Before
BEFORE
We bury Penny in the backyard, in the same spot she and I lounged in on sunny summer days when I spread out a picnic blanket and did my writing on the grass.
Today is not one of those days. It’s exceptionally gloomy, even for January, and the dismal wet glistens on the freshly turned earth of her grave. Yet I find the dreariness comforting, like even the sky realizes it should cry for her.
Which almost makes up for the fact that Michael doesn’t. He stands quiet, his mouth a pale, slanted line. Rain drips from his newly shorn hair and darkens the starched collar peeking from his raincoat.
He’s already told me he feels strange having a funeral for a dog, so I perform the roles of both priest and bereaved myself. While the clouds mourn overhead, I talk about how Penny spent ninety percent of our year and a half together asleep, how I loved the galumphy exhale she made whenever she lay down. How I even loved her terrible smell. I talk about the charm of her missing teeth and how much I looked forward to the way she always held up one paw when we came home, as if in greeting. Most of all, I talk about how glad I am that we were able to give her some comfort at the end of her life.
Michael blinks hard at regular intervals. I laugh and cry, all the while wondering if his silence means he’s feeling too much or not enough.
Later, over dinner, I tell him I’ve made us another appointment with Darlene.
He sets his fork down, perfectly perpendicular to his plate, as if he’s drafting walls and angles, even here. “Why would we go to the shelter again?”
“To find our next Penny. I mean, not another Penny , obviously. That’d be weird if we named two dogs the same—”
“I don’t want another pet.”
I stop, my brow creasing. “What? Why?”
“I just don’t.”
I frown. “But Penny was so easy. She was hardly any work, aside from her pills. And I was always the one to give them to her. I mean, don’t you miss her? Doesn’t the house feel empty now?”
“I do,” he admits. “And it does. But I don’t want another dog.” He resumes cutting his chicken parmigiana into disturbingly uniform bites.
I watch his cutlery rise and fall. “Come on. If you’re going to veto it completely, at least tell me why.”
He sighs, and I know if I press, I won’t get any answer at all.
With clenched teeth, I push my chicken around my plate. The scrape of metal against porcelain fills the silence.
“I just can’t stand it when things die,” he finally says. “When they leave me.”
I pause. “Even dogs?”
“Even dogs.”
I sit back, wondering what that really means. Whether this has something to do with Lily and his brother or whether he just resents change.
“I get that,” I say. “But can we at least talk about it? Maybe not now, but later, once things aren’t so fresh?”
“I really don’t want to.” Something flashes in his eyes—a rubbed-raw wound, there and then gone. But it’s enough for me to know.
Too much . He’s feeling too much. And now, since he can’t go for the bottle, he’ll retreat to the only place he finds solace. In approximately three, two...
Michael crumples his linen napkin beside his plate. “I have a lot of work to finish. Do you need help cleaning up?”
“No. Thanks. But it’s already seven thirty. Can’t work wait?”
“I really need to get this done,” he says. “Maybe you’d feel better if you went for a run?”
Then he’s gone.
After clearing the dishes, I venture out into the dark. I run and run and run. The pound of rubber against asphalt clears my head. When I return, Michael waits at the front door.
He holds out a hand as I shuck off my squelchy shoes. “Come on. I made you a bath. With bubbles. And candles. And I got you this a while back. I’ve just been waiting for the right time.” He presses a silky black jewelry box into my hand.
I swallow the retort that springs to my tongue, because I recognize this for what it is: a peace offering. An apology that doesn’t require the discomfort of words.
I thumb open the box lid and my breath catches. Nestled inside is a delicate necklace with a gold disk rimmed by tiny diamonds. Penny is engraved in the center.
I glance up, my eyes welling. “It’s beautiful.”
“I really do miss her,” he says.
I nod, knowing this is the most he can give right now. It’s enough. It has to be.
With a worn smile, I fasten Penny’s token around my neck and let Michael lead me upstairs. While he pulls off my wet things and drops them onto the tile, I pop open the buttons of his dress shirt.
In the bath, I climb onto him and let his slippery fingers guide my hips into a rhythm, slower than our usual, so as not to send soapsuds spilling across the floor. The whole time, I watch his closed eyes, his knitted brow. It’s like he’s speaking with his voice, too, instead of just his body.
I’m only saying I don’t want another dog because I’m so crushed , he tells me. Penny dying hurt infinitely more than I expected, and I’m sorry, but I don’t ever want to go through that pain again.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, prompting him to clutch me closer. “It’s okay. I understand, and I won’t push.”
When that dark, sucking heat finally spills through me and the tremors subside, I nestle against his chest while he runs his fingers up and down my back. The bathwater has cooled to lukewarm, but I don’t care. I just want to stay like this.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his lips in my hair.
“Me, too,” I murmur.
“Do you feel better now?”
I smile against his chest. “Always.”
And it’s true. Because by the time we go to bed and he pulls me against him, I feel as though we ended up having a conversation, after all.