7

I manage to recharge my cell phone while waiting for the 8:40 bus to leave from Erie—the city, not the county. I’m leaning against the wet counter in the ladies’ room, my charger plugged into a random outlet beside the hand dryer, when the phone rings with my “Puttin’ on the Ritz” ringtone, startling the bejesus out of me as the music bounces off the tile walls of the hollow room. My hand literally shakes as I flip the phone open, praying that Artie’s number is on the display. It isn’t.

“Where are you?” My stepmother doesn’t even begin by saying hello.

“Erie. Waiting for a bus.”

“I don’t know how much time you think you have to get here, but you should hurry up. This isn’t a drill. I thought you’d be here by now.”

“It’s a long story.”

“It always is with you.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you fly? You could have been here two days ago. I could use the help.”

“You know why.”

“Because you had to bring that dog?” Adele smacks the word dog.

“No. Because I couldn’t afford it.” I say this loudly enough in the echoing rest room that my voice is amplified and the woman just shaking the wet off her hands and hunting for the dryer that I’m blocking stops and walks out of the room, wiping her hands on her pants.

“It’s not that expensive. You should have just done it.” Good old Adele. Wanting something and not being able to have it just isn’t part of her world. I find it slightly curious that she doesn’t even suggest that they might have helped me get home, not even as an afterthought.

“I’ll be there tomorrow.” I would like nothing better than to hang up, but I don’t. I wait. I listen. When the silence builds, I finally ask what she should have been offering. “How is he?”

“Dying. How else do you think he is?” Adele sounds royally pissed off that she’s going to be a widow.

“Please don’t.”

Adele finally drops the outdated angry-stepmother role. “He had a good night last night. The pain is manageable with the morphine, but he’s not very talkative.”

I bite back the obvious jab—that she never let him talk anyway, so why should he start now. “Can you still keep him home?” I’ll give her that; she hasn’t opted out for hospitalization or a nursing home. Last spring, when my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer, no one seemed overly concerned; it was treatable and I didn’t get the feeling that there was a time bomb ticking. So when it metastasized into his bones, it was a complete surprise to me. Adele’s call last week to say I should come home really did come out of the blue. She didn’t bother me with “details,” as she liked to say. She waited until it was almost too late to have me come. But he was still at home.

There is another silence. I lean toward the wall, press the charger cord deeper into the phone. Wait.

“I hope so. That’s why I need you here.”

I fled that house as soon as I could, bitter and heartbroken. And yet I am going back, dutiful daughter to a man who turned his back on me when I needed him most.

“Tomorrow. I get into Boston at about nine-thirty. I’ll grab the first bus to New Bedford I can and be there maybe around noontime.”

“Good.” She never says hello and she certainly doesn’t say good-bye.

It doesn’t escape me that I am faced with making a choice. My desire is to find my dog. My self-imposed obligation is to go to my father. In both situations, timing is going to be everything. I could abandon my journey to New Bedford and focus on finding Mack, except that I hold on to a childish hope that, in showing up, in facing my father, I might get an apology, an acknowledgment that what he did to me when I was seventeen was wrong. I’m not sure if I want him to have the opportunity to clear his conscience; or is it more that I want the opportunity to forgive him? Ever since Adele called, I have run little dramatic scenes in my head. Deathbed hand-holding, my father begging my forgiveness for betraying me so long ago. My saying something that would bring us both peace. Some might call it a desire for closure. I guess so. You can’t live most of your life with anger your primary emotion.

I pull the phone-charger cord out of the wall and coil it around the plug. I have a half-full battery now, so at the very least I can keep dialing Artie. By this time, he must be close to his destination. It’s been over seven hours since he abandoned me and stole my dog. Without stops, going seventy—my math fails me again and I can only imagine that the distance between us is growing minute by minute and a thirteen-hour bus ride will never catch me up to him.

Fully armed with a recharged phone, I dial Candy. When she answers in her usual businesslike “Candy’s Place, proprietress speaking,” I almost burst into tears. With Candy, you always get the feeling she’ll fix the problem, whether it’s the leak under the sink or a customer complaint, a staff member’s broken heart or the need to get an ordinance against sticking advertising flyers under windshield wipers voted in. “Oh Candy, I’m in a fix.”

She listens without interruption. There’s a pause before she weighs in, a gentle, thoughtful pause. “Okay. Let’s see what we can do.” I lean back against the wet apron of the sink and allow a flutter of relief. “I’ll make a call or two, see if I can find out where Artie is going. You get on that bus and keep your phone on. Once we know where he’s going, we can call and have him held up there.”

“Do you think you can find out? I’ve been with him for two days and I can’t remember what he said or even what he was hauling. I’m not sure if he ever said, just told me Boston.” Which, if my recent experience of Erie is any indicator, could mean anywhere in the vicinity.

“I can’t make any promises. But I’ll do my best. Just get on the bus. I’ll call you later.”

Unlike my stepmother, Candy leaves me with a “Good-bye” and a softly spoken “God bless.”

Candy Kane is maybe ten years older than I am, but that doesn’t stop her from treating me like she does all the women who work for her—as her child. Not like a child, but with the same care and concern that a good parent shows a daughter. I sound mushy, and I don’t mean to. It’s just that her quick call to arms has me emotional. Maybe it’s just that her instinctive mothering skills have always left me jealous. Lacking a good example, turned out not to be such a good one myself. In my experience, mothers either died or preferred other children. Having grown up pitted against two people who saw me as an inconvenience, I swore I’d be a better mother to my son. I wanted to lavish attention on him, but, young, single, and poor, I’m not sure I lavished the right kind. Late at night while he slept, I would crawl into his bed and press my weary body around his, sorry that when he was awake, I was more stressed than loving, more impatient than playful—the daily fear of not being able to keep him in sneakers and cereal making me short-tempered and unable to take pleasure in him. I wanted to make him feel as though he was the most important thing in my life, but that was harder than it sounds.

*   *   *

Tony sits very still on the daybed that I convert from my bed back into the couch in the living room of the efficiency apartment. He clutches his special pillow, the one that ensures that wherever he sleeps, he has his own pillow with its singular Donald Duck motif. A sitter is coming in a minute, but she’s late and I’m beginning to get nervous that then I’ll be late. Late again, and I might not get the extra shifts at the restaurant where I’ve waitressed for the past six months.

Tony has already spent the entire week in day care, and he is so stoic about being left again so that I can work a Saturday shift. He never gives me fits about leaving; he understands, even at four years old, that I have to do whatever it takes to keep him in juice boxes. I never promise to bring him treats; I never make promises I can’t keep. But the juice boxes, little individual servings of grape or apple or mixed-berry juice, are his special treat for his lunch box. Just like all the other kids have.

The sitter finally arrives, a scrawny teenage girl with braces that look like they could tune in Mars. I bend down to give Tony a kiss good-bye. “Be good for…”

“Molly.” The girl has the good grace not to roll her eyes at me. All these Mollies and Shannons and Morgans blend together, an unending supply, courtesy of the local high school.

“Mom?”

“What, sweetie? Mommy has to go; I’m late.”

“I don’t need juice boxes.”

*   *   *

I still have a few minutes before boarding the bus bound for Boston, so I thumb the number for my pal Saundra Livingbrook. Saundra is the one who got me involved in canine freestyle, and she is the sole support of six dogs, all rescues. I can hear them in the background as she answers my call, sounding like children clamoring for mom’s attention when she’s on the phone.

“He is chipped, isn’t he?” Saundra is talking about the microchip embedded beneath the skin between Mack’s shoulders that identifies him as my dog to anyone with a reader.

“He is.” I take small comfort from that fact. He’s with Artie, and who knows what Artie will do with him. If Mack is picked up by a dog officer or dropped with a vet, then I have hope. But I simply can’t imagine that Artie will do anything thoughtful like that.

“Let’s think about this. I’ll post the story on my Facebook page and get the word out to as many rescues as I can. It’ll be like putting up posters all over the country. He’s a Sheltie, so I’ll make sure that Sheltie rescues have his information.” Saundra has to control a pack of dogs, so she’s no stranger to getting things done.

“If you could do that, it would be great. Candy is trying to find out specifically where Artie is going and see if she can get help at that end. I’m boarding a bus and won’t get to Boston till tomorrow morning. And I’ve got my father to deal with.”

“How is he?”

“If my stepmother is to be believed, on death’s doorstep.”

Saundra has known me long enough that I’ve let her in on some of my history. I don’t do that too often; usually, I speak of my past in safe generalities. It’s not that my story is particularly interesting or rare, but I don’t really want to think about it. I prefer talking about the now. The past is like a series of black curtains; each one covers the essential scenes of a life that only in the last half decade has become less damaged. A tough childhood, single motherhood. Bad choices and better ones. Just like everyone else. So, I keep myself to myself except with certain people, friends like Saundra, whose life hasn’t been that famous bowl of cherries, either.

*   *   *

Mack awakens from his wolf sleep with a jolt. The truck is moving; there is no light but the stars that flee past in the night sky. They are climbing, and Artie shifts the lumbering vehicle to gain more power. The cab is fetid with the miasma of greasy, farting man and cigarettes; the driver’s window is down a crack, not enough to let in sufficient fresh air, only a vague trickle of breeze. Then the truck levels off and almost immediately noses down the long incline they have just climbed. Just as Mack feels the truck speed up, Artie downshifts to slow the pace.

Artie lights another cigarette, inhales deeply, then blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth into the moving air, which catches it, pushing the drift of smoke into the bunk.

Mack sneezes.

“What the…” Artie’s head swivels and dog and man look each other in the eye. “Shit.”

Mack braces himself against the sudden lurch of the truck, shakes from head to tail, and jumps into the passenger seat, where he fixes his eye on Artie, giving him his best I’m-a-good-dog look. This is more like it; now things will improve. A quick glance at the bag of kibble on the floor, just to remind Artie that dinner is late. A soft whine to emphasize the need to go out.

Artie grabs his mute cell phone and scrambles his fingers over its face to find the right buttons to listen to his messages. “Nothin’ but trouble. I need this like a hole in the head. Goddamned bitch. I knew this was a bad idea. Freakin’ dog. Twenty-seven unheard messages!”

Artie keeps up the tongue language and Mack sits confidently in the seat, where Justine’s scent lingers on the cracked plastic. He should have come down sooner; he just didn’t believe that Artie hadn’t known he was there. How can a man not scent a dog lying close by? Now that the man knows he’s here, things must improve. Anytime that Justine has left him, which is rare, the person he’s left with knows about the basics: food, water, toys, go-out. It is inconceivable to him that Artie doesn’t speak enough dog to get those basics attended to. But the man just keeps yakking and flailing the cell around. The truck is picking up speed, and if the dog could see over the hood, he would notice that they are too close to the little car in front of them.

The truck banks left, then right as Artie drops the phone and pays attention to the road. He’s still grumbling, tossing sideways glances at Mack every now and then. He rubs his sandpaper chin with rough hands, making a whiskery sound. Mack sits in the passenger seat, never taking his eyes off of Artie. Artie hasn’t used any tongue language to let Mack know where Justine is. He’s only used the more subtle but highly legible body language of a man powerfully annoyed. There was a dog in agility class with the same pissed-off demeanor. No one wanted to be near him, always afraid that the next growl would be followed by a bite. Everybody else loved the free playtime they were given after class, chasing each other, wrestling, or simply standing side by side. Not this guy. He left as soon as the class was over, his human keeping his leash in both hands.

Artie holds the cell in front of him, resting it on the steering wheel. Mack hears the distorted sound of Justine’s voice emanating from the tiny rectangle as Artie listens to the stream of messages. One word is recognizable: Mack. He wags the tip of his tail at the sound of it. Yawns and swallows to show Artie that he knows that word. If he can hear that word, and recognize Justine’s voice, she must be close by. Just out of sight.

Then there is the sound of another voice leaking out of the tiny speaker.

“Shit.” Artie glances at his side mirror with the expression of a squirrel being chased. “Goddamn it.” Artie pitches the cell phone into the back, where it lands with a silent thud in Justine’s vacant sleeping bag. “Freakin’ A. Hell’s Angels?” He guns the motor and picks up speed.

Artie continues to mutter. Mack remains upright on the seat that bears so much of Justine’s scent. He gives Artie sideways glances, the tenor of that voice keeping him alert and wary. He won’t go back to sleep. Not now. Mack will stay alert until Justine comes back.

The dog knows that it is deep night, the time of day when a good dog is tucked into his bed, nose under tail. A good dog who sleeps only lightly, one part of him always at the ready to defend the house against intruders. Skunks. Possum. Nightmares. One of Mack’s jobs is to comfort Justine when she wakes at night.

Artie downshifts and brakes, the truck slowly coming to a halt. Mack wags his tail. At last! He even whines, just a little, to let Artie know he’s happy. Artie has stopped talking. The truck idles and Artie sits still. Mack peers at the window but sees nothing.

This wasn’t like any of the places where they’d stopped before. This was just the side of the road. The cars zoom past them, the headlights streaming together like something liquid; other semis rush by, making even the weight of the truck vibrate a little.

Artie pushes open his door and drops to the ground. He comes around to the passenger side. The door swings open and man and dog are face-to-face. “Get the fuck out.” Artie grabs for Mack’s ruff. The dog instinctively pulls back and the man is left holding the dog’s collar, not the dog. He makes another lunge and this time gets a fistful of fur and skin. Artie drags Mack across the seat, yanking him out the open door so hard that the dog falls to the ground before he can get his feet under him, landing hard on his side, pushing the air out in an audible whuff. Mack gets up, shakes, and waits. Artie is on the ground now, feet planted, hands in fists. “Get out of here. Go on, git.”

Mack growls; this is too much. Even a well-behaved dog has limits. Artie steps closer. Mack pins his ears back and lowers his head, but he doesn’t growl again. He knows that this man is his last connection to Justine. He keeps his head down, his eyes pinned on Artie’s eyes, like his sheep-herding forebears.

“They can’t prove nothing, if you ain’t here.” The flashers are beating a hectic rhythm against the dark. Artie swings a leg over the guardrail. “Come here, boy.” His voice is all sweetness, a gooey sound that doesn’t fool the dog.

Mack keeps to his side of the metal rail. Artie pats his knee. “Come on.”

Mack is still skeptical, but the man is his only connection to Justine. Then Artie utters the magic words. “Let’s go find Justine.”

At once, Mack leaps over the rail as if it’s one of his agility obstacles and lands at Artie’s feet. Artie is taking him to Justine. Finally!

Then one well-aimed kick sends him down the steep grade. Stones and twigs catch in his coat as he rolls out of control and lands at the bottom of the slope, his breath knocked out of him. By the time Mack is back on his feet and up the embankment, the truck is gone.