Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
The silence startles me awake.
Normally, the air’s abuzz; it’s subtle, but the sound’s always there if you listen for it.
But now an eerie quiet has fallen over the house.
The fridge isn’t humming, the electrical outlets aren’t vibrating, and the cool air has stopped whooshing from the vents.
The lights are off, too. Unless those pills from the vet have really thrown me for a loop, I’m pretty sure it’s only been a few hours since Dane left. What happened between then and now?
I hear Miguel in the kitchen and, with some effort, rise to go see what’s happening.
“Hello?” He’s sitting at the table, staring at the phone. “Kathy, are you there? Did you hear what I said about—” He presses some buttons, lifts it to his ear again, and then sets it on the counter. “That’s odd. Did something trip a breaker?”
He tells me to stay put while he wanders around the house, flipping switches and messing with the metal box on the wall in the basement.
“Anything?” he calls, but then he seems to remember that I am a dog and cannot tell him that no, nothing has turned back on.
He looks utterly perplexed when he trudges back up the stairs.
He steps outside onto the deck. Raina’s on her back porch, too. She’s sipping a glass of wine, and for once, she doesn’t seem apprehensive about seeing Miguel. “Hi there,” she calls.
“Hi,” he says hesitantly. “Is your power out?”
“It is. Just having the last sip of chardonnay before it gets warm,” she says, raising her glass.
“I’m sure we’ll be back up and running soon.”
She shakes her head. “Most of the state’s out, and most of the Northeast. Part of Canada, too. They’re saying it’s a major blackout.”
His eyes widen. “How’d you know that?”
“I just got done with my shift at the hospital—I was finishing up when the news came through, and fortunately, we have a generator. It’s some kind of utility failure. If I were you, I’d probably eat anything especially tasty in your fridge, because we’re going to be in the dark for a while.”
“Oh, jeez—I hope not.”
Raina shrugs. “Kind of nice to have some downtime, be mostly unreachable for a bit. And it’s not as hot as it’s been, thank goodness.
” She pauses, examines him for a moment.
“Hey, you doing all right? I know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m really sorry I haven’t said anything.
I guess better late than never. Or at least I hope it is. ”
He squints in the late afternoon sun. “It’s okay. And yeah, I’m hanging in there. Thanks for asking.”
“Good. You have my number, right? If you need anything? I mean, it won’t work now, but when the power’s on, you can call anytime. Or just come knock.”
He blinks. “Thanks, Raina.”
“Course,” she says, then finishes the rest of her wine.
Miguel looks around the backyard, then down at me. “Well, Harold, what the heck are we going to do now? I can’t even call Miriam to see if she’s okay.”
As it happens, I have an idea.
I don’t wait for him as I head back inside. “Where are you going?” he calls after me. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
I’m sure there are easier ways to do this, but I don’t have thumbs, so I stick my face in the bookshelf. It’s tight in there—so many books all crammed together—and my neck and back hurt. Honestly, even my snout’s sore.
“Harold!” he hollers when he spots me. “What are you doing?”
What does it look like I’m doing, Miguel? I am trying to save you!
He’s striding toward me as I finally free a book with my paw. I grab it between my teeth, trying hard not to slobber too much on the pages, and place it at his feet.
“What in the…” He takes the book from me, and I whimper weakly. He glances down at the cover, then frowns at me. “That’s not nice. Of all the things to bring me, you had to pick one of Amelia’s novels. Come on. I’m already hurting here.”
My dog, is he dense.
Miguel turns and surveys the bookshelf. “You’re not as smart as the average pig, Harold, but you do have a point. It’s time to pack up her books—they’re too painful to look at. I’ll get a box from the garage. That’ll give us something to do.”
That is not what I was aiming for! The man may be determined to self-destruct—but not on my watch.
Oh, you lesser primate, I think when he returns with a weathered old box that smells of mold. Don’t you do it. I growl—just a tiny bit, but I need to warn him. I lift my head and make direct eye contact, daring him to challenge me.
With narrowed, unblinking eyes, he reaches for the novel he’s never read and grabs it with his stupid bendy digits.
Suddenly Miguel’s hand is not his hand. It’s that meaty mutt Amelia and I encountered that one evening, baring its fangs on the darkened street.
And the novels are no longer the product of their author but rather my Amelia herself, on the verge of being attacked.
Except this time, I will be the one saving her rather than the other way around.
I snap.
I’m already back to myself by the time Miguel yanks his hand away.
He’s shaking it like he’s been burned, though it appears that’s also what a person does upon finding their flesh between a set of teeth.
“What is going on with you, dog?” he asks, staring at me with bewilderment.
“Haven’t you ever been told not to bite the hand that feeds you?
It’s a good thing you didn’t break the skin,” he says, examining his palm.
“That medication must be messing you up. Please remember I’m the one keeping you alive. ”
I will myself not to cower, as I normally would, and attempt to raise my upper lip enough to tell Miguel that boxing up Amelia’s books will not be tolerated.
Unfortunately, I’ve always had a bit of an underbite, so my attempt fails.
I know this because he snort-laughs, then says, “You look deranged, Harold. That’s a mug only an orthodontist could love. ”
I examine his grungy T-shirt and the smudge of dirt across his cheek, which he must have gotten when he was rooting around in the garage. I am the deranged one in this situation?
“Okay, I didn’t mean that,” he says. “But I don’t get it. What is this about?”
I don’t know that I could explain it to him even if I could talk. Instead, I let out the sort of sigh I typically reserve for sunny spring days when I’m splayed out on the deck, knowing summer’s just around the bend.
And then I realize that I, too, must keep going. I must show him what needs to be done. I put my face back into the bookshelf and pull another novel out. It falls to the floor.
Miguel does not react. So, I do it again with the next book. Thud. Finally, he squats down beside me. “Careful,” he says, reaching into the pile. “I’m just taking one copy.”
Good choice, I think as he picks up a paperback; on its cover, a woman stares out at the water. Of course, there are no bad choices here, but that one speaks to me.
He’s still squatting beside me, and he thumbs through the book for a second before standing. As he begins to walk away, I’m conflicted. I don’t want to leave this spot, but I need to make sure he doesn’t take these copies anywhere near the trash or do something else he shouldn’t.
“It’s okay, Harold,” he calls over his shoulder. “I get what you’re trying to make me do. Now lie back down and relax. I’ll be right back.”
Something in his tone makes me believe him. Or at least I want to, and for now that will have to do.
He returns a few minutes later with his reading glasses.
Then he drops his pants in the middle of the floor and plops down on the sofa.
While I wish he’d stay clothed in case anyone swings by, at least I can keep an eye on him there.
He lies longways and props himself up with some pillows.
Then he opens the book and begins to read.
At once, his whole face is a frown.
This is not what I was hoping for.
I watch and I wait. This is exhausting in its own way, so I lower my head for a little bit, and when I lift it again a while later, he’s still frowning…but not as much.
“Hmm,” he says, because the man is a loud reader in the same way that Amelia was a loud writer. “Huh. Isn’t that something. Oh.”
It’s rather monotonous, his muttering, and I fall asleep at some point. When I wake, he calls to me. “I haven’t left, Harold. I’m sure they’ve closed up the store, so I’m still here.”
And then, after a few minutes, I hear the craziest sound.
Miguel is…laughing.
Not that strange little grunt-laugh thing he does, or the “ha-ha-ha” that he uses when he feels the need to be polite (admittedly, I haven’t heard that one in the longest).
No, this comes from deep in his belly. From my bed, I can see that his whole torso’s shaking as he turns the page.
“Ohh,” he says to himself, pausing for a moment to wipe the corners of his eyes.
“He’s a real dolt, this Giles, but Stephanie knows what to do with him.
Oh, that bit with the dinghy was funny. I bet she got that from one of the first trips we took to Puerto Rico, when I insisted on taking my cousin Luis’s boat out and nearly got us stuck. ”
He’s talking about the story where the woman goes looking for her missing father but ends up finding love with an eccentric sailor whom she hires to help her track him down.
Like in most of Amelia’s novels, things really go south once the ill-suited duo team up—in this case, to head to the tiny island where her father’s hiding out.
Only for a while, though. The heroine stops trying to do everything herself, the sailor gets over his fear of commitment and declares his love, and after a few more missteps that make them prove their devotion to each other, they sail away to happily ever after.
“Couple more pages,” he calls to me.
He doesn’t need to assure me; I’ve already vowed not to prioritize my own comfort over his ever again. Except…what if I’m wrong and he’s right and it really is too late? After all, Amelia will never know that he’s read her work, let alone enjoyed it.
It’s another hour before he gets off the sofa.
After taking me outside to pee, he serves me more special food, then makes himself a bowl of cereal.
“Have to use this milk before it turns,” he says, taking the bowl back to the sofa.
He shovels the cereal into his mouth absentmindedly as he keeps reading.
“Giles is being so stubborn, Harold,” he says to me. “I don’t know how he’s ever going to redeem himself at this point.” The sun’s starting to set, and he’ll need a flashlight soon if he wants to continue. He places the paperback on the coffee table.
I wait for him to say or do something, but it’s back to being creepily quiet.
I belly-crawl over to the sofa, where Miguel’s still splayed out, and see that his torso’s shaking again.
This time, though, he’s not laughing. He pulls his hand from his face, and beneath his reading glasses, all the tears he hasn’t shed yet are finally running rivers down his cheeks.
“Oh, Harold,” he sobs. “I miss her so, so much.”
My heart hurt before, but now the ache is unbearable.
What have I done?