Little Lovely Things, page 23
This isn’t happening. Not now. Not Gretchie.
Claire ploughed through the water as far as her legs, heavy in sodden jeans, carried her, toward the spot where she could no longer see her dog, and then dove forward. The shock of the water over her head pummeled her like a cold fierce bite, knocking the air from her lungs.
She surfaced, searching. No dog.
She dove again, kicking off against a sharp boulder, this time lunging deeper, her eyes uselessly open in the murk. A full minute passed. Yet she wouldn’t give up. Fifteen seconds more and she was grimacing against the pain in her lungs. She was not surfacing without her dog. Just as her oxygen became impossibly low, Claire’s hand lit against something solid. A stick. No, it was furry. A leg! Push-pulling through the water with her remaining strength, she grasped Gretchie around her girthy middle and half swam, half waded back to land, slow as a turtle, under the bulk of her bloated and wheezing dog.
Claire fell to her knees and set Gretchie on her side. She was no longer coughing. Her chest did not move.
“C’mon, baby.” Claire pushed downward on G’s heavy rib cage. “You can do this, girl.”
A wet sputtering sound, absolute music to Claire, filled the air as Gretchie’s chest billowed. Within several seconds, she struggled to her haunches, looked quizzically around, and then sneezed.
Claire tried to stand, but G knocked into her full force, nuzzling and licking. Claire buried her face, sotted with dog kisses and tears, into Gretchie’s fur.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Thank you, oh God!”
Gretchie engaged in a massive body shake, forming an aura of droplets around them both that splintered into primary colors, like glimmering shards of joy.
“We’re okay, baby! We are okay.”
Claire led Gretchie gently to the car and helped her into the concave well of the passenger seat. She found an old afghan in the trunk and wrapped it around her damp dog, tighter than needed.
“It’s time, girl.”
Gretchie poked her nose through the open-weave mesh.
“Let’s go home.”
Chapter 21
Moira
For two days, Moira couldn’t leave her bed except to pee. She pretty much stopped eating and could barely hold a cigarette for the shaking of her hand. Something roared inside of her—a monster that was sucking her dry, sapping her energy. She suddenly hated this bed, this trailer, these ratty pajamas, this whole miserable life. She squished her cigarette out into an empty can of pineapple rings, Colly’s dinner last night. The embers sighed as they drowned in a slick of juice at the bottom.
“Colly! Colleen! Come dump the butts!” Moira fanned the lingering smoke away from her face. Colly didn’t respond. She must be outside somewhere. Moira’s teeth ground with impatience. The entire world, it seemed, was against her.
How was this possible? Two jobs—menial, shitty-ass jobs—lost in the same week? Six double shifts in a row at the foundry and then pink-slipped? At least they’d closed the entire shift. But the animal hospital, even though she earned far less there, that’s what hurt.
“You’re fired, got it? We’re letting you go.”
That manager, a woman named Rosa, her face was stuck in Moira’s mind. Who did she think she was, with hair like a fake red flame, acting better than everybody, dressing Moira down in the middle of the cage room, the smell of shite all over? Moira knew this type, a trashy woman rising above herself and willing to dump on people she thought lower than her.
“Found things stolen.”
Rosa had to raise her voice over the off-kilter howl of a beagle awake enough from surgery to make a stink but not enough to keep from soiling itself. Other jobs, Moira had indeed taken things: small bars of soap, shampoo, and even toilet paper from the motel. Sometimes items from the customers who were foolish enough to leave things out. When she bussed tables, she’d grab a bread roll, take a little off the waitress’s tips. But here? What was to steal here?
“Forceps. Syringes.”
Syringes? Those were kept locked in a cabinet. Jesu. Like she was some druggie! Wasn’t it obvious that the girl up front, the one with tattoos and piercings, who logged in the patients when they arrived, that she was their thief? Moira knew it instinctively, could read it in the girl’s dark, angry eyes. She’d fought her Shelta down, even as it expanded into her vocal cords. There was a better way rather than carryin’ on. She was slyer now, molded by bitter experience. She’d save her rage for something useful.
“Last pay is in the back room. Pick it up as you leave.”
This Rosa followed Moira, escorting her out like a common criminal. But she was pulled back by that beagle, whose voice shifted a pitch, like it was in agony or something. The people in the waiting room would hear that. Maybe change their minds about this animal hospital. In the anteroom, Rosa’s extra smock hung on a hook. She was a smoker too. Moira recalled a nice metal lighter Rosa owned, a silver Zippo with her initials engraved on it that Rosa snapped open like she was the queen of England. Moira reached into a pocket and found it and then slipped it into her own pocket. She turned around. A neat little envelope with her name in a cellophane window was propped on a small table. She opened it. Fourteen dollars and ninety-five cents. All the money in the world now.
It was a joke, really. Rent was due. Moira couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought groceries. She almost doubled over laughing when two Siamese cats bumped against her legs, shattering her rage with ugly amusement. She’d always disliked cats. Sneaky tricksters. And these, in particular, the vet’s own privileged brats, were favorites of Rosa’s, who slipped them treats, trying to gain favor with the boss. Creamy with sinister brown masks—they should’ve been drowned as kittens. Moira held out her fingers as if offering a clump of tuna.
“Here, sweetie, sweet.”
One cat, the smaller of the two, was foolish enough to approach.
“Enjoy this, my baby.”
Moira cocked her leg back and then hauled off and kicked it behind the ribs. It didn’t make a sound, just curled around her foot like a C, eyes popping with surprise. The larger one scattered as if vaporized, but the little one, the stupid one, looked up, as if asking for more. Moira kicked it again with the point of her shoe. Reee-ooow, it screeched before making off through the doorway. This all felt strangely good to Moira, tapping into a slow, angry churn deep inside, like a faucet that couldn’t be turned off.
She jumped in the Buick with her anger packed tight inside like an overstuffed suitcase and headed home. Once she got to her trailer, she waded through the clutter, the wreck of a household, before getting into her boxer shorts and T-shirt and climbing into bed. One or two easy motions and she was done—folded away like a collapsible chair. Determined not to move, to let the world spin on without her.
But two days in bed made her restless.
“Colly!” Where was that girl? Moira hadn’t heard her go out. “Damn.”
Moira cinched a thin robe around her waist. Taken from a Red Roof Inn she once cleaned, but she never wore the robe except for dramatic effect. She shuffled from her bedroom and snapped on the TV, searching the channels for General Hospital. But even this wouldn’t satisfy her today. In the kitchen, an empty box of saltines sat next to a jar of peanut butter and two soup cans licked clean. Her own hunger signals had been ignored for so long that they were lost to her body. Colly’s painting stuff, cans and tubes and smears, were everywhere.
“Fookin’ mess!”
Workin’ like a fool at the foundry. Scrubbing animal filth. All of that for this child. And this is my thanks?
The rent notice lay crumpled on the floor next to a pile of carefully gleaned bones.
Colly needed to step it up. She was off playing, no doubt, near that lake. Moira sank on the couch trying to unsimmer her anger and counted the canvases propped lazily on the counter along the kitchen wall. Only two—a beach scene and a tree that Colly had been working on for what seemed like forever. Moira admired that tree, had encouraged Colly as she gradually developed it from a rough sketch, then filled it with life, from richly textured bark to handsome coloring.
“It’s a maple,” Colly had said. “You can tell by the leaves.” She’d tilted it toward Moira for a good look. Each one of those carefully drawn leaves was shaped like a lovely open hand.
“That will get a good price for certain,” Moira had said. She remembered at the time how Colly had beamed.
Now, she spotted something she hadn’t seen before. An unusual figure in the roots. Could it be…? Not possible. An octopus! With swirling tentacles and a menacing expression. The gleaming eyes were something Moira had mistaken earlier for beetles in the soil. Mockery. Moira gritted her teeth. She heard Colly’s voice, taunting in her fake Shelta, No, Moira, I won’t take care of you.
The anger inside flashed from slow-burning embers into fury.
Stepping outside, Moira almost tumbled down the porch steps as the brightness of the sun assaulted her eyes. It was weirdly warm for October—what did they call that, Indian summer? And weirdly quiet. All the children, of course, were in school. She didn’t know where to begin to look for that girl. It occurred to her that she had no idea what Colly actually did all day.
She spotted a half-hidden trail that led to the shore. Good as any place to start. A crow strutted and rasped angrily from the gutter of the trailer across the street. That creepy man’s place. As she headed toward the path, the bird attacked, a black whir that flew like a small helicopter directly into Moira’s face.
Caw! Caw!
“Get! Blanog!” Moira ducked, covering her head with her arm, and ran, fleeing the swooping attack. The bird pumped its wings near her head, then scurried away to settle on a low branch, keeping one sharp eye on her. “What the fook?”
It was certain now. The whole world was indeed against her. She stood in a fugue from the attack, never mind the heated air and the sun still smarting her eyes. She should turn around, crawl back into bed. Put a blanket on the bedroom window to keep even the tiniest splinter of light out. But that meant Colly would get off easy. No. It was time for her to come home and get to work. Moira set her jaw at a hard angle and followed the wave sounds through a thicket of trees. A low-hanging sycamore touched her with unwelcome fingers. Other things, branches with thorns, brushed into her ankles and she thrashed to escape them.
Arriving at the shore, Moira shaded her eyes with the flat of her hand against the glare reflecting off the white sand and water. She scoured the area, disgusted by it all: the seaweed-strewn beach, the froth on the waves like dirty soap bubbles. Peering closer, it looked more like the saliva from a rabid dog’s mouth. Moira couldn’t swim, hated the water really. Where was the charm? The smell of dead fish, the mocking gulls.
“Colly! Colleen!” she repeated, her voice graveled with anger. “Where are you?”
Moira soon tired of wasting her breath. Just as she turned to go back, a familiar low sound stopped her. Was that singing? And then a distinctive splash. This was behind her, just over the crest of a dune. She followed as the sound grew and Moira discovered a quiet pool of water surrounded by small trees. Here the sand was mud-colored. The air smelled like rotted tree trunks and all the things Moira most detested about beaches. In the midst of this damp and secret lair stood Colleen, kicking and wading happily, knee-deep in water.
Moira’s stomach clasped into a fist, sickened by the sight of this girl’s callous joy—the carefree din, the splashing and cooing at minnows—while Moira was in such dire straits. Colly raised her feet. Tar-black leaves clung to her ankles, the color and gleam of seal skin. In the next instant, as the sun ducked behind a cloud, Moira saw a changeling where a girl had stood seconds before.
Dear sweet Jesu! Colly, just like her namesake, had transformed. With her wild hair matted like kelp, green dye running down the sides of her face, she looked inhuman. Moira had but to shut her eyes for a second to see that image of a selkie, bounding through the surf toward the open sea, superimposed in her mind like a photo negative.
“Get your head straight.” Eamon’s voice echoed through Moira’s head in his ugly mocking tone. The one that had made her cower, that had controlled her for so long. “Selkies aren’t real.” She blinked hard and Colly rematerialized.
Moira shook with fury. Now it was Colly’s voice in her head. Not taking care of you Moira, nah-nah-nah-nah…
Moira scrambled back to the trailer and burst into Colly’s room. She now saw in those chalk pictures nothing but secret maps, carefully designed escape routes. Moira rubbed her hands in fists over the paneling, catching a splinter along the thick of her hand. She’d only blurred the lines. Fizzing with rage, she tore the casing off Colly’s pillow and rubbed harder with the fabric, this time erasing every mark.
She turned. Colly was in the doorway behind her, her legs muddy and shorts wet with filth. Moira stomped past her and into the living room.
“You.” Moira pointed to the canvas. “What was that you said earlier? About taking care of me?”
Colly remained still, wide-eyed.
“From now on, we’ll do things the hard way.”
Moira pushed her way into the bathroom and unscrewed the single bulb from the fixture over the sink. The one small window was butted up against a tree so now there was no light.
“Moira?” Colleen spoke in a timid voice as she stepped into the bathroom.
Moira didn’t respond. Instead, she rushed through the doorway and shut the door swiftly behind her and then locked it from the outside, leaving Colly in the room by herself.
“Let’s see what twenty-four hours in a cave helps you figure out, missy.”
The pounding that Moira had anticipated began, the shouting, the crying. Colly’s tantrum carried through the trailer like an echo in a canyon. It was maddening. Moira ran a line of duct tape around the outer edges of the door. The yelling grew louder. She moistened the edges of a paper towel to make neat, little earplugs and then stopped.
No, this was ridiculous. Moira’s thoughts congealed into a fist. She placed her face against the door. “Every minute I hear you pound, little one, is one more day in the cave. Got it?”
Bang! Bang! The pounding continued with increased ferocity. “Okay, now it’s two. Did you hear me? Two full days until you’re comin’ out.”
Silence.
Moira grabbed her cigarette pack. Down to three now. No matter, she needed one with urgency. She tapped it out onto her palm. Her right hand shook. But only a bit. She sat quietly. She managed to flick the stolen lighter with her thumb. It didn’t work. She chucked it across the room where it dinged and bounced, becoming just another piece of the overall mess.
In the kitchen, she turned the radio to a country station. She needed simple noise. She raised the volume a little bit and then a little bit more, to drown out the commotion in her head—Siobhan, Eamon, and now Colly, their voices, their faces, all melding into one ugly cacophony.
She twisted the front burner on the stove to the on position. It clicked like an insect and then stopped. She turned the back burner on. Same thing. It clicked but no flame appeared. A low hiss joined the static of the radio. Damn pilot light must be off.
“Now where the fook did I leave the matches?”
Moira looked into the cupboards and saw nothing. She could ask Colly. Colly would know. That girl knew everything. She almost puffed with pride over how smart that child was. Maybe she’d been too hard on her. And then she berated herself. Just like you to soften, Moira. No, a lesson must be learned this day. Moira stood on tiptoe and ran her hand into each of the cupboards one by one. Nothing. And then she dragged a chair over to get a better look. All the while the cigarette dangled from her mouth, infusing cool menthol into her breath, like fresh air, clearing her brain.
A terrible restlessness came over Moira and it took a minute to realize she was actually hungry. Starving in fact. She’d go back to the A&W. Could almost smell the cheeseburger grease and the French fries. Besides, she was pretty sure they had matches at the walk-in part.
Leaving the trailer, Moira locked the front door and climbed into the Buick and drove off. There used to be stalls at the A&W, the kind you parked in and placed your order into speakers and they set a tray on your window. The good old days. She’d visited once, when she was a child. The whole clan filled the parking lot. Had Eamon been there? She couldn’t remember. But Siobhan was, and they actually got along. Split a root beer float between them. When they were finished eating, they drove off without paying. It was a great time.
On the two-lane road, Moira hesitated. Had she left the burner on? No, she wouldn’t be that forgetful. She’d bring Colly back a hamburger and root beer. Let her out of that selkie cave. Poor girl must be terrified.
But at the juncture of the road that would take Moira to the A&W, she veered in the opposite direction. Southwest. What if she just drove on tonight, right this minute—until she couldn’t drive anymore? It was an intoxication, this idea of freedom. She pushed the Buick to sixty on the rural highway. The branches of pines lining the road reached toward her like open arms.
Chapter 22
Claire
Claire leaned across the kitchen table crowded with stacks of papers, several unwashed coffee cups, and other detritus from months of work. A fresh vase of delivered flowers with a note in bold letters that read Good Luck with Your Presentation! Love, Vicki.
“Kind of messy, all this work, huh, G?”
Gretchie eyed Claire knowingly, keen with the understanding that something was afoot.
