More Like Her Page 22

  “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.

&
nbsp; “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.

  “Deal. See you then,” I say, signing off. I turn off the car and hop out. John Henry low-walks out of his crate and hops down out of the SUV, waiting for guidance. I take his leash and we hike up Jenny’s steps to her house. I can hear barking and yipping as I walk up. John Henry can too. I see his floppy ears perk up and his eyes dart around as he tries to acquaint himself with his surroundings.

  “Good boy,” I say, looking down. He looks up. The melty blue eyes. The silver-gray fur that looks like silk. I’m in way over my head with this dog. He’s the sweetest animal I’ve ever known.

  “Welcome!” Jenny says, standing at her open front door. She’s exactly as I’d pictured her: friendly, confident, with that beautiful femininity that defies all rules. She’s someone who’d bandage a knee, give you a glass of milk and be positive that her kiss would make it all better.

  “Hey!” I say, extending my hand to her. “Jenny, this is John Henry.”

  “Hey there, John Henry,” Jenny says, looking down at the dog. I follow Jenny’s lead to come inside her house. John Henry keeps pace with me.

  I clear my throat and look out into Jenny’s backyard. A pack of dogs. Some playing, some lying in the grass, others just sitting at the gate, watching the world go by. They look happy and content.

  “So, Mr. John Henry,” Jenny says, looking at the dog. He snaps to attention.

  “He forgot his hammer at home,” I say with a wide, shit-eating grin. Jenny just shakes her head. I clear my throat.

  “He’s beautiful,” Jenny says, letting him smell her.

  “Thank you,” I say, happily moving on.

  “Yes, you are. You’re a pretty boy,” Jenny says as John Henry easily lets her pet him. He’s leaning into her as she scratches behind those floppy ears, around his neck and down his back. I watch and feel . . . lots of things: relief that he looks happy and then this undercurrent of sadness. Emma would have loved Jenny, would have loved seeing John Henry here. Would have loved . . . to have loved. I clear my throat again. Jenny looks over and does a quick double take as she realizes that I’m getting emotional. I try to muster a smile.

  “So stupid,” I say, wiping away a traitorous tear.

  “It’s not stupid,” Jenny says, still petting John Henry, who has completely forgotten about us.

  “Thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes at my behavior.

  “They just get to you. They’re these little beings whose only purpose on this earth is to unconditionally love us. And it’s our job to ferry them through this life as best we can. Isn’t that right, John Henry?” Jenny says, taking his face in her hands. He licks her and nuzzles her. I twist and contort my mouth, the tears choking me.

  “You’re so great with him,” I finally choke out, rolling my eyes once again as she checks to see how I’m doing. Not well. The “ferrying these little unconditionally loving creatures” speech was a cheap shot.

  “He’s a sweet boy,” Jenny says, standing.

  “So, what happens now?” I ask, looking out back. The thundering herd.

  “I’m going to take him back outside and see how we do. You will stay in here. I’ve set out some tea and biscuits. So, help yourself,” Jenny says, motioning to her dining room table, which is filled with breakfast goodies. She takes John Henry’s leash and tells him to come on. He obeys. He looks back at me and . . . that’s it. His melty blue eyes are questioning what’s happening, where he’s going and what am I going to do to protect him. I lunge after them.

  “Okay . . . that . . . ummm,” I say. Jenny keeps walking out to the backyard. I’m thinking she’s had experience with people like me. I take a bite of a biscuit, mechanically chewing it and trying not to look out back. The back door opens and Jenny strides inside. No John Henry. I crane my neck and . . .

  “Where’s John Henry?” I blurt, biscuit shooting out of my mouth.

  “He’s out back,” Jenny says, casually pointing to the backyard. She looks from me to the biscuit. “Good, huh?”

  I nod. “I’m having a small heart attack over here,” I say, my arms outstretch
ed, my voice cracking. Jenny just laughs.

  “Why don’t you take a look for yourself?” Jenny says, motioning to the backyard. My steps are heavy and I cross my arms in front of my chest, my breath quickening. I turn the corner and look out back.

  John Henry is running around the backyard, throwing a Frisbee into the air and catching it himself. A black Lab trots beside him, stops, and then they run again. They tussle and play and the Frisbee is up in the air again. I clap my hand over my mouth and just let the tears fall. I look back at Jenny and she just nods.

  “He’s doing great,” I say, my voice cracking, ridiculously emotional. John Henry trots over to the water bowl, laps and laps and laps. The black Lab comes over, shoves his face aside, and they both continue drinking. The other dogs swirl around the backyard, completely unaware of John Henry, doing their own thing and minding their own business.

  “I told you,” Jenny says, offering me another biscuit.

  “You did,” I say, walking away from the back door and into the dining room.

  “You okay?” Jenny asks, studying me.

  “Gonna be,” I say with a smile.

  Chapter 15

  She’s a Little Runaway

  No nightmare. Mainly because I didn’t sleep. Between analyzing my little run-in with Sam at the hospital and watching John Henry sleep all night, it was a lost cause. His every breath. His every twitch. His every yelp. In the crate. Should I open the crate? Is it cruel to put him in that little crate? No, dogs like to feel like they’re in a den. But what if I set up a little bed on the couch? The bathroom floor? What about on my bed? In the end, John Henry slept in his crate, while I lay curled up in my sleeping bag next to him. Yes, it was a bit much. I just . . . my thinking was, either I do it that way or I hang off my bed and listen to him breathe from afar.