42

I make it back to Adele’s house, only to find it empty. She’s probably at Paul’s. That makes sense. Why would she come back to this empty place, be here alone with me? There’s a newspaper on the front walk, and I pause for a moment after retrieving it to contemplate the triple-decker next door, the house that I once lived in. If Adele meant what she said about going into that retirement community, it could be sold fairly soon if she wants to convert it into liquid assets. Or maybe the rents will offset the expense of senior housing and she’ll hang on to it.

Lights are on in all three flats, diffused through drawn curtains or lowered blinds. Even in the murky half-light of dusk, the place looks in need of paint and a little TLC. It occurs to me that I lived in that house almost exactly as long as I lived in Adele’s—nine years. I haven’t been inside since the day we moved out, so I still picture the living room walls as mint green and cream, the shag rug a blend of olive and russet fibers. Hideous by today’s standards, but what I remember fondly.

A welcome thought rattles through me: I am free. With my father’s passing, I no longer have any connection to Adele Rose. As cut off as I have been, there has always been this lingering attachment I could never quite break free from. As long as my father was alive, there was communication, however sparse. Like being called here to attend him like some unpaid nurse. A Christmas card with a twenty-five-dollar check in it, signed by Adele. That will stop now.

The door of the first-floor flat opens and a woman comes out. She’s carrying a casserole dish and she heads right for me. I don’t know her, but she’s dressed in a tracksuit that emphasizes her ampleness, big hair caught up in a topknot, Crocs on her feet. She is comfortingly like the women I knew growing up, big and generous, a little loud but kind. I can smell the cigarette smoke on her.

“Are you Justine?”

“Yes.”

“I heard about your dad. I’m so sorry. I made you this.” My new friend hands me the still-warm casserole. I can smell tuna and cheese, and suddenly I’m so hungry, I could sit down and eat all of it.

“Thank you so much. I think Adele is at Paul’s. Do you mind if I take your dish there?”

“Not at all. Just leave the dish on the porch when you’re through with it. Don’t even wash it.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Diane Santos. We’ve lived in that house for ten years. Your dad was so good to us. I’m going to miss him.” Unbelievably, she actually tears up, adding to my impression that she, like so many of the women I knew around here, keeps her emotions handy.

“I don’t know what the arrangements are yet, but please come if you can.”

She presses a hand to my hand. “I will. And if there’s anything…”

“I’ll let you know.”

Diane leaves me standing on the walk with the warm casserole in my hands. She turns and waves as she goes back into her house, into the very apartment I once lived in with two parents. I’m almost tempted to ask if I can go inside, see if there is anything there that will give me one more memory of my early life.

I walk inside and put the casserole on the counter. The delicious and familiar odor of my favorite comfort food wafts up, and I yank open the silverware drawer and pull out a fork. I’ll just have a little. I’m still buzzed from the long drive and from my encounter with Artie. I can’t keep the image of my dog dead on the side of the road out of my mind. I need a moment to regroup before heading over to Paul’s and the fresh drama that awaits me. I have no doubt that they will be royally pissed that I disappeared for half the day on the day that my father died.

I take a bite of the tuna noodle casserole. It’s every bit as good as it smells and brings me back to Tony as a little boy, when I made it for him. He would never let me use egg noodles, like Diane has, always ziti. He had his little-boy rigidness about certain things—what kind of pasta constituted macaroni and cheese, and what kind was meant for tuna casserole. Wheat bread was verboten; only squishy white bread would suffice for PB&J. I wonder if he’s listened to my message about my father. Does he ever listen to my messages?

Tony was almost sixteen when I announced that I was moving us to Washington State. It wasn’t an arbitrary decision; it was a fantastic opportunity. I’d been seeing a guy who was opening a new high-end restaurant. When he offered me the chance to be his manager, with a salary and benefits, I thought that it sounded wonderful. Greg was offering stability, even a career. I was still young enough to believe that there were good opportunities left in the world and that taking them was the important part. Better to try and fail than never to try at all. That’s what I said to Tony.

*   *   *

“Fail at what? Another ‘relationship’?” This from my teenager, sarcasm complete with air quotes.

“It’s not about a ‘relationship,’ it’s about being in at the ground floor on a successful business.” I imitate his flippant gesture and use air quotes. “Greg’s a nice guy, but this isn’t romantic . Greg is a good businessman and this is a good opportunity for us.”

“No. I won’t go. Enough is enough. This is the longest we’ve ever lived anywhere and I like it here.”

“I understand, honey; moving isn’t easy. But this is a fantastic opportunity.”

“It’s always a fantastic opportunity. Or a fantastic new guy. When are you ever going to be satisfied?”

I am speechless, then angry. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for this family. I do.”

“And you think pursuing this newest crazy idea of yours is the best thing? You’ll keep moving because you can’t just accept that this is the best it ever gets. A place, a job, nice neighbors. That’s all life is really made up of.”

“I’m your sole support, and I need to have the best job I can get.”

“With the newest best guy?”

“This is not about Greg.”

“Then who is it about?”

“You.”

“It’s never been about me, Mom. Even moving here was about that great job you were going to have.”

I pace the arc of the turret six times, my fists clenched so tight that I leave nail marks in my palms. “You’re grounded.” A mother’s weakest weapon. He is way out of bounds here. Every move we’ve made has been to better his life.

“Can’t you at least wait until I graduate? Then we can move. You can move.” His voice is still unreliable and he croaks on those words.

“Discussion over.”

Tony draws himself up to full height, shocking me with the fact that he is close to six feet tall. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair in a gesture so like his father’s that I have to blink hard to dispel the notion that Anthony is standing there. “I’m not going.”

“Of course you are. You’re my son.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez will let me stay with them until I graduate.”

“I don’t think that Marta and Henry are willing or able to take on a teenage boy.” I take another lap of the turret. “It’s a ridiculous notion.”

“No, it’s not. Ask Mrs. S. She’ll tell you.”

“Why do you think they’d be willing to do this for you?”

Tony actually blushes, the roses against his olive skin making him look equally child and grown man. Petulance and desire. “They know about all our constant moving. Ten places since I was three years old. They know that’s not good. That you’ll just keep moving me until I…”

“What? Until you what?” I should remind him that the last two moves were a partially a result of his own behavior, but some things are unfair when wielded by a parent.

“Leave home.”

I take a deep breath. This is nothing more than a half-grown child’s fantasy of “I’ll run away and show you.” I know about that fantasy. Oh yes, I do.

Tony stands before me, a perfect model of anguished youth. He isn’t crying, but his mouth forms a thin line of holding back—holding back tears, or holding back very angry words; I’m not sure which. It’s like watching two entities struggling to form a single unit, the blur of the child he has been, the one I know so well, and the overlay of this almost adult, this man-child who is a stranger to me. We face each other, a gap of five feet between us. My maternal instincts are to go hug him, tell him everything will be all right, that he just has to trust me. Then the shadow of the child is gone and I see the future man standing in front of me. Not quite fully formed, but no longer a boy.

“Mom, I just can’t keep living like this.” Tears slide out from under his lashes. He makes no move to acknowledge them, just lets them drift down until they meet the scruff of beard on his adolescent cheeks and vanish.

It is a crystal moment. I have exactly two choices: move to Seattle and take a great job, or stay put for another three years and wait for another golden opportunity to break out of the shit-job rail that I am riding. I’m thirty-six, and I feel as if life is beginning to run dry on good opportunities for me. Greg offers the best yet. Besides, Seattle is a great place, filled with opportunities for a young man—good schools, new friends, the music scene.

I know that Tony has good friends here, a world of difference from his L.A. friends; he’s even joined the baseball team. He hasn’t been in one fight, has even made the honor roll. But I need something, too. I need a better job than managing a flophouse of a motel.

Tony will just have to suck it up.

“We’re moving.”

“How can you not understand what I’m saying?”

“I do. You don’t want to move again. I understand that. But we have to take chances.”

“Three more years, Mom, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I don’t have three more years.”

“Then you don’t have me.”

*   *   *

I finish off another big bite of the casserole and cover it up. Time to go.

*   *   *

Paul lives in Fairhaven, over the Acushnet River from New Bedford and off of route 240. He’s managed, on an accountant’s salary, to buy a house with a water view. It’s a tiny house, to be sure, someone’s summer cottage tarted up, but from his back deck, you catch a glimpse of the Acushnet and the New Bedford waterfront on the opposite shore. Once inside, I can’t imagine how he raised his two huge children in this space. His wife, Melanie, greets me with great sympathy, assuming that I am devastated. She, too, has grown large since the last time I saw her—at their wedding. But her largeness suits her, and she wears it with pride. She keeps hold of my hand as she pilots me through the living room and into the dining room, where she finds space for the deflowered casserole among the massive collection of platters and dishes, remnants of pies, and salads.

“Adele’s resting now. If you want to go look in on her…” Melanie says this without irony.

“That’s okay. Let her rest. Where’s Paul?”

“Outside. Eat something!”

I don’t, but I do grab a chilled bottle of Sam Adams and head out to the deck, where Paul and a host of other men have congregated, much like this is Super Bowl Sunday and not a sad occasion. They’re laughing, until they realize who I am. I have no idea who these people are, but they murmur appropriate sentiments: “Sorry for your loss.” I keep thinking that they mean Mack. I’m sure that they think that the very real grief on my face is attributable to the human loss and natural filial feelings.

If only they knew that I lost my father years ago. That loss is hardened into my bones. I murmur my appropriate responses. Paul plays host and starts introducing them to me. I shake hands and smile and keep the urge to howl at bay. I take a quick sip of the beer, tell myself I need to behave like a grown-up, thank them for their kindness in being on Paul’s deck on a weeknight.

“You remember Ron Markham?”

Nearly thirty years changes a man. Changes a boy into a man. Changes sleek and Greek into a schlub. This Ronnie Markham is soft-faced; a ring of untidy brown hair frames a bald head, and his eyebrows are trying to make up for the loss. He sports a bristly mustache and looks the part of a used-car salesman to a T. His hands are feminine, small and soft as he takes my unoffered hand in his. He freaking pats it. “Justine, I’m so sorry about your dad. He was always one of our best people.”

“Right.” I extract my hand from his. Markham’s best.

*   *   *

I am so excited, as only a girl can be whose dream guy has suddenly woken up from his obliviousness and seen her for a desirable woman. Golden boy, king of the football field, legendary Ronnie Markham is taking me out. It is one of the few times I can remember Adele smiling at me with genuine pleasure, as if I have turned from straw into gold. My dating Ronnie Markham is clearly a feather in her social cap.

I dress with such excited panic. Is the floral dress with the outsize shoulder pads the best thing? I decide that I shouldn’t be too dressy. I pull on my black leggings and fashionably droopy boat-neck top. Using electric rollers, I curl my hair, and tease my bangs into a lofty height. Ron, a little early, is in the kitchen, drinking Coke with Paul. I walk into the room and, oh Lord, he stands up, like a gentleman caller, and helps me into my fake-leather bomber jacket. I hope that my deodorant does its job and I’m not going to embarrass myself with wet circles under my perspiring armpits. I am so nervous.

When Ronnie asked me out, it was an afterthought. “Hey, Justine, want to go out sometime?”

I looked at Paul, standing beside Ronnie, absolutely sure this was a joke. When Paul didn’t burst into laughter, I nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You look beautiful.” Ronnie sounds sincere, although I catch a half smile on Paul’s face, just like he’s in on a joke. I wait half a beat, fully expecting that Ronnie and Paul will pull the plug on this charade.

“You two kids have a nice time.” Paul slaps Ron on the back and waves as we walk to Ron’s car, which is parked at the curb. Predictably, his car is a brand-new Chevy Camaro with all the bells and whistles, a throaty muscle car. Ronnie pulls away from the curb like he’s launching a rocket.

“I thought we’d go to the Pizza Palace and then maybe take a drive.”

My hands are clasped between my knees so that Ron can’t see how nervous I am. “That’s sounds nice.” Anything sounds nice. I’ve never been out with a college boy before, and I suppose that Ron won’t be interested in the usual stuff of high school dates, McDonald’s and the Game Room. The very fact that this isn’t a double date seems so sophisticated to me, but on the other hand, I wish that I had a friend with me, someone who would be a witness to my success, or failure. Someone I could go home with at the end of the date and analyze every word and gesture for deeper meaning.

Ron has a lot of his father’s car salesman charm and keeps the conversation in the restaurant going single-handedly against my tongue-tied hero worship. He talks about his athletic achievements at college. That topic moves easily into his academic stardom. In the end, he isn’t a whole lot different from the other boys I date. As long as I keep nodding and smiling, he keeps talking.

I begin to relax a little, the glow of his aura dimming enough that I can actually look across the table at him. I sit up a little straighter, hoping that someone, anyone, will come in and see me, Justine Meade, sitting here alone with Ronnie Markham. For once in my life, I’m glad to be popular Paul Rose’s stepsister.

Later, we drive around a bit aimlessly until we get to the beach, stopping at a point that is a popular make-out spot, especially in the warm weather, when a blanket and the sand behind the dunes make a perfect nest. The engine pings softly as we sit there looking out over the water through the broad windshield of the car.

“Your brother’s a great guy.”

This seems like a strange statement to make, sitting, as we are, in the most popular make-out spot in New Bedford.

“He’s all right.” I’m hardly going to complain about Paul tonight.

“He convinced me to take you out.”

I felt like I’d been kicked. “Figures. What did he promise you?”

“Doesn’t matter. The point is, I like you. I’m glad I did.”

“I don’t need Paul to get me dates.”

“No, you don’t. I was blind. Paul opened my eyes.”

It is just warm enough to be outside, so Ron pops the trunk, extracting a blanket and a six-pack. We lie back on our elbows, drinking the beer, pretending to be fascinated with the stars. The beer isn’t cold and tastes like metallic water, but I sip from the can as if I enjoy it. A shooting star streaks across the sky.

“Oh! Look at that. Make a wish!” I point skyward, wishing my own wish.

Ronnie pats my knee, then rubs my back.

My star wish was that he’d kiss me. When he doesn’t, I kiss him.

*   *   *

I will always admit that I made the first move. But Ronnie Markham took things too far.

Ron Markham, not Ronnie, leans close to my ear now. The impression of softness disappears. “Did you know that your father came to me? Privately.”

“No.”

“Your father was a pretty big guy back then. I was taller, but he got me by the shirt and slammed me into a wall and told me in no uncertain terms that I’d better stay away from you. I told him the truth, that nothing had happened.”

“What do you mean, nothing happened? Something did happen. You wouldn’t stop when I asked you to.”

“I did stop before anything happened. But I was turned on and didn’t behave like a gentleman. I took advantage of your age, but your brother said…”

“What?”

“That you would. You know. Once I realized you wouldn’t, I stopped. Don’t you remember?”

I remember the feel of his mouth all over me, the weight of his hands on my skin after he’d managed to pull my shirt off. I remember tugging at my clothes, desperate to cover myself, the damp night air chilling me, and then walking to his car with his arm around my shoulder as if I needed help. I have zeroed out the rest.

I sat that night in the kitchen. I was sobbing. “Paul set me up.” Paul had slunk off as soon as I walked in the door, my artfully arranged hair tangled and my Flashdance top stretched askew, my mascara streaked. He’d taken one look at what he’d done and fled.

*   *   *

“He told Ronnie he could have me.”

“Shut up.” Adele stalks over to me. “He did nothing of the sort. You dress like a tramp, you get treated like a tramp.”

“I’ll have a talk with the boy.” My father stands in the archway of the dining room. “With Ronnie.”

“You will not.” Adele grabs the back of my head, twisting my face toward my father. “Are you willing to sacrifice your job for her?”

*   *   *

It was his silence that I took for betrayal. He wouldn’t stand up to her, not then, not ever.

In all this, I have never thought about Ron Markham. It’s always been my father’s sin of failure to stand up for me that I’ve remembered with such pain. Now here is the man, the grown-up version of the boy who almost got my virginity. Never did I imagine that he, of all people, would be the one to tell me my father had stood up for me after all.

At this point, Paul has literally shouldered us off the deck and into the empty yard. I know that the people on the deck, and by now there are several wives out there, can hear every word. I’m not raising my voice, but the evening has become foggy and the fog acts like a band shell.

Out of the fog I hear her voice.

Marriage, motherhood, divorce; reinventing myself every few years, living through 9/11 and two Iraq wars, even at that, the sight of Adele Rose Meade standing on that deck, looking down on me, scares the shit out of me. In a curious way, the deck floodlights illumine her and her only; the rest of the audience, Greek chorus now, have faded into the shadows. I feel myself shrinking.

“Justine. You need to come in.” The transformation is complete. I am ten.

“Mrs. Meade, give us a minute.” Ron doesn’t touch me, but I follow him a few steps away from the deck, deeper into the wet grass and the fog, mostly out of earshot. I wonder if this is a good idea. Not that I imagine he’ll touch me. It just looks compromising, and I have an idea that his wife—surely there is one—is not going to understand this.

“Whatever happened that night, I want you to know that I am truly sorry. A boy looks at these things differently. Not that I’m saying it was right, or acceptable, but I’m sorry.”

This is so unexpected. An apology. From Ron. But it’s not the one I wanted.

Suddenly, it hits me: The reason my father never apologized is because he had nothing to apologize for. Tears build in the corner of my eyes.

“Thank you.”

I have this strange sense of being like a creature that molts its skin; what has held me together cracks open and I feel my life slide out, fresh. Ron Markham, in clumsy fashion, has offered me closure.

“Justine?” Adele’s voice fades into the mist. A ghostly sound, meaningless.

*   *   *

“Puttin’ on the Ritz” jangles on my cell phone, startling us both. It gives Ron an exit and he disappears into the fog, leaving me alone at the edge of the yard. Crickets are all wound up, droning their September song as I look at the display. It’s Mitch, my one-legged violinist. I take three rings to collect myself, to find the voice that won’t sound cloudy with emotion.

“Hey, Mitch.”

“How’s it going?”

We sound like two adolescents with nothing much to say.

“My father passed today, so we’re at my stepbrother’s, eating.”

“My condolences.”

“It’s fine.”

If only my father had said something to me, just let me know that he had taken take my side, even if I was the only one to know it. It’s too late. It’s like trying to turn the Titanic to give up my hardened sense of injustice. “The funeral’s on Saturday. Then I guess I’ll head home.”

Just saying that pains me. I tell Mitch about finding Artie, about how Artie’s scared to death that the Hell’s Angels are on his trail. For a split second, I wonder if Mitch will think I blame him for what Artie’s done. I don’t, not really. I don’t mention socking Artie in the gut, but I do tell him about the truckers. And then the threatened tears win the battle and I sob into the phone that my dog is most likely dead on the MassPike.

“Justine, maybe not. This may sound weird, but I think I saw your dog on Facebook.”

“It’s probably one that Saundra put up. We’re in a lot of her YouTube clips.” I don’t want an image of Mack; I want Mack.

“Except that the woman with the dog isn’t you.”

This stops me. I knuckle away the tears. “What?”

“I’ve sent you the link. You just look at it and see for yourself.”

“Mack isn’t the only dancing Sheltie.” I can’t allow myself false hope.

“I’m not asking you to get your hopes up, but don’t you want to see this?”

There is a moment of silence between Cleveland and here and I hear the Vineyard ferry horn blasting. Mitch doesn’t want me to get my hopes up, but he offers me hope by telling me that someone is dancing with my dog?

If Mitch is right, that this online Sheltie is Mack, somehow safe, it means that I can’t leave until I exhaust every avenue in finding him. I don’t know how long Candy will keep my job open, but I’ve quit plenty of jobs for far less compelling reasons.

“A silver-and-black Sheltie, big white ruff, one blue eye, one brown?”

“Justine, go look at the video.”

The consoling crowd has thinned out. Two of the men who were on the deck with Paul turn out to be my nephews. They call me “Aunt Justine,” as if we have blood in common. They call my father “Grandpa.”

“Do you guys have a computer I can use? I need to check my e-mail.”

Ryan, the elder one, shows me to his bedroom, where he has a laptop. He opens it up for me and kindly leaves me to it. The room looks tidied for company, but the odor is pure man-boy, and I inhale it with a certain nostalgia. A sock pokes out from under the bed, a grayish white tongue licking the floor. I picture Melanie racing around, trying to get the place in order, never having planned on entertaining on a weeknight. Even an expected death comes unexpectedly.

I open the e-mail from firstchairharleyplayer. “I hope this is your dog.”

I click on the link, hoping, too, that it is my dog.

I watch the short clip, my hand over my mouth, trying not to cry out. The sound quality is poor, the image a little jiggly, but “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” distinct as Mack does his routine. I can tell he’s improvising; the woman with him isn’t giving him any good hand signals, but he has figured out enough of them to know what she wants. He is that smart. Then I hear a name, Alice. “Keep going, Alice.” Is that enough to be able to find my dog? A woman named Alice is dancing with him? Then I hear a second name, Buddy. That’s what she’s calling him. It is Mack. Even though there are plenty of blue merle Shelties in the world, only this one is mine. Unmistakable.

The relief acts like a drug, and I start shaking, my hands trembling so much that I have a hard time texting Mitch to let him know he’s right. I can’t talk now; I have to process this flicker of hope.

“You okay, Aunt Justine?” Ryan is standing in the doorway.

“I am.” Or very nearly.