Chapter 5 #2
to her legs. “The house is strictly off limits. Use the shower in the gym.” He turned to leave, only to stop. “And you have
to eat.”
She ignored that. “So why did you shag Sophie and refuse me?”
“Really? You’re thirty-five years old. Don’t you think you need to get over high school?”
“Seeing you brings it all back.”
“That’s easy to fix. Stay away from me.”
He stomped out. Despite what she’d told him, he still had no idea why, of all the doorsteps in the world, Dancy Flynn had
chosen to land on his.
The door closed behind the only man she’d ever known who wanted nothing from her except love.
She put the remains of the breakfast he’d made into the tiny refrigerator next to last night’s stew and gazed around the caboose.
She wished she could stay here forever. She wanted to find a creek where she could keep a milk bottle cool and pick wildflowers to display in a chipped cup on a shelf.
She wanted to unearth dishes in an old dump and make a ladle from a tin cup and a stick. Just like the boxcar children.
If she stood at the perfect angle in front of the window by the kitchen, she could see the vodka bottle leaning against the
log where she’d left it. She forced herself to turn away and make her bed, like a good little housekeeper. She swept the caboose
with the broom she found wedged between the bikes on the back platform, then contemplated what to do with the rest of her
day.
The phone that was normally her lifeline lay useless in her evening bag. In the old days, before her life had bottomed out,
she would have been on her phone at least a dozen times already. Now she was glad she hadn’t bought a charger when she was
in town so she wouldn’t have to punish herself by seeing all the horrible things being written about her.
She slid into her gold-and-green Packers slides and left the caboose to walk in the woods.
Unlike her sunbaked hikes on LA’s trails, these woods resembled the terrain of her Minnesota childhood.
A chipmunk perched on the star-shaped root ball of a fallen tree, and patches of wild geranium and jack-in-the-pulpit provided vivid spots of color.
The earthy, fecund scents, the brush of summer air on her skin, the rustle of fallen leaves—all of it took her back to the woods where she’d played whenever she could escape the eyes of whichever of the unending series of housekeepers, babysitters, and au pairs was supposed to be watching her.
Other kids envied her freedom and spending money.
She envied them for having parents who stayed home.
When hers had died together in an auto accident seventeen years ago on the Silk Road in Pakistan, she’d barely known them.
She followed a trickle of water to a small creek and found a place where she could rock-hop to the other side. She climbed
a bank and came to the sparsely traveled two-lane road she’d biked along yesterday. The morning was growing warmer, and instead
of retracing her steps through the longer path in the woods, she decided to follow the road back to the caboose.
Now she could pity the seventeen-year-old girl who’d fallen in love with her sixteen-year-old high school boyfriend as only
a teenager could. Clint’s self-confidence and generous spirit had captivated her. She remembered fantasizing about their future.
She’d imagined them going to college together and getting married as soon as they graduated, then moving to LA, where she’d
become a famous actress and he’d play for one of the West Coast teams. She’d made a secret list of names for their children
and sketched wedding gowns. But no matter how heavy their make-out sessions, he’d back off at the last minute, and that began
to terrify her. If he loved her as much as she loved him, why wouldn’t he go all the way with her, especially since he’d already
done it with Sophie the summer before? She knew because Sophie had confided in her. Knowing he’d given Sophie something he
refused to give her was one more piece of evidence that something was wrong with her and that she was going to lose him.
“But why?” she’d ask him. “Don’t you love me?”
“Sure I love you. I love you a lot. I just think we should wait is all.”
“Wait for what?” she’d ask.
He never had a good answer, which was how she knew she had to do something drastic if she wanted to keep him.
She started flirting with Mick Watkins to make Clint jealous, even though she didn’t much like Mick.
But he was a popular senior on the basketball and soccer teams, and if Clint saw how much Mick was into her, he’d quit taking her for granted.
It hadn’t been long before her flirting with Mick had gotten out of control, and unlike Clint, Mick Watkins hadn’t stopped
at the last minute. Afterward, he’d told the whole school about it. Terrified, she’d insisted that Mick was lying, and Clint
had believed her—right up until Mick had tacked the underpants Clint recognized as hers to the boys’ locker room bulletin
board.
Clint had broken up with her after school that same day. She’d cried and begged him to take her back, only to have him tell
her he’d never forgive her and walk away. Furious and panicked, she’d lashed out by lying again, spreading the story that
Clint smoked so much weed that he couldn’t satisfy her. But Clint had far more credibility than she did. Even without Sophie’s
testimony to the contrary, none of the kids had believed her, and so she’d run.
That year Dancy learned a hard lesson. She’d never again played fast and loose with another person’s emotions or blamed anyone
else for her own mistakes.
The soft, barely audible mewling of an infant interrupted her thoughts. She froze. Sucking in her breath, she began frantically
searching for the source of the sound.
Something moved in the weed-filled ditch. She scrambled down the slope, and there it was. Not a baby, but an emaciated dog.
Her breathing gradually returned to normal as she took in the dismal sight.
The outline of the animal’s rib cage poked through its short, filthy hair, and an open wound crusted the skin of its front
leg. Overhead, a vulture circled. Dancy thought the dog was dead until it moved, trying and failing to come to its feet.
Like every child, she’d wanted a dog—until she was bitten by a housekeeper’s old basset hound. From then on, she’d developed a healthy fear of animals. Not exactly a phobia. More an intelligent distrust.
The vulture continued its patient circling, and the dog regarded her with fatalistic eyes. It had given up.
Dancy stared at the miserable excuse for an animal. It stared back with dark, empty eyes—no interest, no hope. She understood
those feelings.
Only a criminal would leave the dog here with that vulture waiting for its next meal. She climbed back up to the road, waiting
for a car to appear. The minutes ticked by, and the road remained empty. She gazed up at the vulture, then down at the dying
dog. It looked young. “Hang on. Someone will come along.”
The dog returned her gaze with eyes that had seen the worst of human nature and expected no better.
She willed a car to appear. “Come on, come on.”
The road remained as empty as the vulture’s stomach.
The sun moved higher in the sky. The dog had stopped whimpering. Maybe it had died. Briars scratched her bare ankles as she
made her way gingerly back into the ditch to check.
The dog opened one eye. Not dead then. As much as she yearned to walk away, she couldn’t, not with that raptor waiting for
its morning snack. She inched closer. It was the nature of a wounded animal to attack. Going back to the house for help wasn’t
an option, not with that vulture waiting. She took another step. Both eyes crept open, watching her. “Nice doggie,” she said
nervously. “Don’t hurt me, okay? I’m doing my best here.”
A bead of perspiration dripped from the end of her nose. As she slowly crouched over the animal, she held her breath against its rank funk. She wasn’t heartless enough to leave it here, but it was too repulsive to pick up.
Except she had to.
“Don’t bite me. Please don’t bite me.”
The dog neither bit nor acknowledged her.
“Shit, shit, shit.” She reached under the reeking animal, feeling its bones as she awkwardly lifted it up. She turned her
face away from the smell and the possibility of being disfigured.
But the dog didn’t bite. It didn’t do anything other than hang heavy and lifeless in her arms. Burrs clung to filthy patches
of its hair, and crusty dog shit stuck to its butt. She gagged as she struggled to carry it out of the ditch. It wasn’t a
big dog, but neither was it one of those teacup dogs some of her friends hauled around in their handbags. Even in its emaciated
state, she struggled to hold on.
The dog’s limp legs brushed her thighs. She tried to breathe through her mouth as she began trudging along the road. The dog’s
head lolled in the crook of her arm. Its paws dangled. Dancy had sweated through her T-shirt, and before long it seemed as
if the animal’s funk had become part of her own. I should be cradling a baby, she thought, instead of a rank, shit-caked mutt.
The sun beat relentlessly on her head. She’d always been religious about applying sunblock, even on rainy days, but she hadn’t
even thought of it recently, and now wrinkles must be popping out on her face with every step.
Good. She wanted wrinkles.
Her arms ached from the dead weight of the dog, and the vulture now circled them both.
She trudged along the paved road, turned onto the gravel road, and finally, when Clint’s house came into sight, gave a sob of relief.
With the last of her energy, she made it up the driveway, placed the dog in the shade on the front grass, and stumbled up the front steps.
She lay on the bell, calling for Clint, and when there was no response, lay on the bell again. She heard nothing as the dog
lay suffering on the lawn. She spotted a garden hose, turned it on, and dragged it over. Twisting the nozzle to slow the flow,
she trickled the water over his muzzle. “Drink, dog. You have to do this for yourself.”
The dog didn’t stir. He was too far gone to take orders.
She dribbled water into her hands and held them under his mouth. Gradually the tip of his tongue protruded, dry and gray instead
of a healthy pink. His head came up an inch. Slowly, the dog began lapping the water from her hand, a little more each time
until she could shut off the hose. “Stay here. I’ll be right back. Or go. I don’t care.” She did care, but she could only
do so much with a garden hose. At least the vulture had disappeared.
She hurried back to the caboose, where the vodka bottle beckoned from its place in the trees. Turning away, she gathered enough
supplies to clean up his wound, along with a small portion of yesterday’s stew.
The dog gazed up at her, its soulful brown eyes inquisitive.
Sitting cross-legged in the soggy grass, water seeping through her Green Bay shorts and Packers underpants, she fed him, fragment by fragment.
Finally, she filled the bucket she’d brought along with soapy water.
She began running a gentle stream over his short hair, bony rib cage, and filthy butt, avoiding his injured leg.
Beneath the dirt, he had short, almost-white hair with one matching white ear, one tan ear, and tan patches around both eyes.
Not exactly a purebred. And definitely male.
“It figures. One more man I don’t know how to deal with. ”
The dog lay patiently as she washed him and gave him more water. As she neared his wound, he bared his teeth and emitted a
low, warning growl. She snatched her hand away. “Don’t be a punk! I’m trying to help you!”
She was so over difficult men. “Go ahead and get gangrene. I’m done with you.”
He cocked his head as if she’d hurt his feelings.
“Actions have consequences, you know.” Did she ever.
He came unsteadily to his feet and shook, not vigorously, but enough to spew dirty water on her already filthy T-shirt and
shorts. He limped to a dry part of the grass, lay down again, and gazed at her.
Muttering obscenities under her breath, she refilled the bucket with a fresh supply of soapy water and pulled a long strip
of gauze from the first aid kit she’d found in the closet. In one swift motion, she straddled the animal and whipped the gauze
twice around his muzzle so he couldn’t bite her. He whimpered and tried to shake her off but didn’t have the strength. She
cleaned the filthy wound as gently as she could, trying not to gag. “I’m going to throw up. I really am.”
The dog stopped struggling, either because he realized she was trying to help or because he was too weak.
When the wound was finally clean, she applied ointment and wrapped it in gauze. He’d probably chew off the bandage, but there
was no more she could do. “Don’t you dare bite me after what I’ve done for you.” Gingerly, she freed his muzzle. The dog yawned,
showing his teeth, and got up to limp to another fresh patch of grass.
Rivulets of dirty water ran down her legs, and her skull itched from her sweaty, matted hair. A too-familiar figure came around the side of the house. He took in the muddy patches on his formerly immaculate front lawn, the emaciated dog, her filthy self.
“Good job being invisible.”