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You were home a little early last night,” is the first thing my dad says to me when I go to breakfast. “How was your dinner?”
“Nice,” I say.
I pour a glass of orange juice and put some bread in the toaster. “I see you had a police escort. What was that about?”
My dad, the Green Beret. Of course he would notice.
“It was so weird,” I say, both wanting and not wanting to tell him about it. Wanting to tell wins out.
“We were parked back by that old hotel, just talking,” I say.
“Right,” Dad says, sarcastic.
“We were just talking,” I insist.
“Sure,” Dad says. “Tell me about the police.”
“They parked near us and just sat and watched.”
“They didn’t get out of the car, or ask you to get out of the car?”
“No. They just sat. So we left, and they followed us here.”
“They didn’t ever pull you over?”
I shake my head no.
“They’re harassing Alex,” I say, repeating what Danny told me. “They follow his car all the time—isn’t there some law against that, Dad?”
Dad pours himself another cup of coffee and stirs it thoughtfully. “I doubt that the police are the ones breaking the law here,” he says.
“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” I say.
“There’s a reason the police are watching Alex’s car. Those boys are into something they shouldn’t be. Where did Danny get enough money to take you to Shinto’s when he doesn’t even have a job?”
“I don’t know. He saved it, I guess.”
“Saved it from what?”
Now I’m sorry I told Dad anything. It’s just another excuse for him to think the worst of Danny.
“Erica, Danny’s not the same young man he was when you first got together with him. He’s changed, and not for the better.”
I finish my orange juice and put my glass in the dishwasher. “Sweetheart, I know he’s been through a hard time with the death of his mother, but that’s no excuse for him to continue to float aimlessly along. It’s time for him to find a purpose . . .”
“Whatever,” I say, relieved to hear April’s car pull into the driveway to take me to school.
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Ms. Lee calls me up to her desk at the end of the period.
“I’m concerned about you, Erica. You’ve missed three assignments recently. That’s not like you.”
“I’m making them up.”
“You know, your grade will be lowered because they’re late.”
“I know.”
“Is everything all right at home?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Ms. Costanza tells me you’ve fallen back a bit in biology, too.”
I hate how teachers gossip. Don’t they have anything better to do than sit around talking about how their students are messing up?
“Are you keeping up with the reading?” she asks.
“I’ve finished ‘Metamorphosis.’ It was good.”
“Highly symbolic,” she says. “Organisms metamorphose in many ways. I hope you’re not in the process of metamorphosing into a poor student.”
She says it as a joke, but on the bus, on my way to work, I think about changes—how I don’t feel as lighthearted as I once did, and how things feel strained between me and my parents, and even at times with April, who I’ve been totally close to for years. I determine not to let myself get caught in a metamorphosis that would totally separate me from my family and friends. I definitely do not want to end up like poor Gregor.
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“Hey, Beauty. Today is bath day,” I tell my patient, taking her from the cage and into what the staff jokingly calls “the spa.”
I fill the tub with warm water, put on a vinyl apron, and lift Beauty into her bath. As soon as I wet her down she starts trembling.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re going to feel so much better. . .” I carry on a running monologue of what I hope is soothing patter, while I soap and rinse, soap and rinse, careful to shield her eyes.
After her bath, I put her on the high metal table and secure her with a short leash. I towel dry her first, then use a blow dryer. When she is reasonably dry I take her out to a larger cage in the kennel, where it’s sunny, and brush her. Her black hair shines in the sunlight, and the white markings are truly white for the first time since I’ve known her. The patches on her coat are beginning to fill in and her ears are perky now, as if there might be something worth listening for.
“You’re still pretty skinny, though,” I tell her.
When I’m finished grooming her I walk her upstairs to where Sinclair is working in his office.
“Oh, my,” he says, clapping his hands. “I just love your makeover, girl.” He leans down and pets her. She wags her tail vigorously. “We should have before and after pictures,” he tells me.
“HELLO. HELLO. HELLO.” The parrot screeches from its cage by the door. Beauty stands on her hind legs, trying to get a look at the bird.
“I have a big favor to ask you,” Sinclair says.
“What?”
“You know how my parents never invite me to their holiday gatherings?”
I nod.
“Well, they’ve invited me to come to their Christmas Eve party. It’s kind of a big step for them, to claim me in front of their friends.”
“You should go.”
“Right. That’s where you come in. I need someone to cover the
office until six.”
“Six? On Christmas Eve?”
Sinclair just sits petting Beauty, looking at me.
Our family tradition is to wrap packages all that day, and decorate the house while a big pot of albondigas soup simmers on the stove. We eat soup and French bread in the afternoon. Dad always says that proves we are eclectic. Then we go buy a tree and haul it home, trim it and put the packages around. I’ll miss a lot of that if I have to work until six.
“I know it’s a lot to ask . . .”
I remember the sadness I felt coming from Sinclair, when he first told me of how he never saw his family for holidays.
“I can work for you,” I say.
“Thanks, Erica.”
“No problem.”
I take Beauty back downstairs and set her up in an outside pen, where there’s room for her to walk around. I get a clean padded mat and put it under the sheltered area. This is a state-of-the-art facility, with individual kennels that allow for sun, shade, and shelter from the rain. There is no artificial light either in the kennels or in the cat shelter.
“You’ve got a new house,” I tell Beauty.
I move her identification card from the infirmary to the new spot, then go back to the infirmary to begin prepping animals for surgery. We’re doing three dogs and four cats today. I help Morris, one of the health technicians, give the animals pre-anesthetics, then we shave and scrub each of them.
Dr. Franz comes to tell us she’ll take the first surgery at four. April thinks it’s gross to have a job where ovaries and testicles get sent off to a rendering service and turned into fertilizer. What I know, though, is that for every set of reproductive organs removed, there are lots fewer animals whose remains end up strewn around flowers.
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A few days after our anniversary, Danny catches up to me at school, when I’m on my way to biology.
“Let’s take a break, Pups.”
I stop. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now’s the best time,” Danny smiles.
“I’ve got to go to biology.”
“You’re hardly ever absent,” Danny says. “Once won’t hurt.”
“No. Really. I can’t afford to mess up any more, not even a little.”
“Well. Meet me at lunch then, at the park,” he says. “I have something for you.”
“Okay.”
He gives me a quick kiss and is gone.
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At lunchtime, at the park, Danny hands me the package I didn’t open the other night.
“You left this in the car,” he says, smiling the smile I love.
“I didn’t know if I should take it or not,” I say. “You were all quiet.”
“I was mad! Not at you, but at the cops. They had no right to follow us around like that. If I was a rich white kid, they wouldn’t think of harassing me like that. But because I’m just a poor Mexican whose dad doesn’t believe in backing him up, they think they can do whatever they want.”
“It wasn’t exactly Rodney King,” I say.
“Both cops were Mexican, too,” he says, ignoring my Rodney King remark. “They’re the worst kind, going against their own people.”
I sort of want to argue with Danny. A week or so ago he was complaining because it’s mostly white guys who get to be police and they take all of their prejudices out on everybody else, and now he’s unhappy with the Mexican cops. I glance over at him and see that dark, closed look on his face, and decide not to point out his contradictions.
“Here, Pups, open this,” he says, his mood lifting as quickly as it fell.
I take the package from him and sit on a bench, under a tree. I open it carefully, without seeming to be in a hurry, the way my mother taught me when I was only five or six. Resting on white tissue paper is a large, silver barrette, with a simple, engraved design around the edges.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell Danny.
“Look at the back.”
I turn the barrette over and open the clasp. There, on the back, is engraved, “First Anniversary, My love forever, Danny.”
“Oh, Danny, I love it. I love you.”
He kisses me. “I know,” he says.
“Put it on.”
I get my brush from my backpack and brush my hair, then fasten the barrette over a section, pulling it back and away from my face.
“It is beautiful,” Danny says, straightening it a bit, running his fingers through my hair.
“There’s something else,” he says, pointing to a tiny, neatly wrapped package, no more than one inch square.
“I didn’t even notice this,” I say, taking it from the box and unwrapping it carefully.
It’s a thin, gold ring, with a small stone in the middle.
“Look, it’s a real diamond. Not big, but real,” he smiles, slipping the ring onto my ring finger, left hand.
“It’s so pretty,” I say, watching the stone reflect cloud-filtered sunlight.
Danny jiggles the ring a bit. “Is it too big?” he asks.
I move it from my left hand to my right.
“This is a better fit,” I say.
“But I got it for your left hand.”
“We’re not really engaged, though.”
“No, but we will be.”
“Danny. . . I’m not sure. . . I love you and I know I’ll always love you, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But, neither of us is ready to think about marriage . . .”
“I am,” he says, his mouth pulling down the way it does when he’s hurt.
“But Danny, we’ve both got school to . . .”
“Look. I’m making money, I don’t have to borrow from you anymore. I don’t really need school.”
“That’s another thing. I don’t even know how you’re making money, but I’ve got an idea it may not be legal.”
“Just trust me, Pups.”
‘’Do you trust me, keeping these big mysterious, don’t ask, don’t tell secrets?”
Danny looks away, sighing, then looks back at me.
“Just let me get it made smaller for you. It doesn’t have to mean we’re engaged.”
“But that’s what people will think it means . . . let me wear it on my right hand for now, so I can show April, and Rocky. Rocky’ll be so jealous,” I say.
“Okay. But will you at least think about it?”
I nod.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to open it on our actual anniversary.”
“Really, Danny, policemen following us. I don’t like it. And I’m afraid maybe there’s a reason.”
“Fuckin’ pigs . . .” Danny says, suddenly angry.
I think of the old Danny, before his mom died, and wish again that my mellow Danny would return.
“Can you come over Christmas Eve and help us trim the tree?” I ask, wanting to move to a safe subject. “And Christmas Day, for dinner?”
“Are you sure it’s okay? Lately I think your parents don’t like me so much.”
“Lately they’re upset with me, too. But they said they’d like to have you join us. April’s coming over too. It’ll be fun. It’s always fun at our house on Christmas Eve.”
“Things are so different for me now, from last Christmas,” Danny says.
“I know,” I say, remembering how his mom had decorated the house, and how she and Danny put up thousands of lights—enough lights that people went out of their way to drive their little kids past the Laras’ house. This season probably all they’ll see when they drive by is a yard that’s all overgrown and a For Sale sign in front.
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We sit on the swings, swaying gently in parallel motion. Two moms, each with a little boy in tow, walk to a picnic table near the slides and set out lunch. It is cloudy, but not cold, not like December where it snows. The boys, five years old maybe, race to the tallest slide and climb the ladder, one after the other.
“Look, Mom! Look!” the first one yells.
Both mothers turn and look up, smiling, at their sons.
Our swings are barely moving now, as Danny and I silently watch the scene before us, the clouds, the trees, the familiar park, the little boys and their moms.