The Dog Year (24 page)

“I'm better. But look at you! You look amazing.” Sidney's hair shown gold in the amber light of the vestibule. Her skin was flushed and she wore jeans and a white button-down shirt and a honey-colored dishtowel was tucked around her middle. “You're cooking? It smells good.”

“I can't take the credit. It's the lasagna that Stewart gave me. He's coming over for dinner. He's bringing the salad.”

She was barefoot and moved soundlessly back into the kitchen, motioning Lucy to follow her. “I just put the garlic bread in and I actually made Rice Krispie treats earlier today. I found a recipe for a low-fat version that gives the word
sticky
a new meaning.”

“Does he know you have trouble with food?”

“Oh yes. I told him right away. He knew from the start. He doesn't miss much.” Sidney wiped the counter with a paper towel and said, “I'm going to do my best tonight, but there are no guarantees I'll eat very much. He said,
No flurries
. Doesn't he crack you up?”

Lucy smiled. “I didn't know it at the time, but he was really good to me. He knew I had a problem, too. If I'd have given him a chance, he might have talked with me about it. Instead, I made the same mistake that I blame others for. I assumed, and then I marginalized.”

Sidney touched Lucy's shoulder. “Well, who isn't guilty of those two sins?”

“Are you two . . . together? Like a couple?”

“No. Not together-together. We're friends. I've got too much to work out for a romance of any kind. And Stewart, he never even broaches the topic. There's no expectation between us, and that seems just right.”

Lucy said, “It's overdue, I know, but I wanted to stop by and thank you for calling Mark that day with the Tic Tacs.”

Sidney breathed deeply. “I made an executive decision. I'm glad it was ultimately okay with you. I just know, if it were me, a complicated friend might be easier than a complicated family member. So have you two made any decisions?”

Lucy shook her head. The doorbell rang and the dogs tumbled over each other to get to the door. When Sidney opened, it, Stewart stepped into the foyer holding a salad bowl, a pepper grinder, and a bottle of wine. Sidney leaned in and gave him a little chaste kiss on the cheek and handed Lucy the wine bottle.

Stewart said, “We used to give wine to my mother to stimulate her appetite. I thought, you know, maybe . . .” Then he spotted Lucy. “Oh, Dr. Peterman, it's so good to see you. I'm sorry about that mess at the store. I couldn't do a thing.”

“Actually, Stewart, it's taken me a while to admit that I have a problem.”

Stewart thought about this and studied Lucy's face. Finally he nodded, then looked down at the dogs still awaiting recognition at his feet. “Now, I've met Chubby. Who's this other little gal?”

“Her name is Little Dog. She was a stray sent from the universe to help me with my problems. And she's been more effective than any amount of schooling or counseling.”

He looked through his glasses at the flurry of wagging fur. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Let go, let dog.”

A laugh bubbled up somewhere in the middle of Lucy's chest. “So much better!” she cried delightedly.

“Better?” said Stewart, confused.

“Better than ‘Let go, let God.'”

Straightening his glasses he said, “Isn't that what I said?”

I
f Lucy closed her eyes in her backyard and inhaled, she couldn't tell if it was spring, fall, or summer, even though it was August. The weather was in that sweet spot: seventy-five degrees and sunny, with a bright blue sky and well-being seemingly alive in the clouds. She lay on her back and a whisper of a cloud floated across the sun.

A hysterical gurgle of a giggle broke the air and Charles called out, “C'mere, you little weasel, I'm gonna eat your feet.”

“Nooooo, Uncle Chuckie. No feet!” Laughing, the boy ran wildly toward Lucy.

Lucy pushed herself to a seated position. “You're going to eat his feet? Come here, sweetie, I'll protect you. Mommy won't let weird Uncle Chuckie eat anything!”

“Nuffing!” The boy giggled and Lucy said, “No feet for Chuckie.”

When he connected with Lucy, it was with the full force of a two-year-old boy who hadn't mastered his brakes.

“Oof. Oh, honey, be careful of Mommy's belly. The baby needs to sleep and with you knocking into it, it's sloshing all around in there.”

“Sowee, Mama.”

Phong rushed the threesome with a wet cloth. “Brady, let me get your hands and face.” Using Lucy's belly as a springboard the boy jetted off, with Phong following him.

“Phong thinks baby wipes are the best invention since the airplane. We have stockpiles at home. He swears they clean mini blinds better than anything.”

“Do you have everything for the party?” Lucy asked.

“Yep. Cake and juice boxes. Balloons and hot dogs. It's a bummer they didn't get your entire addition finished before Brady's birthday, then we could have the party here.”

“Yeah, but it's more fitting there. We're scattering her ashes today, and Candy can be there. She didn't want a wake, funeral, or memorial. Brady's birthday is the perfect time for it.”

“Well, I think it's morbid,” said Phong, running past.

“No. It's right. Claire wanted only happiness for everyone and everything. We're going to scatter her ashes when we sing ‘Happy Birthday.'” Lucy huffed to a standing position. “Mark is already there, setting up a table and streamers, then he's coming back to get us. Don't forget to pick Sara up at school.”

Charles nodded, steadying his sister with a careful hand on her arm. “The addition looks huge.”

Lucy shaded her eyes, admiring the skylights in the vaulted roof, the shingled siding that matched the old Victorian cedar.

“We'll need the space. Did I tell you Sara is staying here while she takes classes at the university? And there's all of Mark's man stuff. Of course, there's way too much of that, if you ask me.”

Brady ran by, fell, scrambled to his feet and yelled, “Phong can't get me.” Phong lay on his back panting, waving the baby wipe like a flag of truce.

“He's going to need a nap,” said Charles, loud enough for Phong to hear. “And I'm not talking about Brady.” More quietly to Lucy, he said, “I think it's good we decided not to adopt. Now that we know MS was causing his fatigue, he feels freer to rest when he's tired. It's perfect. We come here for our kid fix and then go home.”

“You taking care of yourself, too, Charlie?” Lucy looked closely at her brother. “Don't forget, you count, too.”

He squeezed her arm. “I do like a project, but Phong takes care of me more than the other way around.”

Lucy closed her eyes. “I'm more tired with this pregnancy.”

“You're working this time around,
and
you have a two-year-old. I'm not surprised. Are your clinic partners coming to the party?”

“No. It's just for us weirdos.”

“A whole group of people who specialize in only boobs, are in my opinion, prime candidates for this party.”

She winked at her brother. “We're bringing sexy back.”

“I'm so glad you're in private practice now. I hated that Stanley Menken, even before he was a dick to you.”

“I kind of miss teaching medical students, but being on call only once every month is such a relief.”

Phong trotted by, carrying Brady like an old carpet. The boy's head and feet bobbed on Phong's shoulder. “Are you naming the new baby after Richard?”

“Not if it's a girl.”

Phong put Brady down and said, “Brady, go get Uncle Phong some vodka.”

“Vodka!” shouted Brady and ran into his playhouse, slamming the door.

Panting, Phong walked over to Lucy and Charles. “Lucy, I've gotta ask. How's Mark doing with this?”

“I didn't spring it on him. I've been talking about it since day one.”

Lucy touched her belly, felt the bump that was either her new baby's head or its bottom, and gave it a little pat. “Richard was an only child, without a single male cousin on either side. Without this bump here, there would be none of Richard Lubers's DNA left in the world. He was so smart and good; the world needs more of his kind. It's the best kind of recycling in the world.” She laughed. “This completely takes care of my ozone-guilt.”

“Mark's one secure guy,” said Phong, shaking his head. “I don't know how I'd feel in the same situation.”

“Sure you do, Phong. You were going to adopt. That's really the same thing. Mark knows it's not a competition. Sara has none of our DNA and we love her.”

Charles put his arm around Phong, “Haven't you heard? It takes a village to make Lucy happy.”

*   *   *

“Little Dog, get ready for some doggie fun.”

Brady said, “Be fun, Wittow Dog.”

Mark took a hard right and Little Dog counter-balanced, gripping with her toenails and panting, always excited, always game. The asphalt drive circled, leading them into a clearing and a gravel parking lot. There was an old Buick, a shiny Toyota, and a cheeky Volkswagen Beetle parked near a gated entrance. Summer had taken charge of the afternoon and the sun lit the leaves with a mouthwatering green that seemed to pump the air with endorphins.

Lucy's thoughts drifted to a similar drive into the park, almost a year and a half ago, when Sidney strapped the seat belt around herself with Chubby Lumpkins in her lap. Claire was still alive then, and Lucy had wanted Sidney to meet her.

*   *   *

“Are you sure it's okay if I come to this meeting?” Sidney had said, fidgeting with Little Dog's collar.

“It's not a meeting. It's just a friendly gathering of dog lovers who first met at AA. I asked if I could bring someone. People come and go all the time. It's the nature of the group.”

“I don't do well with new people, Luce. I'm just getting used to Stewart.”

“Honestly, if they weren't such friendly oddballs, I wouldn't go myself.”

Out of the car, Little Dog had pulled at the leash, searching for the perfect scent. Lucy and Sidney spotted a group of people loitering near the park entrance, surrounded by the tall prairie grasses and the goldenrod of late fall. Ron in his wheelchair traded barbs with Claire in her lipstick-red pants and hazard-cone-orange windbreaker. Kimmy stood nearby, carrying KiKi, while the other dogs circled, tumbled, and bowed to each other.

Claire called out as they approached.

“This is my friend Sidney,” Lucy said. “I told her it was okay to come.”

“Well I wish you had told me. We like to have donuts for newcomers. You sure look like you could stand a donut or two.” Claire smiled, touching Sidney's beautiful hair.

Sidney stared at the woman in front of her: bald, round, and colorful. Claire said, “Wanna touch my head? First round of chemo and boom! Bald! They told me it would happen gradually but I don't do anything small. Even when I try to live less large, my genes mutate like wildfire.” Then she turned her attention to Lucy. “And you! You didn't return my calls, and it was all I could do to not show up at your house and haul you back here. But Ron kept saying”—and she said this in her whiniest of tones—“
it's inappropriate
.”

Ron said, “It
is
inappropriate. We're not the AA cops. We're not the dog-park police. We're just people who are minding our own business and giving support
when asked
.”

“I kept saying to him, ‘Life's short, don't wait to be asked.'”

Kimmy said, “I don't see Sara.”

“She's working at the Humane Society,” Claire said. She turned to Olive. “We worry because she used to go AWOL when things got stressful. She'd come and go. Friends' houses, homeless shelters. She has a shitty family somewhere down south. She hadn't been on solid ground since she learned I was sick.”

“Yeah,” Kimmy broke in. “When Claire got sick the first time, Sara disappeared for two weeks.”

“Not this time though. She's living with Lucy. She looks great.”

Lucy watched Little Dog: tail up, nose down, completely engrossed in the scents of hundreds of stories like this one. She flushed. “We're working on making it legal.”

Ron pushed the stylus on his wheelchair and it lurched forward. “I had my reservations about you all. I wanted to make T-shirts that read,
GOT CODEPENDENCE
? Kimmy, for God's sake put that dog on its own legs.”

“Oh, Ron,” Claire said. She rolled her eyes. “Ron's decided to speak his mind even if he's got nothing nice to say.”

Ron rotated his chair a half-moon toward Sidney. He eyed her and said, “You can't put the oxygen mask on another person if you're passed out in the aisle, blocking the exit, starving to death.”

Sidney stiffened and Lucy whispered in her ear, “Ignore him. He's all fire and fury lately because he finally got custody of his grandchild by being less passive and more proactive. Now he just goes for it everywhere he can.”

Ron lurched away from the group and said over his shoulder, “If you gaggle of geese wanna help, you gotta fix your own broken selves. C'mon. Let's get started; we have a lot of work to do.”

“Ron,” Claire said, “you call me a goose again and I'll tip you on your ass, I swear it.” Then she bent to scratch under Candy's chin. “You are lovely, aren't you? You're my lovely. Yes, you are.”

Suddenly, as if realizing that this gushing display revealed more heart than sass, she stood. “Gotta split,” she said. “I'm not payin' any bills out here. See y'all.” She turned and was out of the gate. And that was it.

Claire died a month later.

*   *   *

Today, Lucy hugged the urn of Claire's ashes close, saw the entire group dodging dogs and chatting. Mark unclipped Brady from his car seat and hoisted him onto his shoulders. “Dogs made this all possible, you know,” she said to him. “You, me, all of this.”

“Dogs and Claire,” Mark said, and stooped to kiss Lucy on the forehead.

“Then you added your little spin to the whole project and the next thing you know my life is all misfits, lucky fertility breaks, and dogs. I was just fortunate that the men in my life had amazing swimmers, hot or frozen.”

Mark smiled. Over the past two years he had become accustomed to Lucy's need to analyze, to put words and situations into a metaphorical file cabinet. He unclipped Little Dog and watched her parade away with confidence—nose down, tail up.

Lucy watched. “It was Emily Dickinson, wasn't it? Who wrote ‘Hope is a thing with feathers'? But in my case, in both our cases, actually, hope is a thing with a tail.”