33

He’s doing the same damn thing with the dog that he did with Stacy—being the fun parent, being the entertainment, monopolizing him. Arms crossed, Alice stares out the living room window, waiting for Ed to return with the dog so that she can get to his first training class on time. Ed knows she’s doing this today, so why ever did he take Buddy with him?

When Stacy was born, it was a no-brainer, as they say, for Alice to quit her job as a medical secretary outright and become, at age forty, a true stay-at-home mom. Eight hours or more a day were spend being in charge, caring for their daughter, planning meals, and watching out the back window as Stacy and her pals played in the backyard; being the taxi driver and the negotiator; being disappointed when Stacy refused to go back to dancing school, and signing up for booster club when she took up soccer. And yet, when he was around, it was Ed who dazzled their daughter’s eyes.

And now it’s Buddy who dances and prances when Ed comes in the door.

Even before Ed shuts the car off, Alice is out the door. “I’m going to be late.”

“For what?”

“His first class.”

“I forgot.”

Alice gets a good look at Ed as he climbs out of his car. Head to toe, he’s covered in white flakes. “Is the dog as much of a mess as you are?”

Buddy jumps out of the Cutlass and stands beside Alice. His pink tongue lolls out of his mouth; it’s not because he’s panting, but from that happy look that he gets when both of them are there.

“Where is his leash?”

Ed doesn’t answer.

Alice checks the dog over, clearly annoyed. She brushes a hand over the dog’s back, clips on the requisite six-foot training leash, and points him into the open door of the minivan.

Buddy looks inordinately pleased to be asked to go for another ride.

“He might need some water before you go.”

“Take him in, but hurry up. I have to get to Amherst.”

Once, Ed had taken Stacy to the shoe store three-quarters of an hour before she was supposed to be at a game. Neither one of them remembered the game, and Alice was left on the sidelines, furious, apologetic when the coach came looking for his player, and, finally, worried. Eventually, they showed up, sheepish but not nearly contrite enough. That might have been when Alice insisted they invest in cell phones.

Buddy takes no time at all to lap up some water and races back to the garage to take up his place in the minivan.

“Have fun.” Ed presses the button to raise the garage door for Alice.

It is suddenly too much like being a mother. Alice gets to the end of their street and has to pull off the road. It is too familiar, this going to a lesson, not quite déjà vu, but something so close to old habit that she tastes the past on her tongue. The smell of a September Saturday afternoon, something in the way the light hits the road, and Alice is transported back to the years when she spent more time in her van, this minivan, than she did in her kitchen. The dog sneezes, and the ghost of another passenger sits behind her.

Alice reaches back and strokes the dog’s head. It’s a dog, a silent companion, not a child back there. They are going to a dog class, to learn how to make sick people feel better and old people happy. “Come on up.” Alice pats the passenger seat. Buddy hops into it. Maybe they should invest in a dog seat belt. She puts the car in gear and pulls away from the stop sign.

Alice tries not to blame Ed anymore. She’s been advised by grief counselors that blame is destructive and no one can be blamed for what happened. Still, once in a while, when memory and the scent of September air remind her of the abrupt cessation of being a mom, the mother of a living child, Alice blames Ed.

*   *   *

Alice emanates unhappiness and Buddy/Mack whines softly in response. In the minivan, they are divided by the center console, so he is unable to rest his head in her lap, which was a technique that always proved successful with Justine when the low scent of unhappiness radiated from her. Sometimes this would happen after she tossed her cell down hard; sometimes it would happen in the middle of the night, when he would work his way up from the end of the bed to press himself against her until her arm would go over his body and she would draw him close to her.

Alice, because she still forbids him to climb on the bed she shares with Ed, has not yet snuggled him close, but Buddy/Mack knows that if she would, she’d feel better. He’s watched them as they sleep, two people with the space of a foot between them. Whenever one of them touches the other, there is a grunt or a snort and they move apart. Buddy/Mack thinks that that space between them in the bed would be just about perfect, exactly the right dimension for him to slip his body in and become the final link in the chain.

Squirrel!

Buddy/Mack sees the little rodent dash across the road in front of them. Alice slows, avoids contact. Let me get him for you! But Alice keeps driving, oblivious to the skilled hunter in the seat beside her. He vocalizes, not a bark, but a complaint that Alice is a lousy partner.

Alice comes to the cemetery and, lo and behold, she, too, pulls between the gates, going all the way up the drive before stopping. But she doesn’t let him out of the car, even as she gets out and stands in front of one of the stones.

Buddy/Mack does bark, his place short and demanding. Please let me out; please let me wait with you.

Alice pauses only a moment, brushes something from the top of the stone, plucks a dead bloom from the chrysanthemums, shudders, and then gets back into the car. “What’s all your noise about?” She strokes his head, nose to ears, over and over, until Buddy/Mack senses that the unhappiness has ebbed and Alice is ready to move on.