7. Marley
SEVEN
MARLEY
Mrs. Nancy Hore makes some damn good marinara sauce. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I could smell dinner and my stomach let the world know. To his credit, Bennett kept his mouth shut. He has excellent table manners. He’s holding his fork in his left hand and chewing with his mouth closed. His elbows are nowhere near the table, and he’s got a napkin across his lap. Meanwhile, I’m about three seconds away from dropping my fork and just diving face-first into my penne. Thankfully though, after a few mouthfuls, I am feeling more like myself, and the urge to face-plant into the pasta dissipates.
“Do the dogs sleep outside?” I asked, dabbing at my mouth with my napkin.
“No, they’ll go into the barn tonight. Usually, they’re in here.” Bennett replies, his gaze locked on where the napkin had touched.
“Don’t make them sleep in the barn because of me.”
His eyes meet mine again. “They’re fired up about a guest, and I don’t want someone jumping on your ankle. If you weren’t injured, they’d be inside. Although, if you weren’t injured, I guess you wouldn’t be here at all.” He smiles at me.
I am suddenly overwhelmed with guilt for being a surprise guest and the reason the dogs have to sleep in the barn. “I’m sorry,” I say, putting my fork down and leaning back. My ravenous appetite has disappeared, and I’m fighting off very unwanted tears. I’m not a crier. If I was, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. My therapist says I disassociate from the trauma I’ve witnessed, and that’s why I’m not a crier. She also says I self-medicate with humor, to which I say, it’s better than self-medicating with drugs or alcohol. Dr. Webber grudgingly agrees with that counterargument. Right now, though, I’m struggling to keep the tears at bay.
My swallow rate has increased tenfold, like if I keep swallowing I won’t cry. It doesn’t work. I feel the first tear breach the surface, and it’s game over. I don’t hear Bennett slide his stool back or his footsteps as he approaches, and when I feel his arms close around me, I jolt slightly. This is the first time he has touched me without any warning, without asking for permission, and it takes me a second to relax in his arms. I’m now sobbing. I don’t know who this person I’ve suddenly morphed into is. I’m realizing that I’ve lost track of who I am in the course of forty-eight hours. I don’t know if it makes it better or worse that a virtual stranger is witnessing what I assume Dr. Webber would call a breakthrough, but I’m going to settle on calling it a breakdown.
Bennett tightens his arms further without saying a word. He just holds me while I release what is likely years of pent-up emotions.
I don’t know how much time has passed since I said I was sorry. The tears have slowed to a trickle, and I’ve got my breathing back under control. Bennett’s arms have loosened but he still has them wrapped around me. I like it here. In Bennett’s arms in this house in the middle of nowhere. I like the quiet and the calm of it all, and that shocks me a bit. I’ve been throwing myself into chaos for so long that I forgot what calmness felt like. I begin to align my breaths with his, and soon I feel myself pulling out of his embrace.
I take a few breaths before I open my eyes. When I do, I immediately deflate. “I’ve ruined another shirt of yours,” I huff, pointing at the Jackson Pollock-esque snot art I’ve left across half of his shirt.
He doesn’t reply right away, too busy studying me. I usually hate feeling like someone is trying to read my mind. When Dr. Webber does it, I physically squirm, which of course she points out. The most bizarre part of this entire experience is that I don’t hate this. I have this weird feeling that Bennett isn’t trying to read me so much as actually seeing me. That little piece of insight triggers my flight response, and because I can’t run away on my own I do the next best thing.
“I really need to pee,” I say, almost pleading because holy shit my bladder feels like it’s about to explode, and I don’t want to add urine to the bodily fluids I’ve left on or around this man today. I’m suddenly desperate, so much so I don’t even care if he has to help me do all the regular things. Which, let’s be honest, he won’t have to because ankles don’t do a lot of work in the bathroom.
Without warning he pulls me into his arms, and within what feels like four strides, is standing in a doorway to a small room. “Do you think you can handle things from here?”
I look behind me and see that the bathroom is small, just a sink and toilet, and I’m definitely capable of hopping from the door to the toilet without assistance. I nod and mutter a quiet “Thanks” before making my way as gracefully as I can to the toilet. When I’m in front of it, Bennett shuts the door and lets me know he’ll be in the kitchen. I’m not someone who has any bathroom hold-ups, but the thought of him not hearing what I assume is going to sound like horse piss hitting the toilet bowl does put me at ease.
Years of yoga haven’t done much for me; I don’t meditate well, I’m not overly flexible, and it doesn’t give me a sense of calm. However, what yoga has given me is the ability to balance on one foot, which is proving crucial as I undo the drawstring of my pants and slide them down.
When I’m done, I hop back to the door without a single issue. When I open the door Yogurt is standing there, which for some reason scares the ever-loving shit out of me and causes me to step back onto my right foot. I scream in pain and immediately fall backwards, missing the toilet with my head by about an inch. But I do manage to get my arm into the bowl, which soaks the sleeve of the sweatshirt.
Bennett arrives seconds later to find me breathing like I’m in labour, new tears on my face and my forearm and hand in the toilet bowl. Yogurt seems completely unaware of the issue and is happily licking my face.
“Shit,” Bennett says, shooing Yogurt away and bending to help me up. “Are you okay?” He’s running his hands over my head, checking for bumps or blood or perhaps to see if it feels hollow.
“Never better,” I mutter. When I look at my arm, which I’m now resting on Bennett’s, I notice something unexpected. What appears to be a wet piece of toilet paper is stuck to me, and when I looked down I noticed that the toilet had not in fact flushed. I cannot hold in a defeated “Motherfucker!” I have indeed managed to get another bodily fluid on this man today.
Ten minutes later, Bennett’s gotten me a new sweatshirt, changed his shirt, rewrapped and reapplied ice to my ankle, put me back into the cozy armchair with a mug of peppermint tea, and went out to settle the dogs in for the night.
I have no idea what a day in the life looks like for Bennett, but I would put money on it not looking like today. When he’s back, he joins me with his own mug.
“Dogs good?” I ask, blowing on my tea.
“Yeah.” I imagine he wanted to say something like, “Despite having to sleep in a cold dark barn because of an unwanted house guest.” The way he looks at me then lets me know he can tell exactly what I’m thinking. “Marley, they are fine, I promise. They’ve slept out there before. It’s a nice change for them, like a sleep away camp. They’ve got memory foam beds, water that replenishes itself, and a turf area to do their business should the need arise. It’s not a hardship.”
They’ve slept out there before, eh? My brain gets stuck on that point and starts to formulate reasons why that would be, but I decide not to let it get very far.
“You didn’t really answer me before, when I asked if this was your job.” I realize the minute the words are out of my mouth that my tone made me sound judgmental. “Which is awesome, by the way. They’re lucky dogs.” I overcorrect and now sound flirty. “I just mean getting to be all together and go on nature walks seems way better than living in those small concrete cages you see at city shelters.” He’s looking at me like he’s enjoying watching me verbally flail about, so I stop.
“It’s more of a passion at this point than a job” is all he says.
I want to know more now. How can he afford to run this operation? How many dogs does he rescue a week? Does he accept donations? Can I donate? Did he go to school for this? Can you even go to school for this? Would he take in other animals? Would he take in people on a semi-permanent basis? Is he single? Whoa, nope, we took a sharp left turn onto an unmarked road, and I slam the mental brakes on and reverse quickly out of there.
“My job felt like a passion more than a job for a long time,” I say. I don’t even know why I say it. Maybe I want him to say he felt like that too at some point but then the passion returned.
“Now it just feels like a job?” he asks as he leans back against the couch, looking truly comfortable for the first time since I met him.
“It’s… complicated.” I really don’t want to talk about work so I redirect the conversation. “So this was your grandparents’ house?”
If Bennett knows that I’m avoiding work talk, he doesn’t let on. “Yeah. My great-great-grandfather built it as a summer home, and my grandparents moved in after they got married.”
“Let me guess, your parents didn’t want such a big home.”
“My mom actually died a couple days after I was born, and my dad wasn’t in the picture. My grandparents raised me.”
I feel awful now. “I’m sorry about your mom,” I say quietly, desperately wishing I could turn back time and just comment on the weather instead.
He shrugs. “I didn’t know any different. I had a great childhood, so no complaints.”
“I probably would have committed a crime to live in a place like this as a kid. The proximity to nature seems far more ideal than the concrete jungle I grew up in. And this house seems like it would have been a blast to live in. My childhood home was very sterile. Even my bedroom wasn’t kid-friendly.”
“I couldn’t wait to move away.” Bennett laughs. “I had big dreams, and not a single one involved this house.” If I’m not mistaken he looks a bit sad, so I don’t press him for more. I don’t want to talk about my job, and he probably doesn’t want to talk about his past, despite what he said about having a great childhood. I force myself to yawn. “I’ve made the guest room up for you. So when you’re ready I’ll take you up.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I mean, obviously a house this size is going to have more than one bedroom, but for some reason, I expected to be sleeping down here. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“What, you thought I was going to leave you down here to sleep in the armchair? I don’t think you need to add neck and back pain to your list of symptoms. There are five bedrooms in this house, and four of them don’t currently have any occupants.”
“That’s a relief.” I beam at him. “It’s exhausting being carried around all day.”
“I bet.” He stands and takes my empty mug, setting it next to his on the coffee table, and then we repeat the transfer movements. “You know,” he says, “I think we’re getting pretty good at this.”
He’s not wrong. After several trips with me on his back, we’ve become like a well-oiled machine. “We’ll be a shoo-in if the sport ever makes it to the Olympics.”
“Oh, definitely.” He smiles back at me, and I return it before he turns away and heads towards the stairs.
I realize very quickly that I do not love this angle. I have visions of Bennett losing his balance, falling backwards, and using my body as a toboggan. I have absolutely nothing to worry about, of course. Bennett is as sure-footed on the stairs with me on his back as he was with dogs weaving around his legs, which is a relief.
The second floor has a wide hallway with multiple doors, some open and some not, and I catch glimpses of rooms as we pass. Bennett walks towards the open door at the front of the house. The floors throughout are wide knotty planks of wood, and they carry on into the room he walks into. He flicks on the light, and I’m shocked to see what looks like a suite. The bed looks like an antique but also inviting, and it sits across from a fireplace. Bennett’s home makes me wish I was all about that paperback life, purely because of the cozy visions of curling up with a book this house gives me. He sets me down and steps back.
“The bathroom is the first door on the right.” He points to just inside the room. “I’ve left a spare toothbrush and some toothpaste in there for you. I’ll help you to and from tonight, and if you need to get there in the middle of the night, just shout.” It's cute that he thinks I’ll be doing that. I’d sooner destroy my bladder than wake the man up. I think he’s probably going to be dead to the world after today when he adds, “I’m not a very deep sleeper so I’ll hear you.” That makes two of us.
I manage to complete all my pre-bed tasks without further incident, and when I come out of the bathroom I see that Bennett has laid out some sleep-appropriate clothes for me. He says goodnight and shuts the door on his way out.
Usually when I’m home I sleep naked, but I am not at home so I opt to at least wear the boxers. I set the folded T-shirt on the bedside table and crawl slowly under the covers. I roll onto my right side because it’s the only position that doesn’t put pressure on my ankle and close my eyes. I’m so tired that I expect sleep to claim me immediately. Instead, I lie here thinking about what I should have done differently today. What am I going to do if one of my contacts calls me with an assignment tomorrow? How long will this ankle keep me down? Do I want this injury to keep me away from work for a while? Is this actually a good thing because it gives me time to think about what I want without the guilt of choosing to take the time? Have I disrupted Bennett’s life too much? Is he a breakfast person? Is he not, and now he’s going to think he needs to make me breakfast? Does he drink coffee? Is he actually as nice as he seems, or is he just trying to make the best out of a shitty situation?
My last thought before I drift off is of the small smile he gave me when he said goodnight, the glance he tossed my way as the door closed. It wasn’t the look of someone disappointed by my presence, and that makes me stupidly happy.