutes later, the sun has fully disappeared and I'm dripping with sweat after scouring the entire complex, the pools, the fitness area, and the playground twice more. But I've found no dog.

I consider hanging myself with his leash, for it's all I can do to take one step in front of the other as I make my way back to Jo's. I'm such an idiot. How do I lose a seven-pound shih tzu? I won't be able to look Jo in the eye.

Twice now, I've broken her heart. What's my encore? Sweep out her legs and break her hip?

Jo opens her door and notices the leash. Before she says anything, I start to explain. “I'm sorry. I don't know how it happened. One second he stood beside me and the next he slipped out of his collar and took off. But I'm going to keep looking. I bet someone in the complex found him. I'll post signs. I'll knock on every door. I promise I'll find him. I— Wait
a second . . . what is that noise?” I peek around Jo toward a muffled gnawing sound coming from the hallway behind her.

Martin is splayed out on floor, chewing on his bone.

Little shit.

“What if something happened to him, Bree? What if he . . .” She shakes her head as if to erase the thought. “He's my baby.”

“I know. I feel awful.”

“I'm tired.” Her tone is clipped. “I need to rest.”

“Sure, of course.” I start to leave but stop, remembering that I haven't told Jo about the auction.

She walks toward the living room, not inviting me in, but not shutting me out. And anyway, I need to tell her the truth. Yes, I'd rather stick my arm in an alligator's mouth, but I promised to keep her updated. And since Martin is okay, now is as crappy a time as any.

Jo settles into her well-worn recliner, switches on the table lamp, and reaches for a book.

Martin abandons his bone and curls himself beside Jo's feet.

She smiles at her companion, then focuses on the pages.

I'm gripped by the moment.

It's a normal, natural practice between the two. Nothing unique or extraordinary. The nightly ritual of an old woman and her faithful dog. But that's what strikes me. The simplicity. Jo's sat in this chair hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. The cushions shape to her frame. The carpet is impressed from Martin's habitual spot. She's comfortable in this home, guarded by the four walls. She belongs here. It's familiar. Safe.