The Dog Year (8 page)

W
hen Charles dropped Lucy off, he gave her a salute. “Good work today; carry on.” Lucy flipped him a two-fingered sideways gang sign and walked into her house, down the hall, and into the spare bedroom. She'd made a decision at the cemetery. No more helpless Lucy. No more
get-some-therapy
boohooing from people who didn't think she could get it together on her own. It was time to show everyone that she could go into a store without binging on chocolate, offending perfectly nice people, or stealing a stockpile of bandages or jewelry that meant nothing to her. She had to prove she could do this and do it without help.

From her closet, she chose a small leather clutch purse in case she had the urge to shove a toaster into a side pocket. This purse would say,
Get real, don't even think about it!

She'd decided to head for Walmart, the ultimate quick-and-dirty shopping exercise.

In her car, she turned right onto Main Street, past the strip mall with Fur Flying, a family-owned barber shop/pet- grooming business; Tattoos and Tea
,
a little Victorian shop of horrors; and a dress store creatively named The Dress Shop
.
She hated Walmart almost as much as she hated her own hypocrisy. How can the shopper hate her shop? The addict despise the dealer? She had no answer for this, just the typical snooty rationalization of the rest of the population: Alcohol is not a drug; Walmart is not shopping.

Lucy entered the store through silent, obliging electronic doors. Within ten feet of the entrance, she cringed at a rack of waistless maternity wear. Or were they possibly mother-of-the-bride dresses? They'd be perfect for a labor-and-delivery cruise ship event. Adjacent to the dresses were T-shirts emblazoned with rhinestone sayings.
UNDER THIS SHIRT I'M BUTT NAKED
read one, in a tasteful peach color, size XXL.

Without a shopping list, Lucy marched head up, shoulders back, through the aisles, clenching her teeth with crime-free determination. Standing in front of dozens of rows of toiletries, Lucy saw a grocery cart bearing a little girl who looked the personification of Cindy Lou Who from
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
: lopsided pigtails, two-inch eyelashes, valentine lips. The girl's eyes were closed while she rubbed a pink packaged pacifier over her face and neck. The rapture expressed in her face would embarrass any adult caught in a similar situation—say, a grown man rubbing his new Mercedes car keys across his five o'clock shadow. On this girl, it just looked like devotion, bliss, and the prop for a good afternoon. As Lucy watched, Cindy Lou's eyes popped open. Staring, she appraised Lucy from head to toe and then reached out and offered her the pacifier, smiling with a little crease in her forehead as if to say,
Here, you look like you could use this more than I.

Cindy Lou's mother stood with her back to Lucy, studying her grocery list. Then she tugged at the cart and moved deeper down the aisle. The child continued to proffer her pacifier until the cart rounded the corner and disappeared. Touched, Lucy's mind wandered back to her miscarriage, like a tongue searching out a rough spot on a tooth. She thought of the stack of supplies she'd purchased once her pregnancy had been confirmed. The baby-wipes warmer, the bright red rattle, the pacifiers. A knot unraveled at her navel and she braced herself on the cold metal shelves right there in the store, shelves holding shower gel, plastic scrubbies on a rope, bath oil. She spotted Richard's favorite brand of soap and lifted the package to her nose, inhaling its scent. Her husband's scent. It filled her sinuses and flicked on every switch in the house that was her brain, illuminating every room, every memory. There, behind her eyes, Richard stepping out of the shower. Richard embracing her from behind. Richard making love to her, while she felt—finally—beautiful.

Someone coughed and Lucy opened her eyes, looked around. No one. She slipped the bar of soap into her tiny purse and strolled to the end of the aisle. Lifting her hand she sniffed again and walked toward the exit, stopping to touch a sweater as if to say,
I'm in no hurry to leave. I could stay all day.
Between Lucy and the exit were the security sensors that announced larceny as if it were an overdue library book, a gentle beeping that was less a call-to-arms and more a sociable
Yoo-hoo
. She had never set it off herself, but she'd witnessed the confusion of the innocent people who did. They collectively stopped and looked around for the handcuffs. Employees, assuming that true larceny would lead to frantic running and not gentle acquiescence, waved at the people with a jolly head wag.
It happens all the time. No worries.

Without hesitation, she stepped between the white and blue security gates. That was the key, keep moving. No alarm followed her and the electric exit doors opened. She moved into the large vestibule before the second set of doors; freedom was seconds away.

“Lucy Peterman, valedictorian. How are you?”

Lucy started. Near the red plastic toy car where fifty cents got you a ride with a clown frozen in a rictus of fun stood the policeman she'd gone to high school with. The one who knew where she lived.

Her mouth popped open. “I. What? Do you work here?”

He tilted his head indicating his casual attire: ratty jeans, paint-splattered, too-small navy sweatshirt. “No, I am not a cop for Walmart.”

“Oh.” She smiled politely and turned to go.

“Did you find what you needed?”

“Yes.” Over her shoulder, she flashed him a thin smile.

“No bag.”

“What?”

“You aren't carrying a bag.”

Lucy's face colored. “What's it to you? No bag. Whatever.”

“You're not out the door yet.” His gaze held her. A knot on a shoelace: stubborn. “Possibly you left something in the soap aisle. Your keys, maybe?”

A feeling of cold water trickled down her spine. She turned and held his stare for an impolite minute. Lucy inched her car keys into her jacket pocket and, looking away, walked an exaggerated arc around him and back into the store. Forgetting any socially appropriate speed or etiquette, she entered the soap aisle, yanked the bar of soap out of her purse, and shoved it onto the shelf. Righteous now, she stalked back to the exit doors and said, “Are you going to arrest me?”

He shrugged. “No harm done, as far as I can see.” She rubbed her eyes and the exit doors opened. Time to go. “I'm Mark Troutman,” he said, and he held his hand out for her to shake. “Wanna get some coffee?”

She snubbed the hand he offered. “I suppose I have to, right? Look, I know I should be grateful or something, but I just don't want to do this.”

He scratched his weekend beard and said, “What do you think
this
is?”

“I don't know. Some kind of intervention. A lecture. A forced conversation, after which I'm going to walk away and need a nap.”

Lucy read his pause and frowned. She remembered her father's brand of discipline from her childhood.
I'm going to stand here until you decide that I'm not giving up in the face of your stubbornness
.

But the fight went out of her. As if accepting her medicine she sighed and said, “All right. Let's get this over with.” Without speaking, they walked next door, where a small coffee shop/bookstore struggled to survive next to the retail giant, hoping against hope that wireless and an artful latte counted for something in this crazy world. So much so that the owners had named the shop Artful Latte in a Crazy World.

At the counter, Lucy made a show of paying for their drinks, and with their coffees in hand, they chose seats away from the knitting circle, a gaggle of women chatting away in plush chairs.

“What have you been up to since high school, Lucy?”

“You mean other than working the five-finger discount? Just say it, okay? Give me the law talk so I can go.”

He laughed and said, “You're angry. I remember that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I've been thinking about you since I saw you at your house. Do you remember me from high school?”

“Sorry. No.”

“We had lockers across the hall from each other.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Mark.”

“I'm not surprised. I was angry, too. A loner. Into weed. Not your type.”

“Ha! Like I had a type.”

He took a sip of his coffee with unwavering eyes. His jaw looked tense. It was not an expression Lucy had the strength to fight. But it wasn't an unattractive look, either.

“I saw you come out of class once. Kick the shit out of your locker. Rip something up. What were you so mad about?”

“Puberty, high school. Whatever.” She thought for a minute. “No, actually, I do remember. Biddy Bartholemew voted me Best Hair for Senior Favorites—you know, in the yearbook.”

“Better than Biggest Stoner.”

“Look at my hair. I have always had
the
worst hair in the history of our school and she knew it.”

“Why'd she do it?”

“So I wouldn't get the category she wanted.”

“Which was?”

“Most Humorous.”

“Didn't you get that one?”

Lucy paused. “Wow, you have quite the memory.” When he didn't respond she said, “Ugly girl gets Most Humorous, Best Personality. Yeah, that's not a cliché.”

“Was Ugly Girl a category you gave yourself?”

“I don't remember ‘Stoner' being on the Senior Favorite list, either. What were
you
so mad about?”

He shrugged.

Lucy shoved her chair back. “Oh, I get it: This is a one-way walk-down-memory-lane therapy session. Look, I gotta go.”

“Jesus, calm down. I just took a minute to collect my thoughts. Not everyone thinks at the speed of light.” He took a swallow from his coffee. “Shitty home life, back then. These days, I guess because I went from weed to alcohol to divorce before I turned thirty-five. A whole life in just a few years.”

Lucy caught a flash of the high school boy she thought she hadn't remembered. The dark eyes, hair hanging in them, acne. “I think I remember you now. You were smaller.”

“I bloomed late. That pissed me off, too.”

For a second, in her mind, she stood back in the hall outside the high school principal's office. She'd been on her way to work on the yearbook. Teenage Mark had shrugged out of the office, a large hand on the back of his neck steering him into the hallway. His father, saying, “Dumbass. I told you three strikes and you're out.” He'd shoved Mark—who worked to appear cool in spite of the bully dad who'd yoked him—down the hall. Lucy had watched the pair all the way out the door, where the father cuffed Mark twice, hard, at the side of the head.

She nodded toward the Walmart. “That wasn't the first bar of soap that's ended up in my pocket, you know.”

“Cleanliness is important.” He grinned.

“Feloniously important.”

“So you're a doctor, and—what? They don't pay you enough?”

“Yeah. And you drink too much because—what? Every day is a gift and you're going to unwrap the ribbons?”

His head snapped back an inch. “At ease. It was a joke.” Sighing, he said, “Look, you can go if you want.”

“I don't need your permission.” She shook her head. “I don't know why I do it, okay? Like you probably don't know why you drank yourself out of your marriage.”

He winced. “Not to reduce the enjoyment of this conversation or put too fine a point on it, but I can drink, get divorced, and still not end up in jail. Can you say that about what you do?”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

His face fell. “Does it seem like that's what I'm doing here? Arresting you?”

“I'm not a criminal. I'm not!”

“Denial ain't just a river in Egypt,” he said.

“That's another thing I hate about AA—the catchy one-liners that get thrown in your face like they're some kind of solution. Like the receiver will be enlightened and never drink again.”

He laughed. “Sorry to use another tired cliché, but you are a ballbuster.” He laughed some more. “I love it.”

Lucy pulled a face. “I assure you, that is not something people love about me.” She spread her hands on the table and examined her short nails. “I get that I have a problem, I just don't think there's any mystery involved. I'm trying to fill a hole in my life with things instead of experiences. But I'm going to counseling just to make sure. The hospital wants me to go to AA.”

“It helps, Egypt. Especially in the beginning.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Next time, you might end up in real trouble.”

She dragged her eyes up. “Why not this time?”

“Call it valedictorian dispensation. But get some help. Next time you might end up at my place.”

“Jail?”

“Or whatever.” He looked away when he said it and Lucy felt something fish-like flip in her stomach. “Either way, it's trouble for you, I imagine.”

“I just don't get how AA might help. I don't drink.”

“You're a smart woman. I'm sure I don't have to connect the dots for you. If you don't want to see it, though, I can't make you.” As she moved to leave he said, “Biddy Bartholemew always was a bitch.”

*   *   *

Lucy sank into her car seat and started to cry, another unpredictable impulse she seemed to have no control over lately. Wiping her face with the spare lab coat she kept in her car after the fast-food napkins ran out, she watched as Mark Troutman exited the coffee shop. It was hard to reconcile her memories from high school with this solidly built, confident man. Straight-backed and lean, he pulled a well-worn baseball cap from his back pocket and covered a testosterone-fueled bald spot. She sniffed her hand, looking for Richard's scent; finding only the smell of coffee, she turned the key in the ignition.