Chapter 7

Making a Terrible Mess

On the day Dad is supposed to bring Kevin home, Mom gets up early and goes for a long walk. She takes Gretel with her, since Gretel needs the exercise. I wait for Mom under my favorite holly bush, near the driveway. The day warms up as the sun moves higher in the sky.

I don’t “walk” with humans. I’m never on a leash. I don’t understand why Gretel enjoys it so much. It seems like torture.

I suppose Gretel is proud to be paraded around with her human. She trots alongside Mom, growling at other dogs and keeping a close eye on cars and people. I don’t know what the point is of getting so worked up.

Dogs are strange.

There is a dense fog rolling in off the river. It makes it hard for me to watch the birds. Our spring can be cold and wet, not my favorite type of weather. But I enjoy the tremendous explosion of birds returning to the area. They are hungry, which makes them foolish. The birds take unnecessary risks, which makes them easier to catch.

I kill a small bird and leave it at the back door. I don’t wait around for praise. An experienced hunter does her job and doesn’t require thanks. I just leave it as a surprise for my humans to stumble upon later. I hope they know it is a token of my devotion.

When Mom gets back, the salty aroma of the river has seeped into her skin. I smell it when she bends to pet me in the driveway. “Hi, Lily,” she coos, her mouth puckered as she makes kissing sounds at me.

Kiss, kiss to you too!

I follow her inside. I settle down for a nap as Mom runs out to do her errands and takes Charlie and Victoria with her.

* * *

When I hear a key in the lock of the front door and Gretel lifts her head, I realize we’re going to get a chance to see the new man again. How unexpected! I had no idea he was coming over today.

There is something about him that I like. It’s hard to pin down what it is exactly. Maybe it’s because he is relaxed, and everyone in our house seems tense most of the time.

Vincent and the new man let themselves in the house, already in conversation, laughing at something. I watch from upstairs, through the rails of the balcony. I keep one ear open and listen as they go to study at the back of the house, talking the whole time.

But almost immediately I hear Vincent’s phone jingle, and after he takes the call, he hurries back out the front door. I run down the stairs so I can look out the big picture window. I see Vincent walking down the street, headed toward home. I hope it is not more bad news.

The new man stays behind. I hear him go out to the garage through the kitchen.

A little while later, I hear a horrific grinding sound. I head back toward the kitchen to see if I can figure out what’s going on. I’m puzzled.

The high-pitched buzzing continues, coming from the garage. It makes Gretel pace with anxiety. Finally, the man comes in from the garage and stands there, his head tipped, staring at the back wall of the study. Gretel sits right behind him, as if she’s waiting to assist him in some way. I jump up to the couch, and the man turns his head.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says to me.

I stare at him. Gorgeous? I know what that means.

Hello, yourself.

I flick my big bushy tail because I love praise. And I can be a bit of a show-off sometimes.

He folds his arms and frowns. “Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. I’m doing the best I can. I’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

Does he think I look skeptical?

Hmm. Perhaps I am skeptical. I don’t see any evidence of work being done, and this man always seems slightly confused.

This time, when the man goes out to the garage, I follow. Ah! The fine dust in the air and on the floor smells sharp, and makes me sneeze. It feels strange and soft under my paw pads. What a huge mess the man has made already!

There are two sawhorses set up in the garage, supporting a long board that has been set across them. More boards, of uneven lengths, lie on the floor. I see a machine with a long cord sitting on the cement floor. The man picks this up with both hands.

He sighs when he sees me. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ll get the hang of it.”

Will you, though? This doesn’t seem to be going very well, my friend.

The droning of the saw is piercing to my ears when he turns it on. Since the garage doors are wide open, I scamper out into the yard. I duck under my favorite bush as the machine whirs on and off.

He works for a few minutes, and I watch the birds flying in flocks overhead. But then—a strange noise catches my attention. I know that sound. It is a human sound. The man has growled in pain.

I look to see he is holding his hand and inspecting it. Perhaps he has cut himself on the blade. I step silently forward to take a look.

Sure enough, when he lifts his hand, I see a bright red scar across the palm of his hand. He is injured. The cut is bleeding.

The man looks around our garage and shakes his head. He glances at the door to the house, perhaps unsure if he should try to clean his wound in our kitchen. But, of course, he doesn’t know where we keep our bandages.

He finally decides to leave, I assume to take care of his injury at home. When he lets go of his hand to punch buttons on the side of the garage and lower the doors, I see drops of blood roll down the side of his hand and fall onto the driveway. The palm of his opposite hand is smeared red from trying to stop the bleeding. He gets in his truck, wincing, and drives away.

Finally I see Mom’s car coming down the street. I sit under my bush and wait.

Mom parks in the driveway. The garage doors glide up as she approaches, as if the doors know she is coming.

I’ve never figured out how those doors know when to open as she drives up.

It’s a mystery.

She slams the car door shut, staring at the inside of the garage. Her jaw drops as she surveys the scene: tools everywhere. And, of course, there is the sawdust. It has settled like a fine powder on the rake, the bikes, the snow sleds, the trash can—on everything.

Charlie looks around. Victoria appears confused.

Mom turns, as there is the roar of another car pulling into the driveway. It lurches to a stop, and the engine turns off. Kevin gets out of the driver’s seat, dragging his duffel bag after him. Dad climbs out of the passenger side, and he walks right up to the garage, hands on his hips.

Dad surveys the scene. “Jesus. There is shit everywhere.”

Mom frowns. I don’t know if she is angry at the mess or at Dad’s cursing. Probably both.

Mom doesn’t like it when Dad “uses the Lord’s name in vain” and “swears like a Gloucester fisherman.” Both of which I believe he has just done.

Mom doesn’t approve of cursing. She once said that swearing means the speaker is too lazy to find better words. Mom makes the children put a coin in a jar in the kitchen if she hears them say certain words. She doesn’t demand that Dad do the same, although he swears more than anyone else.

I suppose that also makes him the laziest, in Mom’s eyes.

Kevin stands right next to his Dad, and also puts his hands on his hips, mimicking his father’s body language. “This is Vincent’s stuff,” he says slowly, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

“Who’s Vincent?” Dad demands, eyes narrowing. He never did pay much attention to Mom’s friends.

“He’s the guy . . .” Kevin trails off. His eyes dart right and left. I’m not sure he knows how to define Vincent. I also suspect he’s trying to figure out how to explain it in a way that will not upset Dad. “You know, the guy who fixes and builds stuff for us. The construction guy.”

“Well, he’s doing a crap job of it.” Dad turns to Mom. “Do you want me to talk to him for you?”

“No. He’s a friend of mine.” She is firm about this. “Don’t you remember? He’s our neighbor. No. Just—Please, no.”

Dad throws his hand out toward the tools, glaring at Mom like he’s about to explode. “THIS IS A MESS.”

Kevin takes a step forward so he’s standing between his parents. He’s the same height as Dad, and stares him down, eye to eye. “Dad. Shut the hell up. Just knock it off.”

“What?” Dad flinches. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me. I said knock it off. This isn’t your mess to clean up. This is our house now. You moved out, remember? We’ll deal with it.”

Dad gawks at his oldest son, just for a moment, and then his face relaxes. “That was not my idea. To move out. That was not what I wanted.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just—I just worry about you guys. I don’t want you to have to deal with any problems. That’s all. I’ll go.” Yanking open the car door, he climbs in and pulls his door shut. The car immediately starts to back out of the driveway.

Charlie and Victoria stand there. They half-heartedly wave good-bye to their dad, who nods back. Charlie finally walks through the garage and goes into the house. Victoria bites her lower lip, waiting for a moment to see what her mom and brother have to say.

Mom grabs Kevin’s elbow. “What was that about?”

“He’s in a bad mood,” Kevin grumbles. “He had a few beers. Whatever. He’s not your problem anymore. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Kevin yanks his arm away from his mom, picks up his duffel bag, and heads inside.

“Kevin,” she tries one last time. But it’s too late. He’s gone. Victoria shrugs, and follows her brother inside.

Mom’s eyes water up as she looks over the garage, high and low. She hesitates, and then pulls her phone out of her back pocket. She puts one hand over her stomach, as if she doesn’t feel well.

“Vincent,” she says, voice trembling, hand gripping the phone too tight. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but were you here today? What? What’s his name? Mark? Well, he left a terrible mess. It’s a disaster. Yes? It’s really not . . . Okay, you’ll call him? Right now? Okay. Thank you. Sorry again.”

Mom is always saying sorry about something.

She finds a broom, shakes the dust off it, and props it against the side of the garage. Then she turns back to the car and takes in a load of groceries. She makes three trips, back and forth. Usually Kevin helps her, but not today.

The whole time, Mom’s lips move as she talks silently to herself. I think she is preparing what she is going to say to the man to express her disapproval.

Oh dear. I wait outside. I want to see the man when he arrives. I wish I could warn him!

Eventually, a black truck pulls up and parks at the curb. Yes, it’s him. He gets out and comes up the driveway cautiously. From the look on his face, I suppose he knows he has done something wrong and Mom is mad about it. He looks into the garage. Both doors are wide open. I watch his eyes light up as he looks around, thumbs in his jeans pockets. His left hand is wrapped in a bandage. Finally, he nods in understanding. Seeing the broom, he grabs it and starts sweeping the floor.

I wander out and sit in the driveway, careful not to get in the way of the clouds of dust he creates as he sweeps. He works quietly, head down.

When he stops for a moment, he rests his head against his hands on the broom. He looks exhausted, and I assume it’s not from sweeping. His eyes flicker up, and he sees me.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says again, in a weary voice.

I think I must remind him of someone or something. Crouching down, he extends a hand to me.

I’m not as desperate for human attention as Gretel is. Normally, I’d walk away. But in this case, I make an exception. I feel bad for the man. He did make a terrible mess, but he also seems very unskilled at building. I’m not sure why Vincent hired him.

I get up on all fours and walk over to him. The sawdust makes me sneeze again. I shake my head and then continue my approach. I put my wet nose up to his fingers, carefully. They are dusty, but it is a pleasant scent. I go ahead and rub my head and body against his knee, looking up to study him. When he crouches down, I put two paws right up on his leg and stretch to get closer.

Here is one thing I like about the man: his posture. Unlike Charlie and Kevin, who often walk hunched over as if they are hoping no one notices them, this man holds his head up and his back straight.

If he were an animal, I can see this man would be a stag. Fearless, alert, and curious. I can almost imagine the antlers sprouting up from atop his head.

He is just picking me up with two hands when Mom swings the door open, hard and with purpose. She stands in the doorway to the house, her forehead creased and mouth half-open as if ready to address him.

The man is already in the motion of lifting me to his chest, and he holds me there. But he does a very funny thing. Usually when Charlie carries me, he hoists me up onto his shoulder. And when Mom needs to move me, she puts a hand under my chest and one under my haunches, so I can face forward and look around at where we are going. But this man does it differently.

He flips me upside down, so we are face-to-face. He is holding me the way a human holds his baby.

Seriously. He is cradling me as if I were a baby!

How strange. I’ve never had a person hold me like this before. It’s not bad. The man has a firm grip, and I feel secure.

I sense the man’s heart beating through my fur. I look up at his hair, at the way it waves, and a few strands stick out here and there, and I have half a mind to bat at it with my paw. But I decide to leave it alone. I’m cozy right where I am, and if I get too squirmy he might put me down.

Here is another thing I like about the man: He holds me with ease, as if he’s done it a million times before, as if his arms were made for holding someone just my size. I feel comfortable in his hands, not skittish. I am sure he will never drop me.

I wait for Mom to say something. But she just frowns when she sees the man has me nestled against his chest.

Well! This is awkward for me. I don’t usually allow a stranger to hold me like this.

I wait another moment. Mom’s eyes soften. Her mouth quivers, and whatever she was planning to say dies on her lips.

Ah. It is the same reaction I had. I can see this man is not at all what she was expecting. Perhaps it is that he’s not like Vincent, weary with responsibilities. There is something innocent and expressive in this man’s face.

Mom takes four steps down into the garage, and now instead of looking down at the man, she must look up at him. She stops suddenly, as if there is an invisible wall between them. “You’re Mark . . . ?”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry about the sawdust on everything. I wasn’t really thinking about it, and I should have cleaned up. I’m taking care of it now.” He pauses, and bends to gently place me back down on the cold cement floor.

When he straightens back up, Mom is still standing there staring at him, as if there is something she was meaning to say but can’t remember what it is. Mark reaches for the broom to show he’s ready to get back to work.

Mom glances down at me, puzzled, then back at Mark. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” She seems suddenly flustered. “I’m sorry to make you hurry back here. It’s not really a big deal—”

“No, it’s okay,” he interrupts. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have left a mess.”

The man seems genuine in his concern. I turn to look at Mom. She is pale, and her hair needs brushing. To me, she appears fragile. Mom is easily upset, and not the kind of person you want to see suffering, because it is so plain on her face.

“Still. I didn’t mean you had to hurry back here right now, on a Sunday. I don’t know why—I mean, I did tell Vincent I needed it cleaned up, but—I’m sorry you had to rush back here just to sweep up. It seems so silly and pointless, now that you’re here.”

Her eyes go right back to his face. Perhaps she is as surprised as I was to see that he has so many freckles with such dark hair.

“It’s fine.” I notice he does not mention that he hurt himself. Perhaps he does not want Mom to know that he’s not very good with the saw.

Mom gives him a nervous nod. “Thank you for coming, anyway.”

“No worries. I’ll leave it like I found it.”

Enough already, I want to say to Mom, you’re talking in circles now. He feels bad. He’s fixing the problem. Your job is done.

It is unfortunate that humans feel the need to talk so much, to fill every silence. They should hear themselves talk sometimes. They would realize how much energy they waste.

Mom’s mouth opens, but no words come out, almost as if she has read my thoughts. She reaches down and snatches me up, as if she’s afraid Mark is going to steal me away. I relax in her arms as she turns to head back into the house. But she spins at the door, making me dizzy. “I’m Kate, by the way. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself.”

“Kate,” he repeats.

Okay, I think, he’s got it under control now. Let’s go inside.

It still takes her a moment. Finally, she reaches over, and misses the doorknob on her first try, probably because my big furry body prevents her from seeing what she’s trying to grab. On the second try, she opens the door.

And in we go.