The Dog Year (10 page)

Plus, Lucy had failings. Not everyone appreciated her sardonic sense of humor, and she didn't know what to say when talk moved to crushes, dances, and manicures.

Gathering the dog in her arms, she noticed a woman a couple of driveways away, moving in her direction. The woman looked familiar—and as she approached, Lucy realized why. She was the one who'd been sitting in the waiting room of Tig's office. The thin one. The one who couldn't eat what she needed. Even from this half-block distance, Lucy could see her hipless form. The woman waved. “Oh good, you have a dog.”

“I do.” Lucy smiled.

The woman indicated her own trim black dog at the end of a pink leash. “So do I. This is Chubby Lumpkins, Chubby for short, and I'm Sidney Jenkins.” She shook her head. “No, Wick. Sidney Wick. Jenkins was my married name.”

“Your dog and I have something in common,” Lucy said. “My name is Luscious. Neither of us fits our name.”

Sidney frowned slightly and stooped to pet her dog. “She's helping me learn that chubby is just a word, and that love comes in all shapes and sizes.”

“A therapy dog?”

“Kind of. Although I don't think most therapy dogs hump strangers as much as this one does.”

“That's probably frowned upon in canine counseling circles. You'd have to work on boundaries. This is”—Lucy hesitated, searching around—“um, Little Dog. I didn't know I was keeping her until, actually, right this minute. So I guess I'll name her Little Dog.”

“That's a funny name,” Sidney said.

“Coming from you, that's a funny thing to say.”

“I hope it's okay that I'm here. I looked you up in the phone book.” Sidney tugged an envelope from her pocket. “I was going to leave you a note. Thought you might like to walk with us sometime.”

Lucy put Little Dog on the ground and immediately she and Chubby went on high alert: guarded, tense, noses working. Slowly, they approached each other's hindquarters and loitered in a socially unacceptable way. “It's fine. Great, even. Where did you walk from to get here?”

“East Gate Heights.”

“I'm impressed. That's way on the other side of town.”

Without glancing at Lucy, Sidney said, “I like to walk. Helps me think. It's like cleaning house.”

Lucy clipped the leash she'd purchased the day before onto Little Dog's collar and said, “Let's do it. Let's clean some house.”

She surreptitiously eyed Sidney as they started to stroll. Baggy yoga pants and an oversized black fleece covered her upper body, but Lucy remembered from their meeting in the waiting room how skinny and frail she'd looked. Still, her full lips, clear skin, and large, round eyes, which were the color of sea glass, held court over her rail-thin form.

“I'm glad you came. Little Dog and I were just trying to figure out what to do today.”

“I used to go running whenever I didn't know what to do next. But I wrecked my knees doing that. Now I'm working on being kind to my joints.” As they approached the downtown shops, Sidney said, “It's nice how close your house is to the main drag here.”

“My husband and I wanted to be able to walk most places. Thought it'd be nice for . . . kids.” Lucy wiped her hand across her eyes, and despair caught in her throat.

Sidney briefly touched Lucy's shoulder, acknowledging Lucy's distress. Lucy opened her mouth to speak but the prospect of filling people in on her life, or what was left of it, felt impossible. She stayed silent but stopped to look in the window of a photography gallery.

“That's new,” Sidney said, gesturing to a large vintage black-and-white photograph of a bride and groom. It was a Hollywood-moment shot, possibly from the fifties, the couple locked in a kiss for the ages. The groom's hand was at his bride's waist, pulling her in, and his other hand tenderly touched her face. She wore a gown with satin, tulle, and pearls; he was dressed in a white tuxedo. Together they made a perfect “Congratulations on Your Marriage” greeting card image.

“What do you suppose became of that couple?” Sidney tilted her head. “Think they're still married, were faithful to each other?”

Lucy smiled, remembering her own wedding. Richard in a black suit with a sky-blue tie that matched the wide ribbon that encircled her waist. His warm, brown eyes had spent the day gazing on her face.

“Maybe I'll buy that photo,” said Sidney. “Whatever the price, it'd be a bargain for real happiness caught on film.”

“They look so young.”

“You know what I think?” Sidney said, still looking at the photo. “I think people should get married at the courthouse without a single person present and no fanfare whatsoever. Then, if the couple makes it to ten years, they should have a big party. The whole shebang: white dress, flowers, cake of their dreams. After ten years they'd deserve it.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows.

“What?” Sidney said. “They would! But if you throw the big Everest-of-a-celebration first, there's no place to go after that but down. The people go home, the presents are shelved, and no one's left to help when there's a dispute about who should wash the car or who balances the checking account. You're setting them up for failure with the big wedding.”

Lucy glanced back at the photograph. “Divorced?” she asked Sidney.

Sidney nodded. “You?”

“Widowed.”

“Shit.” Sidney shook her head. “I'm sorry. Did you get your ten years?”

“No.”

“Don't listen to me, I'm bitter.”

“What happened?”

Sidney was silent for a long while before saying, “I can't talk about it. But you know when you make a wrong turn when you're driving and the GPS unit says ‘Turn around when possible'? I really could have used that GPS on my wedding day.”

Lucy started to speak but Sidney waved a delicate hand, swatting away the sympathy. “I try to think of my mind like a bank account. Deposits are the successes, friendships, and happy moments. Debits are the disappointments and losses. I make an effort to do the math. Balance it.” She grinned. “But I don't have the key to weigh importance worked out. I mean, divorcing an unfaithful husband and losing your wallet are both real disappointments, but losing the wallet really sticks with you.”

Lucy laughed.

“When did you lose your husband?” Sidney frowned, and it seemed as if the muscle fibers in her temple could be counted.

“Almost a year ago. I'm not really interested in moving on. Or getting over it.”

“You know what? Me either. If I get over it, I'm liable to get involved again. No, thank you.”

The women turned up the street, passing windows that fronted a consignment store—Goes Around Comes Around—and a stationery store called P.S. You're Pretty. A breeze caught Sidney's hair and whipped it up over her ears and down her back. Lucy saw the web of veins encircling her neck. Chubby Lumpkins pulled to the side and sniffed a patch of what looked like squished squirrel. Sidney reined in the leash.

If Sidney were Lucy's patient who had lost her breasts to cancer, she might have said,
Getting over a loss is like climbing a ladder, one step at a time.
She might have said,
Don't think about forever, just think about getting through today.
Or maybe she would have said,
It's important to take care of yourself.
But knowing what she knew about loss, none of these felt right. So instead she said, “We should try to get better, you and I.”

“We should.”

“If we're being honest . . . you
do
look hungry.”

“Don't kid yourself. I
am
hungry.”

L
ucy pulled into the asphalt parking lot of the Maplewood Serenity Center just before the 9
A.M.
meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. To her left sat a pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read
SEX INSTRUCTOR, FIRST LESSON FOR
FREE,
and to her right, a VW Bug with one proclaiming
THE ONLY BUSH I TRUST IS MY OWN
. With one last pat to Little Dog's head, she cracked the windows, locked the doors, and took in a deep breath.

The square, yellow brick building sported the tall windows of an old country schoolhouse. Lucy tugged open a filthy metal door and it swung wide with a screech. The scent of old cigarettes and stale coffee swamped her fragile mood and slowed Lucy's progress. There were meeting notices, schedule changes, and random inspirational thoughts pinned to the bulletin board, and pamphlets
—One Day at a Time
,
Respect Yourself—
on an over-the-door shoe holder hung on a conference room door. Tucked into one of the transparent plastic pockets was a stack of laminated, wallet-sized copies of the “Serenity Prayer”; the writing so tiny that it could scarcely be read. Perhaps, Lucy thought, its power to change lives lay in one's proximity to the words rather than the words themselves.

She backed away from the prayer-on-a-wallet-card as if a grizzly bear had suddenly appeared. Turning, she collided with a soft pillow of a woman who was removing a shower cap, the kind that comes free with shampoo and face soap at the Ramada Inn.

Lucy jumped away. “Excuse me!”

“Oh hell, honey, not to worry.” She was a walking, talking version of a soft, powdery beanbag chair, wearing a fire-engine-red pantsuit and pink silk shirt. She looked like a confection, Willy Wonka's wife, a sugared donut of a woman with peppermint-stick lipstick and yellow cotton-candy hair.

“I'm only here to pick up some, um, literature. You know, for a friend.” Lucy kept her head down and tried not to make eye contact.

With a conspiratorial duck of her head the woman said, “Oh, sweetie, I know an escape when I see one. I can just step right out of your way and you can run like hell.” She had a hint of a southern accent. “Or”—and she winked at Lucy—“you can bring your pretty self inside, have a shitty cup of coffee, and spend an hour with a bunch of drunks.”

“I don't drink, really. That's not my problem.”

“No, of course it's not, hon. It's just like a prison here. Everybody's innocent.”

“You don't understand.”

The woman smiled, pure kindness, and said, “Come on in and tell us about it. The people in that room are your biggest fans. You just haven't met them yet.” She linked arms with Lucy and gently tugged her toward the meeting room. “You will never feel more welcome as when you're at an AA meeting. We love you already. My name's Claire Weezner, and I'm a ton more fun than my name. I'm thinking of changing it to Claire-all-the-rivers-of-Guadeloupe-Saint Barts. I like the implications. It has sort of an all-inclusive beach front with a
we are the world
kind of feel. Don't you think?”

Lucy resisted but not enough to slow Claire's progress. The tired yellow conference room had long since given up being cheery. Grime darkened all the corners, reminiscent of a time when smoking was still allowed on the premises. Mismatched aluminum folding chairs surrounded three gray aluminum tables in a
U
formation. If not for the large windows that streamed sunlight into the room, it would have resembled a Gitmo interrogation facility. The four people already seated there obviously knew one another and chatted away, ignoring Claire and Lucy's entrance until Claire said, “Hi, everyone! Let's get cracking, I've got a Botox appointment at noon.”

A lanky woman with striations in her jaw and neck that looked like they'd been many years and many drinks in the making continued knitting. “Age is coming, love, and no amount of denial, chemical or otherwise, is going to hold it off.”

“If I want to smooth out my worry on the surface to better reflect my inner peace, I don't need your craggy-ass wisdom to get in the way.” Claire's smile was radiant.

With a frown, the youngest, toughest-looking person in the room gave Lucy a once-over. Blackened nails, eyes, and clothes shadowed her slight frame. She looked, in a word, used. An inked web of ivy covered her neck, roping around to the front of her throat and into her ear. She snapped her gum.

“Now, ladies, remember your manners,” said Ron, a man in a motorized wheelchair, with nicotine-stained nails and dreadlocks. A POW sticker occupied the entire side of his chair and he wore a crucifix so large and so naked that Lucy could count Jesus's ribs. “You're late; we started. But you already know that, Claire, because you always miss the readings.”

“I'm here, aren't I? Better late than drinking.”

As she took a seat, Lucy eyed the only person who hadn't spoken. She was engrossed in reading from one of the several books at the table. Pretty in a soft, dated way, the woman appeared to have chosen her look in high school and stuck with it. She sat, steadfast in her flowery skirt and lacy collar, following the text with her fingers and ignoring the conversation around her.

Lucy felt the floodwaters of panic rising in her chest. She was not a joiner, and if she were one of those people who could happily enter a group and vent, she certainly wouldn't have picked this immoderate group of movie extras. Alcoholics. These people couldn't hold their liquor. Didn't know when to say when. Had trouble living in a world where a drink meant more to them than family.
And
they must have thought that Lucy was one of them. That she stumbled through her day intoxicated. Drank a bottle for breakfast. Shook her way through the lunch hour, hoping for a cocktail. Lucy pushed back in her chair, thinking her hypocritical, unimaginative thoughts, and considered how she might escape.

Claire said, “What's our topic today?”

Ron tilted his head with disapproval. “We're not giving you a summary, St. Bart's. Get here on time for a change. Participate.”

Claire stage-whispered to Lucy, “Ron's my sponsor and can't help himself. He wants me to conform.” She turned back to Ron. “I ain't workin' for da Man, my brother.” She pronounced it “brutha.” Ron rolled his eyes.

The frowsy woman still had her nose in her book. “Tru dat,” she said without looking up, and everyone laughed. Ron pointed to the woman and said, “Kimmy knows. Right, Kimmy?” The prim woman lifted her eyes from her book long enough to give Ron a black-power fist.

Lucy reached for her purse as she looked at the exit, and at just that moment, Tig, like a life preserver on the
Titanic
, strolled into the room. “Hi, everyone. Sorry I'm late.”

Ron clearly was happy to hand over the reins of what would soon be an unruly meeting. He nodded to Tig and said, “We're talking about gratitude.”

“Thanks for getting everything going, Ron,” Tig said, putting an oversized briefcase on the floor and pulling out a chair. “Who wants to start?”

“Right on! Okay, I'll go. I'm grateful for my new friend here,” Claire said, indicating Lucy with her thumb. “She's definitely what our group needs. We're a bunch of stereotypes and we need some redefinition.” Tig smiled at Lucy as Claire went on. “I'm grateful for having my colors done and finding that this fire-engine red is the cornerstone of my palette. My consultant is single, beautiful, and might be interested in more than just my cornerstone.” Claire winked at the group, adding a lascivious element to her candy-store look.

“No relationship for a year, Claire. You know the rules.”

“Oh shut up, Ron, I just need a Park n' Ride. I'm not interested in anything but getting my colors done, if y'all know what I'm gettin' at.”

“Unfortunately, we do.” The dark girl pulled a strand of hair under her nose, pursed her lips, and held it there, looking dastardly and silly at the same time.

“No interrupting people, Sara. Keep your black lips zipped,” Claire said in mock irritation. “
All-the-rivers
has the floor! I'm grateful for Starbucks and for the fact that I am thirty days sober as an infant. Over and out.”

There were positive affirmations all around. Even Sara gave a grimace of a smile.

Tig said to Lucy, “If there's anything you would like to share, please feel free to speak up.”

Kimmy said, “We're very rude and don't follow all of the rules entirely but you will find us very empathetic.”

“I don't have an alcohol problem.”

Sara rolled her eyes.

“Sara, please,” Tig said gently.

Lucy said, “I'm not saying I don't have problems. I'm addicted to my own loneliness, for one thing.” Lucy straightened her shoulders and glanced around as if it were someone else who had confessed to having no friends; someone who, in a moment of introspection, had shared that fact with these strangers. She itched to leave before more incriminating information sprang from her lips.

Then, as if reading her mind, Sara said, “This isn't a friendship club.”

“Sara Lynn, you will hold your tongue and let our guest speak,” said Ron.

“She's not one of us. She said so herself.” Sara slammed her chair against the wall and swooped toward the exit. “I don't need this. I'm out of here.”

Before the door slammed, Tig was able to say, “Come back tomorrow, Sara Lynn, but with a better attitude.” To Lucy, she added, “She is working on her anger, and it gets the best of her at times, but that shouldn't stop you. Go on.”

Lucy slid her chair from the table and stood. “This isn't going to work.”

“As you wish.” Ron nodded. “But remember: Sometimes lonely is as lonely does.”

Claire touched Lucy's arm. “Stay. This is partly why our group is so small. We're fringy with manners and protocol, but we're sincere.”

“I rarely drink,” Lucy said, shouldering her purse. “It's not like I'm above it, believe me.” Surprising herself again she said, “I probably don't have the guts for it. Tig knows.”

Kimmy looked at her with a peaceful expression. “We all have something a little different to deal with. Maybe we have what you need. Maybe not. But you won't know unless you sit it out.”

“Not today. I just can't.” Lucy shoved out of the room in the same way that the tortured Sara had done, filled with stubborn resolve. Unlocking her car door, she sat down heavily in the driver's seat. “So that sucked,” she said, and Little Dog snorted.

*   *   *

Later that night, Charles spooned white rice onto his plate and said, “You have to go back.” Ever since he'd found Lucy sleeping on the floor in a flutter of chocolate wrappers, he had made it his habit either to bring or make dinner for Lucy.

“Nope. I'm going back to my therapist and coming up with a different plan. She'll help. She saw how bad it was.”

“What were the people like? I always imagine an AA meeting populated by greasy-haired, shaky people with diet Cokes and cigarettes.”

“No, it was nothing like that. It wasn't very big. But the group was pretty eclectic. No different from the mix you see in the grocery store or when getting your oil changed.”

“What'd they talk about?”

“I'm not supposed to tell you. It's Alcoholics
Anonymous
. What goes on in the Maplewood Serenity Center stays at the Maplewood Serenity Center.”

“C'mon, Luce. You can tell me. Did you forget you were the first person I told when I came out?”

“You used that last month when I wouldn't give you my recipe for chili. Besides, I didn't stay very long.” Lucy pulled a folded paper out of the pocket of her jeans and handed it to her brother. “The twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Look at number three. We're supposed to turn our will and lives over to God. Apparently if we do that, he'll fix things.” Lucy stood quickly, and her fork flipped like a catapult, sending a piece of white rice flying onto Charles's hand. “I'm not interested in letting anyone else drive in my life. What if everybody crashes and dies again? I'm already pissed at God for that.”

Charles stood and hugged his sister. “I guess I can't argue with that. But can't you kind of modulate the message for your purposes? Maybe it's not about God per se. Can you engage with a higher power that isn't quite so parental and bossy?”

“God
is
bossy! It's always push, push, push with him.”

“Right; so pick an entity that feels more supportive. Remember ‘Come as Your Favorite Saint Day' at school?”

“That was so weird, wasn't it? Who has a favorite saint in third grade? Everyone wore their bath robe as a costume.”

“Lyra Giese wore her mother's pink shorty robe and high-heeled slippers. Maybe God isn't your go-to guy in this situation. Maybe you should pick a saint. Ask for help.”

“So when they're praying in the AA meetings I should envision Sister Hilaria?”

“Maybe Joan of Arc. She's feisty.” Charles tilted his head and examined his sister. “Should I come to a meeting with you? Grease the wheels?”

Lucy looked at her brother and touched his prominent chin, remembering how often he had stuck it out for her. “I love you, Charles. But this is just another time where you can't do anything to help.”

*   *   *

The worst thing for Lucy about her counseling appointments with Tig Monohan was getting into the building. Even after passing through the gauntlet of Reception, successfully dodging volunteers, nurses, and lab assistants, Lucy kept her coat buttoned and her keys in hand, in case fleeing might become suddenly necessary. Choosing a seat by the door, she idly flipped through a
National Geographic
magazine with its smorgasbord of rainforest extinction, general atmospheric warming, and reports of worm shortages in Maine. Once again her anxiety took the stairs two at a time as she waited to be called so she could talk about her shortcomings. She'd spent her whole careful life watching where she stepped, staying out of the fray, and now, this one time, she allowed her impulses free reign, and everywhere she looked, the cosmos seemed to be shouting,
Explain yourself.