When I got home, Bark was curled up on the couch in the den with Nan, watching a PBS documentary about raccoons. He jumped over the coffee table to say hi when he saw me, tail wagging.
“Whoa, buddy!” I said, crouching to scratch his head.
“Did you know he watches TV?” Nan asked.
“Yeah. He loves PBS cartoons. The funny voices.”
“He’s quite taken with these raccoons.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him lick my face. “Do you like raccoons? Do you like Nan?”
I sat on the couch next to Nan. Bark jumped up to wedge himself between us, resting his head on my lap. I ran my fingers through the downy fur behind his ears.
Then a car door slammed. Footsteps. Bark leapt off the couch, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. My face got cold and sweaty at the same time. Bark growled. The handle to the front door turned. He barked rapid-fire, charging. I jumped to my feet, heart in my throat.
Mo walked in carrying an armload of brown paper bags. “Oh, aren’t you a goofball,” she said.
Bark downgraded to a grumble. Looked at me and back at Mo, then gave her one last defiant woof before hiding behind the wing chair.
“Don’t you knock?” I asked, my body still electric, unstable, even though the threat was nil.
“Kaitlyn!” Nan said.
“Nan knew I was on the way.” Mo dropped the bags on the table, oblivious to my snap.
Nan gave me a hard stare and said, “Thank you for bringing dinner, Maureen. That’s so nice of you.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling like a little kid being reminded of my manners. “Thanks, Mo.”
Mo handed me a takeout box. “Boiled veggie dumplings, right?” she said.
“Yeah.” I smiled. It was my standing order growing up. “Thanks.”
“I still think they taste like Play-Doh-wrapped broccoli.”
“They do,” I said. “But I like it.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” Nan said as Mo handed her what looked like steamed broccoli and tofu. She always used to get egg rolls and fried rice.
“You cook for me all the time.” Mo plopped on the couch with her carton of General Tso’s and a plastic fork. She was long ago forbidden from using chopsticks in the living room, after Nan found a desiccated piece of chicken stuck to one of the curtains.
I felt a sudden pang of jealousy. What if, in the time I’d been gone, my grandmother started liking my friend better than me? What if my friend liked my grandmother better than me? My adrenaline was still wonky. I stood there, holding my dumplings, trying not to cry.
“Come on, Kay.” Mo patted the couch for me to sit. “What are we watching?”
“Raccoons,” Nan said.
“I’ve got one who hangs around my garbage can. Did I tell you? He’s bigger than Mrs. Cohen’s Beagle!”
I sat between them and ate my dumplings, tearing off tiny pieces with my chopsticks to make them last, the way I did when I was a kid and Mo would come over to watch The Wonderful World of Disney with me and Nan.
When the documentary voice began discussing the feces-borne diseases raccoons introduce to neighborhoods, Nan looked at Mo and said, “We need to evict your friend.”
Mo shivered. “I’m done.” She dropped her container on the coffee table, then scrambled to shove a coaster under it. She wasn’t suffering a loss of appetite. Her container was empty. She’d even eaten the hot peppers.
Bark snuck out from behind the wing chair, staying low, testing the waters. When no one made any rash moves, he turned around three times, flopping on the floor with a thunk and a sigh.
“Hysterical,” Mo said in a loud whisper. “He’s like a crabby old man.”
Bark shot her a wary look before resting his head on his paws to watch the raccoons raid a dumpster.
My heart gave way to normal time. I was almost comfortable.
“You done?” Mo asked, leaning over to peek in my container.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“Two-for-one beers at Sal’s until nine.”
The idea of going anywhere was overwhelming. “I don’t think—”
“You’re going,” Mo said.
“I hear you’re prowling tonight,” Nan said, waving chopsticks at me, amused.
“Want to come with?” Mo asked.
“I think I’m okay right here.” Nan patted the couch. “Bark will keep me company.”
“Come on,” Mo said as I dropped the last bit of dumpling in my mouth. “Let’s get you purdied up.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me off the couch before I could finish chewing.
* * *
“God, your clothes are awful!” Mo picked through my closet. She was wearing a faded pineapple print Hawaiian shirt.
“You look like you’re going to a Jimmy Buffett concert,” I said.
“Ooh, I want margaritas. Let’s go to Los Tacos.”
I groaned. Me and Mo and tequila were a bad recipe.
She pointed to four sets of black leggings folded over hangers, a black turtleneck hung over each one. “This is interesting. Are you a cat burglar?”
“Work clothes,” I said, “for backstage.”
She held up a black cotton sweater with holes in the elbows. “Did you actually move this here?”
I laughed, nodding. I hated my clothes too. I never felt like I could spend money on myself. I didn’t make much as a costume assistant. My income was limited because Eric’s job dictated our location, and there weren’t many theatres to choose from in Rochester. I did all the housework, even though I spent as much time at work as he did, but since my salary didn’t even come close to paying half of our expenses, none of what I earned felt like mine. Instead of trying to sum out the complex equation of his earnings and my sacrifice, I avoided all talk of money because I was so embarrassed by my meager paychecks. Eric felt entitled to buy himself a BMW, but I stressed over dropping twenty bucks on a new pair of sneakers. So aside from work clothes, all I had were a few pairs of shorts, some jeans that didn’t fit, and an endless stack of t-shirts from shows I’d costumed.
Bark sat on the bed, watching Mo with full attention. Every so often, Mo offered him her hand on the sly, purposely avoiding eye contact. Each time, Bark inched a little closer to get a better sniff.
Mo held up an extra-large tie-dyed t-shirt from Hair. “Really, Kay?”
“Who died and left you that shirt?” I asked.
“My grandfather,” Mo said, eyes big and sad.
“I’m sorry!”
“I’m kidding!” She shoved my shoulder.
Bark growled.
“It’s okay,” I whispered to him.
“Although . . .” Mo’s face turned red. “I think this was one of Ruth’s husband’s shirts.”
I winced and laughed. “We’re horrible.”
Bark sighed at just the right moment.
“He’s not a fan of our humor,” I said.
Mo was already on to the next thing. “I’ll be right back,” she called and ran down the hall full speed.
I heard her say something to Nan. Bark stared at the doorway, ears straining to listen. Nan said, “Oh, of course. Right there!” And then Mo ran back, bare feet thudding against the carpet.
“Here!” she said, throwing a dress at my face. She wasn’t even out of breath.
The dress was a simple sleeveless wrap. Black. Clingy. Basically my size.
“So my grandmother dresses better than I do?”
“Yup.”
“It’s weird if I dress up and you don’t.”
“It’s not about dressing up. I feel awesome in these,” Mo said, pointing to her seersucker Bermuda shorts, “but I don’t think you feel awesome in that.”
I was wearing my too-tight brown linen shorts again, and a t-shirt from a production of The Music Man. For that show, my boss, Edith, actually let me design costumes for the Pick-a-Little Ladies, but at the last minute insisted we use her designs instead. I was essentially wrapped in bad feelings.
I grabbed the dress.
Bark flopped on his side, still watching Mo. His brows wiggled as he tracked her movements, but his eyes drooped toward sleep.
I took my shirt off.
“Did your boobs get bigger?” Mo asked, staring at my ugly beige bra. There was a patch of thread pulls on the left cup from an unfortunate washing machine meeting with the Velcro closure of Eric’s bathing suit. How long would it be before Eric was erased from my daily life?
“My everything got bigger,” I said, slipping into the dress. “Two years on fertility drugs, only to find out he was cheating.” As soon as the words landed I wanted to put them back, so Mo wouldn’t witness my seeping anger.
“You had a whole big, serious, grown-up life while you were gone, huh?”
I nodded. I wanted to tell her about the babies I’d lost, and the dull loneliness I couldn’t bury, but I didn’t know how to start.
“I think you look gorgeous,” Mo said. “And fuck him.”
I tied the dress sash and shimmied out of my shorts.
“Lose the bra.” Mo pointed to where it stuck out at the neckline. “It’s Florida. We’ve got the perkiest pairs for miles.”
I threaded my bra through the sleeve hole and threw it at the trash can. It missed. But I resolved to chuck it later, instead of putting it away.
“Ready?” Mo asked.
“No. But you’re not letting me off the hook, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” Mo planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Hey, I’m sorry you went through all that. I’m sorry I wasn’t—we weren’t—in touch.”
“We are now,” I said, giving her arm a squeeze.
When we were about to leave, Nan shuffled to the door in her nightgown and slippers, camera dangling from her wrist. “Ooh! Fits you perfectly, Kay,” she said, smoothing the stretch of fabric across my back. “Let me get a picture.”
“We’re not going to prom. We’re getting margaritas.”
“It’s your first night out as a single lady!” Nan looked through the viewfinder, waving for me to stand closer to Mo. “These are the things we want to remember.”
I groaned.
“Indulge me,” Nan said.
Mo held her arms out like the Hulk, fists clenched, the muscles in her neck straining. “Come on, Kay! For posterity!”
I rested my hands on my hips, like Wonder Woman. As the flash flared, maybe I did feel a little more powerful.
Nan palmed a lipstick and forty dollars into my hand.
“Nan!” I said. “I’m fine.”
“I want to.” She winked. “It’s good to have you back.”