Authors: Liza Palmer
“Your mom’s name is Cleopatra?”
“Of course it is.”
“Dude.”
“People try to shorten it to Cleo, but Mom corrects them every time. Plus, it’s just weird to talk about it. Explain what happened. It sounds so . . . gruesome.”
“It was gruesome.”
“Yeah . . . yeah, I guess it was,” Lisa says, checking on Grady. His breathing is deep and slow. Such a strong man. Taken down. Like that.
“I get what you’re saying. It doesn’t feel real. Like you know you’re going to make it out, whereas if you’re hearing someone you love tell that story it would be terrifying.”
“Exactly.”
We’re quiet.
Lisa continues. “But seeing Grady . . . that bullet hit him in the right shoulder. If you really . . .
really
think about what could have happened with that . . .” Lisa trails off, shaking her head. The scene plays again. Always ready to be relived. Easy to pull it up. Easy to let it play. Jamie shoots the gun with his right hand at a charging Grady. Hits him in the right shoulder and he whirls around, hitting the floor. Slow it down. Back it up. My face drops and the color drains. Slow motion. Jamie fires and the bullet travels across the space between him and Grady. If Grady were one hundredth of a second faster, if Jamie were one hundredth of a faster shot, that bullet would have hit Grady square in the temple. Lisa watches the realization unfold.
She nods. “See what I’m saying?”
“I never even—”
“Grady played defensive end at UT. Watching him get put down like that . . .” Lisa trails off again, not looking at me.
I am quiet. There’s nothing I can say. She has to feel this, no matter how much I don’t want her to. No matter how much I want to make this better, the only thing I can do right now is listen. Be here. Like she was for me.
“I know,” I say, almost in a whisper.
“I know you do.”
We are quiet. Sitting in it. The grainy Super 8 footage of that day. Rewinding and playing. From different angles. Playing the what-if game. Moving the different players around like chess pieces. How did we survive? There’s no reason we should be sitting here. Jamie had every intention of killing everyone in that lounge. The only time I saw any emotion move across his face, other than resolution and demonic detachment, it was annoyance. It bothered him that we were fighting back. Our will to survive was something he hadn’t factored in. He was a coward. He had been so used to people being intimidated by him—dogs sitting when he told them to, women walking on eggshells. The idea of a group of human beings stopping him from dictating how the scene would play out simply never occurred to him. He lost his cool when Grady came at him, but Lisa threw him for the biggest loop. A woman. A woman who wouldn’t let him dominate her. He simply didn’t know how to process that. And in the end, when challenged, like the bully he was, he became the great Oz. A tiny man behind a big curtain.
“He was a paper tiger,” I finally say.
“A paper tiger with a gun and nothin’ to lose.”
“That’s usually how it works.”
“True.” We are quiet again.
“Are we still doing the Rose Bowl this weekend?” Lisa asks.
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s so Jill can get all the details out of you,” I say.
Lisa smiles. “You’re adorable if you think your night with Sam isn’t on her agenda, as well.”
“Ah yes,” I say. Ouchhhhhh. “I’m taking John Henry to the doggy day care lady today at noon. If that doesn’t go so well, I might have John Henry with me tomorrow. But, you know—he might actually like that walk, so I might just bring him regardless.” Lisa nods.
Quiet.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Lisa asks.
“About John Henry?”
“No, I think what you’re doing with that dog is amazing.”
I smile.
Lisa continues. “I mean about Sam.”
“Oh. That,” I say, my entire body deflating.
“I don’t think you should throw the baby out with the bathwater. I think there’s something there. Just . . . give him time,” Lisa says.
“I choose how this ends?”
“Something like that.”
After hanging around for another hour or so, I say my good-byes to Lisa and pass along well wishes to the still sleeping Grady. I close the door behind me and. . .
“Hey.”
Sam.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” I say, clutching my chest.
“I’ll try to walk down a hospital hallway more—”
“You don’t get to be funny,” I say, the words coming from nowhere.
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t get to be funny. You don’t get to act like that night didn’t happen anymore,” I say, the words coming fast. I’ve wanted to say them since that morning.
“Frannie, I—”
“You ran. It’s what you do. You ran to California. You ran out of my apartment that morning without so much as an explanation and now you’re here trying to make jokey small talk?”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Your southern bullshit charm doesn’t play anymore, Earley.”
“Okay, then.”
I wait.
Sam is confused.
“Emma’s sister came by the school yesterday after the fund-raiser. I got that promotion. I adopted Emma’s dog. I finally told my parents about the shooting. There’s a memorial service in Mill Valley this weekend for Emma. I’m still having nightmares,” I blurt.
“Okay.”
“I just thought you should know.”
“That’s a lot.”
“I know.”
“How are you doing with all this?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?!”
“I would actually.”
“I’m not okay, Sam. I’ve been crying a lot.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I imagine you are.”
We are quiet. The hurt bubbles back up where the bravado was. My shoulders slump as my chin lowers.
“How are you?” I ask, my voice just that much louder than it should be.
“Not good.”
“I’m sorry.” My voice is softer now.
Sam nods. His jaw is tight. Still.
“You know, you could talk about it. You should talk about it.”
“No one wants to hear what I have to say.”
“I do.”
Sam is quiet. Shaking his head no. Shaking his head no. He looks down. At the ground.
“People deal with things differently, Frannie.” Sam’s voice is cold.
“I know that.”
“I know you do,” Sam says, softening immediately.
Silence. For a long time.
“I’d better get going,” I say. Please ask me what I’m doing later. Please don’t let me be alone again tonight.
Sam nods. Nothing. Tense jaw. Pursed mouth. Hands in fists.
I continue. “Grady’s sleeping so be quiet when you go in. Take care, Sam.” And I walk down the hallway waiting to hear my name. Waiting to be stopped. Waiting for my explanation.
Nothing.
I’M HERE TO PICK
up a dog . . .
my
dog? The Weimaraner, I say, looking at the girl behind the counter later that morning.
“Oh, sure. John Henry,” she says, picking up the phone. The woman looks brokenhearted that he’s leaving. She tells someone that the person who’s adopting John Henry is here. She nods, says, “I knooooow,” as if the person on the other end of the phone is just as crestfallen as she is. She gives me a quick sneer and hangs up. “She’ll be right out.”
“She’ll? John Henry is a boy.”
“She’ll—the girl who’s handling your case,” the woman says. She motions for me to have a seat. I oblige her. I sit stock-still and focus on the comings and goings of the pound—always busy, always buzzing. I stopped at a local pet store on my way home from work last night and got an embarrassing amount of dog paraphernalia: beds, collars, chew toys, food, treats, leashes . . . the gamut.
“Frances Reid?” The hipster girl from the other day. She motions for me to come into her office. I am seated in the same chair I was in on Thursday. I can’t believe it’s only been two days. I hold tightly to the leash I bought last night. I knew John Henry had a red leather collar from before, so I bought him a red leather leash to match. The leather squeaks and crinkles as I nervously bend and twist it. I try to quiet my hands.
The girl continues. “The good news is that John Henry has a chip, so we called his vet, the Small Animal Hospital over in Arcadia, and they faxed over proof of all of his shots.” She hands me a packet of papers. I scan through them and see . . . this dog was cared for. Everything is up-to-date. I’m thankful I can have access to his medical history, especially since I’m sure proof of his shots will be needed with Jenny later on this morning.
“Is there bad news?” I ask, looking up from the papers.
“I’m sorry?”
“Bad news? You said, ‘The good news is . . .’ ” I trail off.
“No, no bad news,” she says, threading her fingers together on her desk.
“Oh, good,” I say, relaxing.
The girl stands and begins to walk out of her office. “So, I’ll bring him on out and . . .” She picks up the phone and dials. “Can someone help me with John Henry’s crate?” She waits, thanks someone and hangs up.
I stand and meander out into the main office. My hands are sweaty; my knuckles whiten as I grip the leash. I clear my throat. Again. Smile at the front-office girl. She gives me a polite smile. I look out one of the windows, biting my nails. My heart is racing. I don’t know why. This is a dog. A dog. He’ll . . .
The hipster girl bursts through the side door with a low-walking John Henry at her side. He is watching her, staying behind her, not pulling on his leash. Always the little soldier. He has a makeshift leash around his neck and as I watch the pound tech load the crate into the back of my SUV in the parking lot, the hipster girl motions for me to clip my leash to his collar. The changing of the guard. I lurch forward, uneasy and nervous. John Henry skitters away, cowering behind the hipster girl. I’m immediately embarrassed and recoil.
“It’s okay, you’re doing great,” the hipster girl says to me, taking the leash from my hands and clipping it to John Henry’s collar herself. I nod and thank her as she hands me the looped handle to the leash. No longer twisted and bent in my hands, the leash is connected to Emma’s legacy. I inhale sharply. John Henry sits. Waiting. His melty blue eyes darting around the buzzing front office, his floppy ears twitching and turning.
“Hi, sweet boy,” I say, bending down. John Henry gives me a quick glance, then looks at the desk, back at me, up to the hipster girl, out the door, back at me . . . it’s dizzying.
“You should be fine,” the hipster girl says, giving me a sage nod.
“Thank you,” I say, looking from her to the girl behind the front desk.
I walk out of the office, John Henry at my side. He keeps pace with me, never moving in front of me, always watching me, his gait stilted and truncated. The pound tech, a young kid of about seventeen clearly interning on the weekends, waits by my car, his arm resting on the open hatch.
“He walks like a Lipizzaner,” I say.
“A Lipizzaner Weimaraner?”
I narrow my eyes at the tech as we get closer. A huge smile. He thinks he’s hilarious.
“We’re doing it,” I say, motioning to me holding John Henry’s leash.
“Yes, congratulations, you can walk a dog,” the tech says, taking the leash from me and motioning to John Henry to hop up into the hatch of my SUV.
“You’re funny, kid,” I say, pulling my keys out of my purse. John Henry hops up into the back of the SUV and the tech gives him a quick pat as a reward. John Henry wags his tail and happily gets in his crate for the ride over to Jenny’s. The tech latches the crate and closes the hatch.
“Good luck. Seriously, he’s a special dog,” the tech says, coming around to my window.
I hear John Henry situating himself in the crate.
“I know,” I say. The tech taps my open window with a nod. I’ve passed muster.
“Good boy,” I coo, craning around and seeing how he’s doing. It looks like John Henry is settling in. I want him to feel like he’s not just being driven around for driving’s sake. I wonder if . . . did he like his home? I mean, I know Jamie was a tool, but did John Henry know that? Of course, he knew. Did Emma make up for it? As I pull out onto Raymond Avenue, I can’t believe I’m deliberating about the inner workings of a dog’s brain.
As John Henry and I wind through Pasadena on our way to Jenny’s, I feel like I’ve gotten myself all entangled into some fool’s errand. I haven’t thought it through. Sure, while delivering John Henry to Emma’s grieving sister might be cleansing for me, what’s it going to be like for her? Is it going to open a wound that I’ve no right to rip open? I grab my iPhone and dial Jill on speakerphone. The ringing of the phone is heard throughout the car.
“Am I being selfish?” I blurt as Jill answers the phone.
“Because you won’t tell me how big Sam’s dick was? Yes. Incredibly,” Jill says.
“Remind me never to call you when I have anyone else in the car.”
“What are you talking about then?” she asks.
“Am I being selfish?” I repeat.
“In what regard?”
“Are there so many occasions that I have to specify?”
“Wow. Really?”
“Fine.”
“Are we talking about John Henry?”
“Yes.”
“No, I don’t think so,” she says, her voice crackling through the car.
“It feels messy, you know?”
“Yeah, I get that,” she says as I move through an intersection.
“Right? It’s like, get the dog, take the dog to the grieving sister, who knows what kind of relationship they have and drive up to San Francisco for the memorial service,” I say.
“I think I want to go,” Jill says.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me guess, you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, and let me guess, all you want to do is taaaalk about it?”
“If you do go I’ve got six to seven hours with you in an enclosed vehicle. I have a whole theory based on the hydra that I want to run past you.”
“Let me guess: you’ve had an epiphany about it. I bet we could get Lisa to go,” Jill says as I make the turn into Jenny’s driveway.
“Okay, I’m here at the doggy day care. We’ll talk tomorrow around the Rose Bowl,” I say.
“Definitely. Lot K. Nine
A.M.
,” Jill says.