Durable Goods_ A Novel - Elizabeth Berg [43]
“I’ll just wait,” I tell her. “I have a good imagination.”
She hugs me again, and there is a kiss on my hair. And then the truck pulls away and she is gone.
I sit in the shade and chart the progress of the clouds. Later, I will eat again. I have a twenty-dollar bill in my pocket from Dickie. Diane is right: he is a good man. Picks up hitchhikers. Gives out money. Takes a woman wherever she wants to go.
He brings the puppy. When he gets out of the car, he is holding her. She is wearing a little red leash and a collar. She stops to pee when he puts her down, and he is standing there holding onto the leash, and I walk up to him slow.
“Where is Diane?” he asks.
“She went on. She’s with Dickie.”
He nods. “Do you know where she went?”
“Mexico. She doesn’t want to come back.”
No words. The space between us nearly solid. “Would you please get in the car now?”
“Okay.” I come closer, take the leash from his hand. “You brought Bridgette,” I say.
He nods. “Nobody to watch her.”
He can drive for hours and hours, it doesn’t bother him. All he would ever ask is for my mother to rub his neck, get after the stiffness. He could go sixteen hours easy. I sit in the front for a while, then go to lie down on the backseat. When I wake up, dark is coming. I sit up, rub my face. The puppy is awake in her box, her two paws lined up neat in front of her like she is ready for inspection. “I think we should stop and let this puppy run around a little,” I say.
He says nothing.
“Dad?”
“Maybe later.”
“I think she needs out now, though. Could we just pull over?”
He puts on the turn signal, pulls over. We take the puppy out, let her sniff. He stretches, rubs his neck. I let the puppy run, give her a stick to carry. “Where are we?” I ask.
“Not so far,” he says. “Couple more hours.”
He sits down on the ground and I sit beside him. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He sighs.
I pick up the puppy, put her in my lap, but she wants down, so I let her. I let the silence be, too. Occasionally a car passes. There are grasshoppers here, leaping up all crazy about something every now and then. I am wondering what they eat, when I hear my father speak softly.
“Pardon?” I ask.
He turns to me. “I was talking about your mother.”
“Oh.”
“I know how much you miss her.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes. She was … There’s nobody like her.”
“I know.”
“Her disease started out in one place, but then it just went everywhere. Nothing in her body could work right anymore. What killed her …” He stops, and I am careful not to move. Finally, he says, “What killed her is that she couldn’t breathe anymore.” He is saying this like the teacher called on him and he is giving the answer anyone would know. Silence. A car goes by, kicks up a piece of gravel that flies toward us, lands at my father’s feet. I would say I saw it and didn’t. “I want you to know she died peacefully, Katie.”
There.
“She talked about you and Diane before she died.”
And there.
He looks away from me, shakes his head. Then he turns back and sighs. “Okay?”
I nod quick.
“I don’t … I don’t think I’d ever like to talk about it again, Katie, okay? But you deserved to know. I should have told you when you asked.”
I stand up, lead the puppy along on her leash. I guess she believes she is in a New York City parade: her step is high, her ears are swinging flirty. Not many people know about dogs’ moods, but I do. “She walks good,” I say.
“Yes. She’ll be a fine dog, I guess.”
“We should go home, Dad.”
He is quiet for the rest of the way. All he says is “Here we are” when we get home. Then he goes into his bedroom and closes the door, and so do I. All my things, eager. I lie on my bed, then slide under it. I think, what happened? Well, I learned that the rest of the world is closer than I thought. There’s that. I cry a little, but mostly I only get peaceful. She would rub my back when I cried. She would say, “Oh, now. Look at this. Oh, my. Oh, dear. Yes, I know.” She knew the short little words to grief.
Cherylanne and I go swimming the next day. I have