36
Clara was gone with her father for hours, but by evening it was clear that she was taking pains to avoid Jesse. After being very quiet at dinner she excused herself to re-paint her fingernails, and her door was shut when he went up to bed later.
But on Sunday morning they passed each other in the upstairs hallway and she used the cardigan she was carrying to swat his rear. He whirled on her, snarling, “Woman, have you lost your mind?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we were doing that now,” she replied innocently.
“No, we’re not doing that now!” he retorted.
“My bad,” she said with a smile.
He had created a monster; a dangerous one that couldn’t tell the difference between a justified butt slap and a gratuitous butt slap. He knew now how Dr. Frankenstein felt.
He just hoped she wouldn’t make another attempt in front of witnesses.
“I can’t go to church,” she was saying to her mother when he went downstairs a little while later. She was wearing a short, shapeless dress and had paired it with white socks and Keds, à la Elaine from Seinfeld . Fashion, he had to admit, was mostly a mystery to him. “I don’t want to leave Greer alone for that long. She’s restless today.”
“I’ll stay with her,” he volunteered. A little alone time—well, with a dog—sounded pretty good. “Consider it a post-op follow-up.”
“Oh, perfect. Thanks, Jesse.”
“Uh, huh.” He watched her warily; last time she’d thanked him, she’d also hugged and kissed him. But Clara kept her distance this time.
“Don’t let her outside by herself,” she was saying with singular focus. “And don’t take her out more than once an hour. She’ll try to tell you—”
“I know how to take care of her,” he interrupted impatiently.
“I know, I know. Now, I already gave her breakfast and took her—”
“Clara, I don’t need instructions.”
“I know, I’m just catching you up. You can take her cone off if—”
“You’re not catching me up, you’re going over every little thing, and I already know it. Get out of here or I’ll change my mind.”
She couldn’t stop with the verbal diarrhea even as she backed out of the room, but this time she talked super fast. “She’s going to wait until you’re not looking and then she’ll start picking at her bandage with her little front teeth, and she—”
“Clara!” he snapped.
She made a face at him, but went into the foyer and started to put her coat on.
“Need help?” he asked, turning to Dr. Wilder.
“No, thank you,” she said pleasantly, inching across the kitchen with her walker. “Although if you could move the laundry over to the dryer in about half an hour I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’ll even empty the lint trap.”
She gave him an amused glance. “Greer likes to watch TV.”
“Is that what you two do all day? I bet you let her get on the couch.”
“No, of course not,” she said, making her way down the front hall. “Asa puts her on the bed.”
“Jeez Louise, Doc.”
“If she seems mopey, you can give her a treat,” Clara called.
“If she gives me any trouble at all, I’m knocking her out,” he called back. “I’ve got plenty of isoflurane and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Horrified gasp. “Jesse! You can’t seriously—”
“He’s joking,” her mother interrupted, and nudged her out the door. Her husband appeared to help her over the threshold, and then they were gone and he was alone.
Peace and quiet.
He looked over at the dog. “You feeling mopey?”
Greer’s head shot up, ears pricked.
He opened the crate door and gave her a biscuit, which she took carefully in her teeth. He rubbed her soft head, called her Mrs. Milkbone, and unfastened her Elizabethan collar while she ate her snack.
“No TV. That’ll rot your brain.” He whipped out his Texan accent when he added, “This is Day 5, baby. You and me gon’ do a li’l PT, maybe take a walk. What Mama don’t know won’t hurt her.”