House Broken (7 page)

Fact: Higher SAT scores will help you get into the colleges you want. (Complication: She wasn't sure she wanted to go to college.)

Rule: To score higher, you must practice, then review and understand your errors. (No argument there, unfortunately.)

Goal: To complete as many practice tests as possible for the highest possible score. (Complication One: Her estimate of her highest score was lower than her mom's. Complication Two: Her sense of how many tests she could complete without going stark raving mad was lower than her mom's.)

Consequence: She was thinking of telling her mom to shove it.

But that evening her mom didn't even ask about the tests. The day was overflowing with miracles.

Then she noticed her mom's nose.

“What happened to your face?”

Her mom touched it like she didn't know she had a face. “Oh, that. Nothing. Just a little bump.”

She thought about telling her about the poem but didn't want to press her luck. Her mom didn't seem to care about poetry anyway. Instead Ella checked her phone for messages.

Her mom sighed. “Come say hi to Nana. Then you can return to whatever you were doing.”

HELEN

N
o one had asked Helen if she wanted to go to Geneva's. Her children made it sound as if they were asking, but the train had long since left the station. She couldn't deny they had a point about the money—the bills Dublin showed her made her head spin—and she regretted canceling the darn insurance. Put her in a position of depending on them, and that wasn't how she preferred it. First they're helping you out; then they're telling you what to do.

Not that she wasn't grateful. It wasn't every grown child who would lend a hand to her mother, not these days. She only wished it could have been her son. He was easier. Always had been. Fidgety, the way boys often are, but he couldn't hold on to a foul
mood if it came with a handle and a lid. And so eager to make a person laugh. Nothing seemed to bother him, not disorder, not noise, and not flying by the seat of his pants. Helen preferred more order than that, but had learned people like Dublin were easier to drink around. They were more forgiving, or too disorganized to realize there was anything to forgive.

When she came out to California she had the notion she'd be the one helping Dublin out. Right off she'd said she'd sit with the boys. But Talia put the kibosh on that. Dublin said they'd both decided she wasn't safe with the children, but she figured it was only Talia. All because she'd put a bit of vodka in Jack's bottle when he wouldn't quit crying. Talia being Russian, Helen had reckoned it would pass for standard procedure. And now it turned out her grandson was catawampus. Could have filled his bottle with booze and it wouldn't have made any difference. Little feller was wired up wrong. It put a terrible strain on their lives, but if they wouldn't let her help, then that was that.

Now Helen was the one in need of assistance, and she was stuck with Geneva. As much as her daughter kept her feelings to herself, Helen could plainly see she had a knot in her tail about inviting her in. That girl was as similar to Dublin as vinegar is to honey. She had to have her ducks in a row, numbered in sequence, and ready to swim. Geneva must've been cornered into taking her in by that husband of hers, a family man through and through, and good-looking besides. Geneva had been lucky to land him, with her so fixated on her career and spending more time running after animals than men.

Helen was hard on Geneva—she confessed to that. Didn't help that her youngest daughter was the spitting image of Eustace.
If you took him and prettied him up a little, you'd end up with Geneva. She had the same thick dark hair, strong chin, and squared-off shoulders, and was tall to boot. Carried it well—she gave her that. Problem was, Helen didn't want reminding of Eustace. She didn't want it right after he died and she didn't want it now. It wasn't Geneva's fault, but a ghost was a ghost.

• • •

They'd put her in the boy's room. She'd expected the girl's room but Geneva said the other was closer to the bathroom. When they came into the house, Tom wheeled her past the girl's room. She'd caught a glimpse of all the paper hanging from the ceiling and decided she could tolerate the posters of sports cars and the musty scent of boys coming into their manhood. The boy—Charlie, she remembered now—was sent off to sleep in the den. He didn't grouse. On the face of it, he resembled Tom, but nevertheless reminded her of Dublin. She hadn't spent much time with Geneva's children, but Charlie, at least, might help these weeks pass.

• • •

She woke up the first morning at Geneva's with a crick in her neck. Same thing happened most mornings since the accident. Between strange beds, her arm in a sling, and her sore leg, she couldn't get comfortable. At least in the hospital and the rehab center they'd given her a healthy dose of pain meds—until they suspected she might be exaggerating her suffering. She wasn't counting on her daughter handing out pills like candy. No, she'd have her fist tight around that, same as everything else. Helen had
been craving a drink since her first moment of consciousness in the hospital and couldn't see surviving at Geneva's house—or anywhere else for that matter—sober as a judge. Charlie, with that long, smooth smile, appeared the sort who could work out real quick which side the butter was on. Maybe he'd be willing to help—for a price. There was always a price.

She could see out one corner of the window without moving her head. The weather was much as she'd left it the night before: fog thicker than day-old porridge. She wished she'd brought sunshine and a palm tree with her. And it was so quiet here. No street noise, no ambulances, no miscreants yelling at children by the pool. Big trees and wide, wide quiet. Some folks would call it peaceful, but she wasn't one of them. Reminded her of Aliceville—the house she'd been born in, not Eustace's. Stuck on the edge of the woods, with all manner of critters traipsing through the yard, her daddy lifting his shotgun at them from the narrow porch, swaying with drink, as likely to kick up a clod of dirt as kill anything. The ramshackle house never looked like it meant to stay. Any moment it might get strangled by vines or sucked into the woods by a fierce wind. She had been relieved to move into Eustace's house in town, where the streetlights shone nice and bright. Of course that was before the trouble started, when her idea of scared became the things you couldn't see.

Still, her childish notions stuck. The redwoods surrounding Geneva's house made her anxious in a way L.A. never did. Sure, L.A. was full of no good—any fool could see that—but it was no good you could lock your door against, not the kind that comes sniffing under your window while you sleep.

• • •

Someone pushed open the door. The light was dim, but she couldn't mistake the dog's boxy head. What was his name? Daisy? No. Dazzle? Almost.

“Diesel,” she whispered. “Come here, boy.”

He cantered over like a small horse. Helen pushed herself upright, pulled the covers up, and stroked the dog's head.

“You're a fine dog. Put me in mind of the one I gave Paris.”

Diesel sat and laid his snout on the bed, ready for as long a story as she wanted to tell, so long as she kept up the stroking.

“He came from a shelter, like I reckon you did, knowing Geneva. His owner had passed away unexpected. Barely a year old he was. Pure German shepherd, with feet the size of saucers and a knowing look in his eye. I got him for Paris when she was sixteen, for Christmas. Didn't mention it to anyone, not even Eustace. Especially not Eustace. But once Paris had her arms around him, there wasn't a thing to be done about it. Not a thing.”

Diesel's breath was hot on her hand. Helen recalled the look her husband gave her when Paris buried her face in the dog's neck. He pulled his shoulders back, raised his eyebrows, and glared at his wife as if she was a long-shot racehorse who'd snatched the lead from him. Stared her down for an eternity until she was compelled to look away. Then he left the room without a word.

Paris didn't notice a thing. Her attention was all on the dog. “Does he have a name, Mama?”

“Argus.”

The dog looked at Helen expectantly.

“That's a funny name.”

“From Greek mythology. You remember me reading those stories, don't you? Once you found out there was one about Paris,
you had to hear a story every night. Got real ornery when it turned out Paris wasn't a girl.”

“So who's Argus?”

“A giant with a hundred eyes. Hera—you remember her, don't you?—sent him to guard Io. He did such a good job she put his eyes on the peacock's tail for all of time.”

“Who was Argus guarding Io against?”

“Zeus.”

GENEVA

F
ollowing the weekend journey to L.A., Geneva resumed her morning swim workouts. Monday's called for length after length of butterfly stroke. Normally she dreaded butterfly, but today she welcomed the absolute exhaustion. When she completed the laps and hoisted herself out of the pool, she almost fell back in. Exactly what her body—and her mind—needed after long hours in the car and with her mother.

She drove home and ate a bowl of granola at the counter with Charlie. Tom wheeled her mother out to the Cherokee while Charlie chatted amiably with her about the Battle of the Bands and said he was sure he'd get to sing in his cousins' group. She put their bowls in the dishwasher and kissed him on the cheek, a
gesture he still tolerated. After shouting good-bye to Ella's closed door, she left to take Helen to physical therapy.

As they passed Pickleweed Inlet, she thought about telling her mother she often stopped there to look at birds with the binoculars her father had given her. It seemed she should be able to say it, and her mother should welcome the connection. The few times Geneva had mentioned her father had gone nowhere. She had no concrete reason to feel this way, but nevertheless felt that the path to her mother, if there was one, was through her dead father.

They crawled north with the traffic and turned off in Petaluma.

“Almost there,” Geneva said.

“What are you going to do while they're putting me through my paces?”

“The animal shelter is not too far. There's always something for me to do there.”

Her mother said lightly, “More caring for the wounded and abandoned.”

She laughed. “I guess you could say that.”

“I don't like being a nuisance.”

“It's okay.”

“I know how you like things orderly, and I'm, well, a fly in the ointment.”

“Don't say that. I should learn to be more flexible.”

She pulled up to the entrance. A man approached, pushing a wheelchair. “Curbside service,” he announced.

“I'll park and see you inside, Mom.”

Geneva took care of the paperwork, then drove to the shelter. Her best friend, Drea, was the director. They'd spent long hours together developing behavior assessment protocols for dogs and cats. When pets entered the shelter, either as surrendered animals
or strays, the personnel evaluated their suitability for adoption. Geneva and Drea agreed it wasn't a question of yes or no, except with dangerously aggressive animals, but rather a matter of matching pets with owners. They had already trained a handful of staff and volunteers on the rigorous protocol. Geneva tried to visit the shelter once a week to train others and, if she had time, evaluate a dog or two. The shelter was perpetually crowded, and she felt gratified to move a good dog on its path to a good home.

She found Drea in her office.

“Hey, Genie. How's your mom?”

Geneva didn't appreciate nicknames, but she made two exceptions: Dublin and Drea. “So far, so good.”

“You don't look as though you've pulled out all your hair yet.”

“We're all on our best behavior. Long may it continue.”

“You here to chitchat or can I put you to work?”

She bowed. “At your disposal.”

“There's a new one in number five. I had a quick look at her and have a hunch, but she needs testing.”

“What do you suspect?”

“I don't want to bias you.”

“Ever the scientist.”

Drea smiled. “I learned from the best.” She handed Geneva a clipboard with an evaluation form. “If you have time, stop by when you're done. And maybe we can have lunch sometime.”

“I'd love that.”

She pushed through the double doors into the kennels. Several dogs barked. A young couple stood in front of a cage that held a pair of boxers. She waited until they left, then walked slowly to number five and pretended not to look inside. A golden retriever lay on a mat, her head on her paws. The dog got up and
approached Geneva, who noted her loose walk and drooping tail. She bent over, met the dog's gaze, and held it, then crouched with her shoulder against the cage.

“You're a pretty one, aren't you? Everyone's going to want you.”

The dog cocked her head and pushed her nose into the wire mesh at Geneva's shoulder.

“Lonely, huh? That's not fair.” She unhooked a leash from the cage, undid the padlock, and slipped the leash on.

In the evaluation room, she removed the leash and ran the dog through the battery of tests. First she ignored the dog and kept track of how many times it made social contact with her. She petted the dog for twenty seconds and examined her teeth.

A typical amiable retriever, about three years old. She wondered why Drea wanted her to do the evaluation. Geneva performed a mock physical, running her hands down the dog's legs and under her belly. When she looked in the dog's ears, she felt the dog stiffen slightly and noted the whale eye.

The dog followed her to a container of toys. Geneva threw a ball onto the floor. The dog chased it down, mouthed it, then dropped it.

So much for the retrieving part, she thought. But hardly a concern.

Then she engaged the dog in a tug-of-war using a knotted rope. She didn't pull very hard but the dog began growling. She let go and the dog backed away with the rope in her mouth. Her tail was rigid.

“A bit possessive, are we?”

She poured some food in a bowl and placed it on the floor. The dog sniffed it and began to eat. After a minute, Geneva nudged the bowl an inch with her foot. The dog stopped midbite and moved her muzzle toward the foot.

“Mind your manners, doggie. I've got boots on.”

She waited a few moments, and pushed the bowl another inch. The dog flattened her ears and let out a low growl.

Geneva stepped back and shook her head. “No little kids in your future.” Without a history—and this dog had none—she couldn't know why the dog guarded the food and was possessive of the toy. But those responses could spell trouble if a child didn't understand the growl as a warning signal.

She completed the testing protocol and returned the dog to the kennel. After she slipped off the leash, she knelt and rubbed the dog's chest.

“Don't worry about a thing. Someone's going to love you, warts and all.”

• • •

On her way to her car, Dublin called.

“Stuck in traffic?” she asked. It was a running joke between them that if it weren't for freeway congestion, she would never hear from him.

“No, no. Actually, Jennifer Lopez wanted to have drinks, but I said I couldn't because I had to call you.”

“I'm touched.”

“I wouldn't go that far. But speaking of touched, how's Mom?”

“Fine. She got me up twice last night for bathroom assistance, but if that's the worst of it, I think we'll all survive.”

“Don't underestimate her, Ginny. It's probably a ploy to get you to drop your guard. Has she been drinking?”

“We hid all the alcohol, and Tom and I are abstaining while she's here. She hasn't mentioned it.”

“Sounds too easy.”

“I know. Tom thinks she may have turned a corner.”

“His worldview is refreshing. Rose-colored glasses for everyone!”

Torn between defending her husband and agreeing that Helen's good behavior was unlikely to last, she changed the subject. “Dublin, when did Mom start drinking heavily?”

“I think we all know it was after Dad died.”

“I know, but it doesn't make sense to me.”

“How come?”

“Because she won't talk about Dad. She answers direct questions but never elaborates.”

“Maybe it's too painful.”

“Maybe. But if Tom died, God forbid, I'd want to share my memories of him with Ella and Charlie. And I'd want them to help me remember him.”

“But you're not Mom. She was sixteen—a kid—when they met. She never had a life that didn't include him.”

“It still doesn't add up. It never has.”

“What?”

“That thirty years later she's still drinking because she lost her husband. That she never had a serious relationship since. That she doesn't want to talk about someone who was the center of her life.”

“People don't make sense, Ginny. That's what makes them interesting.”

“I like to think I make sense.”

“Do you? A minute ago you were teetering on the edge of agreeing with Tom that Mom was on the road to recovery.”

Geneva sighed. “You're right. Maybe I'm no more rational than Mom.”

“Now there's a scary thought.”

She laughed softly, then paused. “Promise me something, Dub.”

“You got it.”

“I haven't said what it is yet!”

“Oh, okay. Have it your way.” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Well, Geneva, that all depends.”

“Promise me that whatever Mom does or doesn't do, you and I will always be friends. And that means no secrets.”

“Do I have to tell you if I get my back waxed?”

“Dublin . . .”

“I've already made that promise, and I don't intend to break it.”

Her throat closed. “Thanks. Me, too.”

• • •

As she drove back to the rehabilitation center, she recalled Dublin's first promise to her, made when she was eleven. Geneva sat in her closet with arms wrapped around her knees. She had pulled the accordion doors shut. Thin bars of light fell through the louvers and across her body. She dropped her forehead onto her arms. Sweat trickled down the nape of her neck and beaded above her lips. She scraped her upper lip with her teeth and bit down. The salty taste of blood and sweat. The sounds of car doors opening and closing. Argus barked, again and again. From the hall, or maybe the living room, disconnected words in unfamiliar voices floated into the closet: arrangements, so sorry, her father's name.

Light footsteps approached, and a shadow fell across the louvers.

“Ginny. It's me.”

If she pushed far enough into the closet, she might disappear.

“I'm coming in.”

She meant to say no, but a sob came out instead.

The door creaked when Dublin opened it. He crouched under
the hanging clothes and sat cross-legged. Then he slipped two fingers between the slats and pulled the door shut.

“Paris locked herself in her room,” he said.

She pushed down on the air in her chest to stop the tears and raised her head. “Why did she get to see him and we didn't?”

“I don't know. Maybe we're not old enough.”

“Is he still at the hospital?”

“I think Mr. Stanton has him. I heard him tell Mama that he looks real good.”

Geneva wiped her nose on her arm. “That's stupid.” She tried to picture her father lying in a coffin but the image wouldn't come. Instead, she saw him walking in front of her in the woods with his rifle. When she realized she wouldn't see him that way again, it felt like a punch in the stomach, and she moaned and dropped her forehead onto her arms.

“Ginny?”

Without lifting her head, she stretched out an arm.

He took her hand. “You still have me.”

The idea that she might not had never occurred to her, just as she never thought she'd lose her father. The pain mushroomed inside her until her skin was on fire. The hand her brother held felt as if she had dipped it in a swimming pool.

She lifted her head. “Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

• • •

That night at dinner, Charlie told his parents about Aldo, Juliana's dog.

“So, Jon throws the sausages at the dog and then practically jumps over the grill.”

Geneva stared at him, alarmed. Helen chuckled.

Charlie turned to Helen, seated next to him. “I know, Nana, right? But then he grabs this giant barbecue fork.” He picked up his fork in his fist, gritted his teeth, and pretended to fend off his grandmother, who smiled gamely.

“Charlie, that's enough.” Geneva looked at her daughter. “What happened then? I assume if anyone was hurt we'd have heard.”

“He ate the sausages.” Ella returned her attention to her plate.

“Inhaled them, more like,” Charlie said.

Tom reached for a piece of bread. “They must be getting pretty serious if Jon brought his grill over.”

Charlie cocked an eyebrow and lowered his voice an octave. “I've got all four burners on high for you, baby!”

Everyone laughed.

Geneva said, “In all seriousness, Tom, there's no point in Juliana and Jon continuing their relationship if she isn't willing to control her dog.”

“Aldo isn't that bad.”

“I'd say lunging at someone is pretty bad. Especially given the dog's size.”

Helen said, “You worry too much. And the children are probably exaggerating.”

Perhaps she did worry too much. But when it came to potentially dangerous animals, she knew her concern was appropriate. Had her family forgotten this was her area of expertise? She didn't believe in good dogs and bad dogs. Behavior was more complicated than that. Given the right circumstances, a harmless puppy could be shaped into a vicious killer. She had seen it happen often enough. Genetics definitely played a role in setting the boundaries
of temperament. She had seen many more aggressive pit bulls, Rottweilers, and Dobermans (like Aldo) than other breeds. But ultimately the environment—the choices and behavior of the owner—controlled the outcome. Aldo wasn't yet beyond hope, but left unchecked, Geneva knew the situation would deteriorate.

“Ella, Charlie, I'd like you to be careful around Aldo. No roughhousing and no keep-away. Don't eat near him. Can we agree on that?”

They nodded. Their acquiescence told her Charlie's story had been no exaggeration.

• • •