Meghan’s wardrobe has evolved to include an array of brightly colored skirts and capri pants, expensive, but made especially for ladies like her—that is, adaptive, comfortable, and paired with a growing collection of blouses and T-shirts that emphasize the toning in her arms. So when Marley suggested an away-from-the-dog-park outing, she finally didn’t have to worry about what to wear. “What do you think, Shark? The plum-colored pants with the white blouse?” There is no one in her apartment to witness her treating this dog like he’s an arbiter of fashion. She doesn’t even feel like she is joking. Shark, ever alert to her needs, sniffs each piece of clothing. “Or is the lilac blouse a better choice?” He gave the white blouse a second sniff. Sat in front of Meghan. Huffed.
“The white one it is.” So far, the dog hasn’t let her down sartorially.
As Meghan tilts her makeup mirror to apply scar-masking foundation, she gives herself a smile. A year ago, less, she wouldn’t have been doing this, this primping. One of the unexpected benefits of having Shark, of having his nonjudgmental presence in her life, has been a lessening of self-judgment, that need to measure her every action against the old Meghan, the soldier Meghan. The old Meghan would have viewed a casual suggestion to see the new exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art as a day of challenges, from dressing to transportation to being hampered at every turn. She would have viewed it like a military exercise, preparedness, moving from point A to point B, analyzing the components and thus building up a tension that would have quickly squashed any potential pleasure in what is, really, a simple idea. With Shark by her side, exuding his doggie Zen vibes, she looks at new ideas as opportunities to show him off.
Today, she uncaps a new red lipstick and admires the way the bright color drains the emphasis away from the glistening scar where her ear used to be, a vacancy now well hidden behind a fall of russet hair allowed to wave naturally to her shoulders, freed from the military dictum of a low, tight bun.
“This isn’t a date.” She caps the lipstick and looks into her mirror at the dog’s face poised behind her, his muzzle resting on the back of her chair. “It’s just a nice idea.” She hears the thump of tail on tile. Marley Tallman is a nice guy, a friend. A friend with whom she has a lot in common. Not just the service but also the fact that, although Marley came back from his last deployment physically unharmed, his dog, Spike, is as much a necessity to his well-being as Shark is to hers. Spike may not have to flip light switches, but she presses herself close to Marley, nuzzling his palm whenever the crowd gets a little too big, or when there is a faint metallic scent in the air. It was the first thing Meghan noticed: The dog’s attention to the man, far and away more concerned with her person than with the rubber ball, was, to Meghan, a dead giveaway that this was a partnership out of the same mold as her partnership with Shark.
Meghan’s intercom bleats.
Marley’s voice sounds rusty over the box. “It’s me.”
She buzzes the outside door open and swings the apartment door wide, backs herself up to leave room for her guests. Shark sits patiently beside her. He’s wearing his service dog vest. The minute she puts it on him, he changes. He transforms from goofball to all business.
Spike, tall, lanky, and blond, like a canine Marilyn Monroe, is wearing her version of the service dog vest. She, too, observes a professional aloofness, although her tail hasn’t gotten the message.
“It’s okay. Go say hi.” Marley fills the doorway. His last name is Tallman and it is exceptionally apropos. Outside, even standing beside her, he hadn’t seemed that large. In her tiny, uncluttered space, he looms. And he is suddenly awkward.
“Sit, please.” Meghan has two chairs, an expensive leather power recliner that her parents gave her as a housewarming gift, and a floral overstuffed chair only a grandmother could love. Meghan makes no excuse for it. It came from Carol, by way of her mother, and therefore is something of a family heirloom. Both chairs face the wall with the television and are separated by an occasional table at exactly the right height for Meghan’s use. There’s a yellow tennis ball balanced on it and a rope toy, a lamp that only requires a tap to turn on.
Marley removes his newsboy hat and lowers himself into the floral chair. “I’ve got an Uber outside.”
“Can he handle my chair?” This is better; she can meet his eye.
“Yes. I made sure.” Inside, he looks older, and she can see a hint of gray in his close-clipped hair. It isn’t the old of aging, but of being old before your time. It’s why she’s taken to bright colors, to red lipstick.
“Then I say, let’s go.”
The Uber is a Honda Odyssey, and the driver has already made room for her wheelchair in the back. She’s got her regular chair, knowing that the motorized one is impossible to get into a van not equipped with a lift, and Marley can hardly have arranged that. She pulls the arm off and slides herself into the backseat, lifts herself over, and calls Shark in to sit in the well under her feet. Marley figures out how to fold the chair and the driver puts it into the back.
Marley climbs in beside her, Spike at his feet, squeezing herself into a compact ball despite her size. “Off we go.”
“I’m sorry that it takes so much effort.”
“What do you mean? Fold a wheelchair? I know how to do that.”
“It just does.”
Both dogs pant, excited about the outing.
The guard at the museum doesn’t even try to give them a hard time about their dogs; clearly, these aren’t his first museum-going mutts. What’s hard is to ask the variety of strangers to keep back, not reach out to pet the dogs, or make kissy noises to get their attention. These are dogs at work, not dogs at play.
“If they weren’t so damn adorable, no one would want to pet them.” Marley has disappointed a white-haired old lady intent on being the one exception to their rule. “Maybe if we put muzzles on them, they’d look scary.”
“I need Shark’s muzzle as a tool. And I think Spike would be crestfallen.”
“We could train them to growl.”
“That’s an idea.”
It’s almost noon, and Meghan suggests lunch. It’s Saturday afternoon, and, as they expected, the cafeteria is terribly crowded, but no one is lingering, so a table becomes available fairly quickly. Marley moves a chair aside so that Meghan can slide in, asks what she wants for lunch, and disappears, leaving her with both dogs obediently ensconced beneath the table.
Meghan sees the curiosity on the faces of folks not expecting to see two sizable dogs in the cafeteria, and she wonders if she should have a placard that says CLEAN DOGS, WORKING DOGS. Shark rests his chin on her foot, but she doesn’t realize it until she peeks under the table. Shark is happy, but Spike is concerned and shows it with her sphinxlike pose beneath the table, her eyes on Marley in the checkout line, clearly distressed to be separated from him by even a few feet.
“Chicken Caesar salad wrap, chocolate milk.” Marley sets her lunch down in front of her.
Meghan has a ten and a five in her hand. “What do I owe you?
“My treat.”
“That’s what you said about the Uber. And the museum tickets. Marley, this isn’t…”
“What? A date?” He has the grace to smile.
“Well, yes. I mean, no.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t date me?”
“Not at all. I mean…”
Marley is still smiling. “Is it ’cause I’m black?”
Meghan has too much experience sharing jibes with her troops, many of whom were brown-skinned people. “No. It’s ’cause you’re a marine.”
“No intermilitary dating for you?”
“I’m regular army all the way, mister.”
“Then give me twelve bucks.”
As great as the day was, Meghan is glad to be home, cradled in her power recliner, scrolling through her Netflix choices. She hadn’t invited Marley up after the Uber dropped her off. It wasn’t a date, after all. Hadn’t she made that clear? “See you at the dog park.”
“You bet.” Marley waved the Uber driver off. “It was fun. Hope you had fun, too.”
“I did.”
She needs someone to ask the question “Why wasn’t it a date?”
Meghan hits the speed dial for Rosie.