Catch of the Day (26 page)

“Shit, Maggie. This just sucks,” he says, looking at the floor. “Maybe he’s with Dicky now or something. They were both awesome dogs.”

We go into the bedroom, and I kiss Colonel’s head once more as Jonah wipes his eyes on his sleeve. Then we wrap him in a blanket and carry him down to Jonah’s truck. Mrs. K. comes out to see what’s going on.

“Colonel died last night, Mrs. K.,” I tell her, and the old woman, who has buried a husband, three sisters and two of her four children, bursts into tears.

“Oh,
Maggie,
” she weeps, and I hug her frail shoulders, crying again myself.

Jonah and I slide Colonel into the back of his pickup, and I climb in beside my dog. “It’s gonna be cold back there, Mags,” my brother says.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. I hunker down and put my arm over the blanket so it won’t blow off, because that would just be too sad to see.

The people at the vet’s are so kind. They help us carry Colonel in through the back entrance and give me a moment to say goodbye.

“I’ll wait in the truck,” Jonah offers, closing the door softly behind him.

I pull the blanket off Colonel’s head and take one long, last look. He seems cozy, wrapped in the red plaid blanket that we used together on chilly nights. “I’ll miss you so much, buddy,” I whisper, my throat barely able to force the words out. “You were such a good dog. The best.”

I kiss his cheek, my tears wetting his fur. And then I leave.

Jonah drives me home so I can shower and strip the bed. I can barely look at my apartment, so lonely and empty, so I trudge to the diner, where Judy and Octavio cry over the news.

“Won’t be the same without him,” Judy sobs. “Shit. Shit, shit, fuck. I’m going out for a cigarette.”

Octavio makes a little sign that says “We regret to tell you of the passing of our great friend, Colonel” and tapes it to the cash register. Rolly shakes his head sadly, Bob Castellano gives me a whiskery kiss. Apparently Jonah or Christy calls my parents, because they come in around ten with Christy, who still looks pale and a bit shaky. She and my dad, who is crying openly, sandwich me in a hug.

“Thanks for coming,” I whisper. My own eyes are dry for the moment.

Dad blows his nose, then hugs me tightly. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he whispers.

“He was the best,” Christy says, her mouth wobbling.

“I know. Thank you.”

“Well, Maggie,” my mother says, and I brace myself for what comes next. “I’m sorry.”

I blink in surprise. She never tried to hide her disapproval, not being a dog lover herself. She barely tolerated Dicky, another of my father’s saves.

Judy takes care of the two remaining breakfast patrons, shooting us little glances and pretending not to listen.

“At least you won’t have to vacuum up its fur every day,” Mom says idly. “And the diner here will certainly be more sanitary without it.”

Ah, here she is, my real mother. My swollen eyes narrow.

“Mom!” Christy squeaks. “Jeezum!”

“What?” she says innocently. “It’s true. And look at you, Maggie, you’re a wreck. You look awful. All over a dog.”

“Mom,” I say. My voice is pleasingly calm. “Get the hell out of my diner.”

“Excuse me?” she asks. Dad steps back in alarm, and Christy puts her hand on his arm protectively.

“Get out, Mom. I loved that dog. He saw me through some of the worst times of my life. I’m sick of you disapproving of me, sick of you telling me that my life is a dead end, sick of you comparing me to Christy and her perfect life. Get out. Come back when you can act like a mother who loves all her children.”

My mother’s mouth is hanging open, and it’s odd, because at that moment, I love her more than I have in a long time. But enough is enough.

“Dad,” I say, “you really should stick up for me more.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“Christy, sorry. Love you.” I give her a stiff hug. “Hope you feel better. I’m going in the kitchen. Please be gone when I come out.”

Octavio, diplomatic as Switzerland, says nothing as I come in. I open the supply closet and sit down on the floor among the vinegar and canned tomatoes. My breath is ragged, and my hands, I note, are shaking. Tavy gives me five minutes, then opens the door.

“You okay, boss?” he asks.

“Peachy,” I say.

“About time you told that woman off,” he says, smiling his nice gap-toothed smile.

I give a grim laugh. “Thanks.”

I
SEND
J
UDY HOME EARLY
, preferring to stay as busy as possible. Word has spread, apparently. Chantal comes in for lunch, hugs me with uncharacteristic sweetness and hands me a bunch of tulips.

“Sorry, pal,” she says, sliding into a booth.

“Thanks. What can I get you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just some coffee today. I’m not feeling great.”

“Right. There’s a stomach bug going around,” I tell her. “Christy and the baby both have it.”

“Yuck. Well, if I don’t have it, I’d be happy to come over tonight, okay? If you want some company?”

“That’s okay. I think I just want to be alone.”

Chantal nods. “Hey, has Father Tim been in today?” she asks, checking her lipstick in the chrome of the little jukebox.

“Actually, no. I have to drop by and tell him about Colonel.” Suddenly, the idea of seeing Father Tim, being comforted by him, maybe having a cup of tea in the rectory living room, overwhelms me with longing. That’s where I’ll finally be able to find some comfort.

I call Beth Seymour and ask her to handle my meals on wheels tonight. When she hears about Colonel, she offers to tell my clients, many of whom loved my dog.

“Thanks, Beth. That would be nice,” I say. My eyes feel grainy and hard.

When I leave the diner, I automatically hold the door open a second too long before it occurs to me that my dog won’t be following me. There’s no one to look out for, no one to talk to…shit. Mom’s right. I’m pathetic.

Mrs. Plutarski glares at me when I ask if Father Tim is in. “He’s quite busy today, you know,” she says, pushing up her glasses on her razor-sharp nose. “This might not be the time for a…social visit.”

“I’ve just had a death in the family, Edith,” I say, knowing she hates it when I call her by her first name. She waits for a name, but I don’t give her one. “Is he in or not?” I demand.

“Maggie? I thought I heard your voice.”

There he is. “Hi, Father Tim. Do you have a minute? In private?”

“For you, Maggie, always. Edith, my darlin’ girl, would you mind faxing this over to the mother ship? It needs to be there today.” He hands her a piece of paper, which she accepts as if it were an engagement ring. “Sorry, Maggie. Official diocese business. Thanks, Edith.”

“Don’t forget you have that meeting in Machias at six,” she says, her eyes on me.
Make it short
is what she’s really saying.

“What can I do for you today, Maggie?” Father Tim asks, ushering me into the parlor.

I sit in the chair, ready to be comforted. “Father Tim, Colonel…he died last night.”

At first, the news doesn’t register. I suddenly remember that Father Tim said he would call me last night and didn’t. “Oh, dear,” he says, his expectant smile turning to sorrow.

I wait for more. It doesn’t come.

“He died in his sleep,” I say.

“Well, that’s a comfort, then, isn’t it? Better than having him put down, I’d imagine.” He glances at his watch.

“Do you have to go?” I ask brusquely.

“No, no. I’ve got a bit.” He sits back and folds his hands. “Well. You must be feeling quite sad.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“I’m sorry, then.” He smiles kindly, but for the first time ever, I get the feeling that he’s not really listening.

“Father Tim,” I say, “do you think animals go to heaven?” The question comes only from my desire to engage him, not from any spiritual need. I know exactly where Colonel is.

“I’ve been asked that before,” he answers thoughtfully. “And while you might say that though God created them, the truth is that they don’t have the ability to make a choice. That’s a gift God only gave to man, Maggie, free will, don’t you know. And so—”

He keeps talking. I stop listening.

Father Tim is not going to comfort me. He’s not going to say something that’s tender, compassionate and insightful. He’s off on some tangent about church teachings, ignoring my sadness, oblivious to my irritation.

“Okay, whatever,” I interrupt. “Listen, I have to run.”

“Maggie,” he says, standing. “I’m terribly sorry.” He folds me into a hug. It doesn’t do much for me today, but I soften a little. At least he’s trying.

“Thanks, Father Tim,” I say, extricating myself. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mrs. Plutarski doesn’t acknowledge me as I come out, choosing instead to bustle frantically around the room to show just how busy they are. “Father Tim, you’ve really got to get going,” she calls out for extra measure. I hate her.

I walk home slowly. My eyes automatically check for Colonel at each corner, and I almost expect a nose to bump reassuringly against my hand.

Mrs. K. is lying in wait for me. The second my foot hits the step, she opens her door. “Hello, dear,” she says.

“Hi, Mrs. K.,” I say. The last thing I want to do is cut her toenails or plunge her toilet. “Everything okay?”

“Well,
yes,
Maggie, for me, at any rate. Here. I
baked
today. I can’t
remember
the last time I baked. These are for you.” She hands me a paper plate of peanut butter cookies, the crisscross marks sparkling with sugar. Her wizened, soft face is so kind and sweet that my eyes instantly fill.

“Now, you probably need some time
alone,
so I won’t keep you,” she says. “But I’m
here
if you need me.” She squeezes my arm and closes the door.

I open the door to my apartment and step in, then stand for a minute, facing my loss. I’ve never come home and not had Colonel either with me or here to greet me. His bowl is still there, still filled with kibbles. His doggy bed, worn on one side where he draped his paw over the side these many years, seems enormously empty.

A
COUPLE OF HOURS LATER
, I’m in my oldest, most comfortable flannel pajamas. Winged blue coffee cups float over an orange background, a color combination that explains why I got them for three dollars. Two inches of my ankle stick out, and my bosom—or lack thereof—is now coated with peanut butter cookie crumbs. Exhausted but not sleepy, I listlessly watch the Red Sox blow a four-run lead. My mother hates me, my father’s disappearing, my sister’s perfect, and hey, let’s not forget that my dog is dead. In a word, I’m not feeling too chipper. Of course, that’s when someone knocks on the door.

I heave myself off the couch. Probably Jonah, I think. But it’s not. It’s the last thing I need. Malone.

I open the door. “Malone, it’s not the best time for me,” I say, looking at his chest.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he answers, pushing past me.

Why is he here? Do we need to break up? Did we have a relationship that actually requires a breakup scene? “Look,” I say, but I’m talking to his back because he’s ignoring me and going into the kitchen. Taking off his coat, even. The nerve. And opening a cabinet. Pretty rude, if you ask me. I stay where I am, hands on my hips. If he wants a fight, he’s in for it. I am in no mood for shit today, as Mommy Dearest could attest. This has been a piss-poor day, and my throat grows tight with anger.

“Malone, I really don’t want you—”

Malone comes back in the living room with two glasses of what looks and smells like scotch. He hands one to me, then clinks his glass against mine. “To Colonel. He was a great dog, Maggie.”

Whatever hardness I’m feeling crumbles like a sand castle. I cover my eyes, which have instantly filled with tears. “Malone…” I whisper. He puts his arms around me, kisses my head, and the kindness of the small gesture just destroys me. My fists clench in his shirt, and I sob against his chest.

“Jonah told me,” he says, kissing me again. “Here, take a drink. You’ll feel better.”

It’s one of his longer speeches. I obey, wincing as I swallow. Then he leads me to the couch and sits down, pulling me with him, tucking my head against his shoulder. My tears leak out, wetting the wool of his sweater, and I hiccup occasionally. We sit there like that for a long time, watching the Sox lose, not saying anything. I sip the drink, feeling a pleasant warmth grow in my middle. Malone’s fingers play idly in my hair, and I’m curled against his side. My eyes begin to burn, my thoughts grow sketchy and jumbled.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up, I’m in bed, the covers pulled up to my chin. My arm reaches out automatically, and I do touch a warm, solid figure, but it’s not Colonel, of course. It’s Malone. He’s lying on top of the covers, fully dressed. The moonlight that pours through the window allows me to see that he’s awake.