The Dog Year (14 page)

“You are speaking from a glass house.”

Mark winked. “And you're just the rock to break it.”

A tiny thrill ran up Lucy's spine.

A woman sat at the front desk. “May I help you?” she asked. A tiny puppy sat on her shoulder, its eyes closed in blissful sleep. The woman wore pink hospital scrubs and long, dangly earrings resembling fishing lures. Her eyelashes were thick with mascara and her yellow-blond hair looked like it had been styled that way since high school. Lucy wondered if she'd been homecoming queen. Her nametag read
MARILYN
.

Mark smiled. “We'd like to take a look at the adoptable dogs. Please.”

“Very nice. We're a little shorthanded today, so we aren't giving any tours, but you can wander back in the kennel and visit our friends. We ask that you keep your fingers away from the cages, and if you have any thoughts of feeding the dogs, you leave that thought with me.”

“No, ma'am. I wouldn't dream of feeding them.” Mark gestured with his thumb over his shoulder at Lucy. “I can't vouch for her, though. She's always got something in her pockets.”

Lucy shoved Mark. “Not true,” she said. “I follow all dog rules.”

Marilyn frowned. “This is serious. You can't feed them. These dogs are going through a tough time right now. Many of them have separation anxiety and post-traumatic stress syndrome. They haven't a clue where their next home will be. You feed them something you think is
no big deal
”—she emphasized her words with an outrageous expression, widening her eyes—“like a Slim Jim or a Vienna sausage, and we're cleaning up a shitstorm at two
A.M.”

Both Mark and Lucy blinked, assured Marilyn that neither of them had even the smallest of sausages between them, and walked into the doggie viewing area. “Shitstorm,” Mark said. “Is that the clinical term, Dr. Peterman?”

“We call it a code brown at the hospital.”

Past the front desk, Lucy peered into a room with a large picture window. Inside sat a worn, overstuffed couch with bites taken out of each foam-filled arm. A panel on the door read
PRIVACY/SEPARATION ROOM
. There was a chew toy tossed in the corner and a box of Kleenex perched on a small shelf.
Probably all kinds of tears being mopped up in that room,
thought Lucy. She felt Mark's eyes on her and met his gaze. He nudged her with his shoulder. “Don't go getting soft on me already. I need you to yay or nay my selection. I can't be going home with some basket case because you got all weepy looking at an empty room.”

“Bring it on, pal; I'm tougher than I look.” As she spoke, Mark pushed his way into the room that held the kennels, and her words were completely drowned out by barking dogs.

They passed the first kennel, empty except for a steel water bowl. The space, lined with cement block, was clean, spacious, and shut off from the viewing area by a chain link fence. The second kennel held a ginger scruff of a dog that resembled a loofah in Lucy's shower that she just hadn't gotten around to throwing away. The dog stood within an inch of the chain link and let out a series of ear-splitting yips. The index card clothes-pinned to the fence read,
TRIXI, STRAY, NO TAGS, AWAITING HEALTH CLEARANCE
.

Lucy pushed Mark forward to the next dog. “Keep moving.”

The next kennel held a black Rottweiler with a head the size of a Volkswagen. He lay with his enormous cranium on flatbed paws, with his hind feet daintily canted to the side like a woman riding sidesaddle. After a moment Lucy noticed his other distinguishing characteristic. He had a penis and scrotum so large it looked like a wrinkly toddler nestled against his side.

Lucy cleared her throat and said, “This guy's for someone suffering from small-man syndrome.”

Without taking his eyes from the dog, Mark said, “I'm here to tell you that we can move right along. I'm good.” Lucy tore her eyes from the dog's package just as he gave her a trucker-in-a-stripper-bar grin and dropped his tongue in a yawn, as if to say,
You just say the word, baby.

Lucy said, “I feel a little violated.”

Mark laughed. “So do I.”

The card on the next fence read,
BELLA.
RELINQUISHED IN HOME FORECLOSURE. NEUTERED, CLEARED, READY FOR ADOPTION.
Inside stood a full-grown dog with a tennis ball in her mouth, holding it up as if waiting for her owner to come and play. Her tail was in full wag, her throat stretched and accommodating as if to say,
Here, let me get this.
She might have spent her lifetime posing this way, waiting for the loving approval of her owner. Lucy's breath caught.

“This one would drag you from a fire, call 911, and give you CPR until the ambulance came.” She dropped her gaze and noticed a bandage on her dewclaw. “Oh, she's got an injury. What'd you do to your paw, Bella?” She glanced at Mark, started to speak, and then looked more closely at him. His eyes had a special brightness to them—a misting before a sun shower.

“So, I'll go tell Marilyn this is the one, huh?” Mark nodded. Lucy tugged at Mark's sleeve and said, “This one'll break your heart a hundred times before Sunday. If you like that kind of thing.”

Mark smiled and said, “Turns out I do.”

I
n her Subaru, following behind Mark's car, Lucy reconsidered her impulsive acceptance of a sandwich and new-dog orientation at Mark's house. She'd been swept up in the love story of dog and man, his ease about the decision he'd made to take Bella. But it was too late now. She'd already agreed. As she stepped out of her car in front of his house, Mark said to her, “So you signed up to volunteer at the Humane Society.”

“The days get kind of long when you're used to working. I'm thinking it will keep me out of trouble.”

“Sublimation. A good strategy for a lot in life.”

As they approached his Cape Cod, Lucy noted the brown-striped awnings that resembled long eyelashes on the dormers, giving the house an “Aw-shucks, who-me?” kind of look.

“This is your place? I expected, I don't know, something more policelike.”

“What, with bars on the windows and a Harley in the driveway?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“It was my granny's place. I inherited it, and have been restoring it for the last eight or nine years.” As he spoke, Bella walked through the front door with the tennis ball still in her mouth. Then she dropped the ball, trotted to the couch, and fell asleep.

Mark raised his eyebrows. “Apparently being adopted from a dog shelter is exhausting.”

“Little Dog did exactly the same thing. Canine life must be terribly taxing.”

Lucy looked around. Next to a brown sofa, a huge flat-screen TV was mounted against the wall. There was little else in the room besides a recliner, a fireplace, and an intricate Persian carpet.

“This place screams boy-bachelor,” she said.

“Better than girl-granny. That kind of puts the ladies off.”

Lucy felt the comment in her chest.
Ladies.
She swallowed and realized where she was. In a man's home. A not-Richard man.

“Lucy, I'm kidding. I couldn't resist the ridiculousness of me and
ladies
.
It's the funniest punch line I could come up with.”

Lucy tried a breezy smile. She took a step back and inadvertently kicked a rubber wiener in a bun. It was when it squeaked that she noticed a large basket filled with colorful ropes, rubber squirrels, bones, and balls. There were collars, leashes, and an impressive assortment of hard and soft dog toys.

“You having a party?”

“Obviously not, or I would have hidden my obsession.”

“Rubber squeaky toys?”

“And other important dog-intelligence stimulators.”

“What are you training him for, the CIA?”

“You need a lot of teaching materials when you homeschool. I need someone to do my taxes.”

“Seems like you picked the right dog for that. As soon as she wakes, she could put in a good ten minutes before the next nap.” Lucy laughed and impulsively touched his arm. Mark turned; they made eye contact and held it just long enough to be too long.

Lucy blushed. She looked at her feet, started to move away, but instead turned and opened her mouth to speak.

Mark touched a curl of her hair, then placed a sure hand on her waist as he guided her face toward his. It was the sureness of his movements, his ease and decisiveness that jump-started something inside her. Something that said,
Yep, I remember
.

His lips were soft. He touched his tongue to the center of her lip and she opened her mouth. He slid his hand down her forearm and pulled her toward him. Lucy, unable to stop herself, reached around his waist. She felt the leanness in his body, his lithe, muscled back through his T-shirt. He gently guided her back and against the sofa. She touched the bristle of his dark hair, felt his bare neck, and tugged him closer.

The rest of it was quick undressing, opening, and hot breath. When he entered her, she marveled briefly how it was possible to hyperventilate so long without passing out. But that was the only part of her medical-trained brain that was working. Her inner mammal had effectively shut her up.

“Lucy, oh my God.”

Hearing her name, uttered with such shameless ardor, made her breath catch. “Yes,” she said as he slid his fingers against her. With her eyes closed, she arched her neck and he kissed her in the hollow of her throat. If she had been thinking, she'd have been mortified by her uncontrolled movements, her unhinged pleasure. His hand made the luxurious journey up her spine until he cradled the base of her neck. He breathed her name into her ear.

And then came the unsurprising, inevitable, Lucy-like response: shame. Shame, embarrassment, and guilt. The top three in the Fortune 500 list of “feelings after having sex with a near-stranger.” They hadn't even had dinner and a movie.

“God.”

Misunderstanding this call for the divine was a good thing. Mark laughed a little and said, “I know. My thoughts exactly.”

“God. No. I . . .”

He leaned back to look into her eyes. She pushed at his shoulder and avoided meeting his direct gaze. Quickly, she reached for her underwear—her white cotton, no-chance-of-a-visitor pair—that now were rolled on the floor. Lucy imagined them angry and disappointed. This was not their plan for the day. They had expected a walk at the dog park, maybe a late morning nap, certainly not a shove and roll.
What were you thinking?
her underwear seemed to say.
Let go of me.

She turned her hip away from him, buttoned her jeans. “I gotta go.”

“Luce, I . . . Wait. Don't leave.”

“I'm married. I don't do
this
. Ever.” She said
this
like it was the worst possible thing she could do. Worse than staying in bed all day, shutting people out, stealing, and giving up hope.

As Lucy yanked the front door open, she heard Mark's words behind her.

“Lucy. I'm sorry. I thought . . .”

She was out the door before he finished his sentence.

*   *   *

Lucy sat in her car and started the engine. Her thighs were wet.
Richard. Not Richard.
She slammed into reverse and drove over the curb. The car bumped and lurched, setting off her no-seatbelt alarm. She gunned the engine, turning each corner like a race-car driver. As her cell phone rang, it skidded off the passenger seat and joined Richard's birthday box, demoted and lonely on the floor.

Once home, she shoved her way into her house. Little Dog jerked to attention. Hopping to her feet in full-out parade mode, she wagged, sniffed, and panted, sensing infidelity.
Other dogs?
she seemed to be thinking. Lucy ignored her and flew into the bathroom, stripping her clothes off as she went. The shower hit her skin with a raking, hot spray, and she started to cry.

Richard's face came to her. His smile, his gentle doctor's hands. His body had been so unlike Mark's tight, wiry, athletic build. Her fingers had tingled when she'd touched Mark's ribs, his firm shoulders and sinewy arms. She involuntarily shuddered, guilty again. Little Dog's nose popped past the shower curtain and examined Lucy with subdued interest. Lucy pulled it closed.

When at last she turned the shower off, she grabbed her robe and trailed water out of the bathroom and into the hallway outside her bedroom, veering at the last moment into the would-be nursery. Dumping herself on the bed, she let the water drop from her curls to collect in her clavicle and run down her back.

She wasn't naïve; she watched television. She knew the world was consumed by sex and that she was mostly alone in her almost chastity. Every network seemed to have a thousand series detailing romantic teenage escapades, hawked like Coney Island sideshows. But it wasn't prudish beliefs that had held her back from engaging in hookups like her roommates had in college. It was this: After getting past the mechanics, she had matured from repulsion, to cringing embarrassment, to wonderment after accidently having an orgasm during a dream in the night. Lucy liked to savor beautiful things: a perfect white chocolate Easter bunny; a handwritten letter collected from her mailbox, like the thank-you notes she received from gracious patients. And Richard had been her savored one. She'd drawn comfort from that fact that she'd been faithful to him even before she knew him. But now, after his death, she'd been unfaithful. She needed a mulligan, the sort of free shot given to golfers when they needed a do-over. A do-over for the day; that would be good. Hell, make it for the year and she wouldn't be holding her cell phone right now, about to call someone for support.

Pushing her hair away from her eyes she considered her options. She couldn't call Tig, who'd already vetoed the behavior she'd engaged in. She considered Claire; she considered her new friend, Sidney; she even considered Mark.

Sighing, she picked up her phone, and when her brother answered, she said, “You'd better come over again.”

*   *   *

Charles was standing in her kitchen. “Now what, Luce? I love you, but if you tell me you're going to prison or halfway across the world to free Tibet, I don't know if I'll be able to take it. By the way, you look like crap.”

Lucy pushed her hair behind her ear and tried to rub the smeared mascara out from under her eyes. “I did something really stupid and irresponsible today.”

“Yeah? Worse than stealing?”

“Yeah.”

Charles leaned against the refrigerator. “Okay, lay it on me.”

“I slept with the cop.”

Charles slapped his hand on the kitchen table. “Good for you!”

“No! Not good for me. I didn't just make a goal in a soccer match. I had sex.”

“Yeah, I got that.
Slept with
is a euphemism for sex. How was it?”

“I don't even know him.”

“I had hetero sex one time. As I recall, it wasn't that complicated.”

Lucy slammed a cupboard shut above her head. “I'm not that kind of girl. I don't have sex with strangers. I'm married.”

“What era do you live in, Lucy? Sex is not taboo anymore. Two consenting adults, a condom . . . it's a national pastime. And P.S., sista, you aren't technically married.”

“Wait. What?”

Charles stood and folded his sister into a hug. “You're not married, sweetie.”

“Condom?”

“Yes. A condom. He did wear a condom, right?”

“There wasn't time. It happened too fast.”

Charles frowned. “Fast, condomless sex is oh-so-eighties, honey. What were you thinking?”

Lucy pushed away and put her fist to her mouth. “I . . . it never crossed my mind. I never had to think of it before. Richard and I tried to get pregnant right away.”

“If I wasn't so cool, I'd be really grossed out by this flood of unwanted information. I hate to say this, Luce, but you need to get tested.”

“What?”

“For bugs. I take it that if you didn't converse about condoms, you probably didn't chat about past history, either.”

“Bugs?”

“My God, Lucy. You're a freaking afterschool special right now.”

Lucy sat heavily at her kitchen table and dropped her head into her hands. Just as quickly she popped up and ran to her car. She yanked the passenger-side door open and swiped her birthday present from the floor. When it slipped from her fingers, she grabbed the red bow and pulled it from the car like an unruly weed. Back inside, with Charles standing next to her, she ripped the paper from the box. She was breathing hard. She wrestled the tape from the Nike shoebox and lifted the lid. Then she plunged her hands into the tissue and stared at what she'd uncovered.

“This is too much,” she said. “It's just too much.”

Charles abandoned his earlier jocularity. He put his hand between his sister's shoulder blades and said, “C'mon Lucy. Breathe. Take a deep breath. Let me in. What's happening?”

“Call Sidney,” she told him. “I need a girl.”

*   *   *

All sharp chin and angled shoulders, Sidney sat next to Lucy on the couch in the living room as Charles stood nearby.

Lucy said, “Thanks for coming.”

“Talk to me.”

“I opened the box.”

“That's not the big news,” Charles nearly shouted.

Sidney glared at him. “Go ahead, Lucy.”

“I opened the box, and this is what was inside.” Lucy handed Sidney an old-fashioned ice-cube tray from the sixties; silver with a handle that dislodged the cubes when it was pulled back. That, and a pamphlet with a Post-it on its front cover. Hand written on the yellow square in jagged script was
Just in case. R
.

“Do you know what it means?” Sidney asked, taking the pamphlet and lifting the note for a closer look.

“It was an inside joke,” Lucy said miserably. “I was always so afraid I wouldn't get pregnant. Or that something would happen to Richard before I did. I just loved him so much.”

“I used to say, ‘Can you just fill up an ice-cube tray with your genetic material and we'll save it
just in case
?' I would use our code phrase in public,
Whack a mole
, and he'd crack up.”

Sidney winced a little.

Lucy gave a weak smile. “I know, crass. Richard used to say I was all gingham on the outside and Naugahyde on the inside.” Lucy pulled the ice-cube tray apart. “After I got pregnant, I used to say, ‘Get the tray. Baby needs a sibling.'”

Charles said, “Sorry, Luce, but that's a little fucked up.”

“Oh yeah? It's no different from you putting money into your Alzheimer's fund.” Charles looked around guiltily, and Lucy turned to Sidney. “He's got like a million dollars in a fund specifically for a full-time male nurse when he forgets all his zip codes.”

“All his zip codes?”

Charles nodded his head. “I used to work in the mailroom, and I did a lot of sorting. I know all the zip codes for south-central Wisconsin.”

Sidney said, “Whitewater?”

“Five, three, one, nine, zero.”